Infertility and disability should have taught me how to surrender, taught me how little I can control the conditions of my own happiness. Instead, that helplessness has only thickened my resolve to salvage what I can from the wreckage. If the physiotherapist says “One lap,” I do two. When the doctor says, “You’ll be out in four days,” I push for three. I would like to blame it on some charming quirk—“I’m plucky!”—but it’s more than that. I don’t know how to stop. When I was little, my dad would read stories from Greek mythology, and I loved one most of all—that prideful king Sisyphus, who was
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