Someone once told me that she was glad to be done with her 20s. I was 20 at the time and she looked at me with soft pity and said, “Oh man, twenties are the hardest. Just wait until your thirties, they are way better. You know yourself, you don’t care as much what other people think, it’s just better.” I could have hugged her. Or gotten her flowers. Or introduced her to a puppy to cuddle. Because at the time my husband was on month 9 out of 15 in Afghanistan and I had moved home to escape ghosts. I was acutely aware that I had no idea who…
A fundamentalist turned freedom chaser with an obnoxiously stubborn faith.