Open Book

by Jessica Simpson

Still, I was present. I kept a promise I made to myself a little over a year before to show up in my own life. To feel things, whether they were the result of bad memories, or good ones in the making.

There are so many firsts to raising kids, and parents are told to catch them all. But they don’t warn you about the lasts. The last baby onesie. The last time you tie their shoes. The last time they think you have every answer in the world.

Give a girl an insult, she’ll feel bad for a day, but teach her to hate her body, she’ll feel bad forever.

“Pain is where all the tools are,” I said to my therapist the other day.