Rosario Dawson smoking in a schoolgirl outfit. From the film 25th hour.
A real queen
pink things I saw in cuba (part 3)
I was just lying in bed with my shower-wet hair wrapped in a towel trying to unpack why the ever-growing social media holiday blitz bums me out, when I stumbled onto a thought train that I felt okay about.
Somewhere along the line my mom decided to be a mom. She chose me. I was in her, and she was probably fucking terrified. And she could’ve chosen for me not to be there, but she didn’t. She’s probably been terrified every day since. Every decision, every crocodile tear shed. Am I breaking this thing I made? Are the things I do the right things for her? We’re all coming at this life with our imperfect loves and our bum knees and our nervous laughter, and maybe the biggest part of growing up for me has been the learning and re-learning that sometimes people are giving all they can. Sometimes it’s not everything — sometimes it’s not enough to cover your toes and keep you warm at night — but they’re choosing to give what little they have to you. As gratifying as it is to be indignant and insist you deserve more, some days of the year it’s okay to say thank you for showing up for me when you do. And thank you for treating me like the decisions I make matter in this world. And I’m sorry that we’re not better at being good to each other. You chose me. You chose to be a mom. And that’s seriously one of the most physically and psychologically optimistic things I can imagine.