My daughter’s birthday was yesterday.

At her request, I made eggplant parmesan.

On Saturday, I went to the farmers market, Costco, and Market Hall to gather everything I needed. On Sunday morning, my partner and I made tomato sauce, ricotta filling, Caesar dressing, and garlic bread. I fried slice after slice of eggplant and layered it with sauce, cheese, and fresh basil.

That afternoon, I went out to buy party hats and favors and pulled out photographs of my daughter as a child.

I wanted to make something beautiful for her.

I felt my rage.

We were halfway through our walk, and there it was — my breath gone, my muscles pulled tight.

I am thinking: Why am I still friends with this person?

By the time we hug goodbye, I am already rehearsing the call to my partner. Everything my friend said. How superior she is. How ungrateful. I have the whole story ready, wrapped tight and righteous.

And then something stops me.

She is my mirror.

We were two minutes into our session in the Oakland Redwoods when he said it.

A city inspector had come to his restaurant. He was telling me about the visit, the stress, what she had checked, and what she had flagged.

And then, almost in passing: "They sent the most difficult person."

He kept talking, but my attention shifted.

I had heard everything I needed to hear.

The silence in his story felt charged, like the moment right before a wave breaks.
He sat across from me describing a meeting with his boss, and I could feel it — that invisible shift in the air when something unspoken enters the room.

He told me about the conversation — nothing dramatic, nothing explosive.
Just a simple exchange where his boss said one thing, but the space between them said something else entirely.

He had felt it immediately: a tightening across his chest, a flicker in his stomach, the swift rise of an emotion he didn’t yet have language for.

He was standing in front of me, yelling. My chest tightened. I wanted to disappear. For years, I called him abusive. I said he made me small. But the truth I couldn't see then? I was already small—long before he ever raised his voice.

I used to collect evidence against certain people—my first husband, a demanding boss, a client who questioned everything. Each one seemed to have power over me. My stomach would twist. My voice would go tight. I'd replay their words for days, building an airtight case for why they were the problem.