Some kids shout their needs from the rooftop, others fly under the radar; all of them need our support — The day of my first therapy appointment was the day I said for the first time, “I think my daughter probably has OCD.” It was a footnote to a larger conversation. Who lives in the house with me? How are our relationships? …

And then I invited him to meet me IRL — Summer night, circa 1995. No AC, windows open. Lights off, radio playing endless alternative rock hits from atop a white laminate dresser. Zombie ends, and a familiar voice drifts out from the speakers. “How’s everybody doing out there tonight? …

The way we think about healing from trauma and mental illness is all wrong — I have this image in my mind of what it means to heal. The best healing is a process that puts things back together as if they’d never been broken in the first place. The healed me knows how to get through a conflict without her heart racing and her…

Before I could bring myself to talk about it, my journal was there to listen — 4 weeks, 6 days. And so it begins. Early pregnancy is so damn unfair. The days drag on as if their sole purpose is to drive me mad. Every time I use the bathroom, I check the toilet paper for blood. Every time something brushes up against my breast, I…

Writing about trauma is about communion, not bravery — Thank you for your courage to be honest. How brave, thank you, Nikki. You’re so brave. Brave. Brave. On May 2, 2019, I published my first ever personal essay. …

But not for the reason you might think — The storm door opens, then closes with a long creeeeaaaak. From my vantage point in the kitchen, I watch as a black backpack sails over the back of the couch and lands haphazardly on the seat, spewing water bottles and writing utensils from its half-zipped pouch. …

How to slay them, or at least keep them well-fed — I sink into the sofa. In my hand, the remote is aimed at the television. Finally, a few minutes of peace before I fall over from exhaustion. “What do you want to watch?” asks my husband. I hold up a finger. “Shh!” The soft sound of weeping drifts down the…

Resisting the pull of functional addiction — I couldn’t have been older than twelve or so. I was sitting on the living room floor, eating canned ravioli over the coffee table and watching Fresh Prince on the TV. “Nikki,” Mom said, waving her cigarette in the air with one hand, bringing her beer down from her lips…

I can’t be invested in someone else’s recovery — My parents sat on the couch, each holding a can of cheap beer in an insulated holder. I was blocking their view of Jeopardy!, and they had no choice but to look at me. I looked from one to the other, pleading. It was an ordinary evening, a monotone nothing…