Popular media tells us that American birth stories are more dramatic than traumatic. And even though I was raised here, among those same stories, my body carries a different kind of knowing.

It’s as if someone has finally lifted the veil, and now ALL I see are signs of hierarchy, misogyny, privilege, white obliviousness, etcetera. I’m seeing the 36 years of bullsh*t that I served and swallowed, and now I’m nauseous all the time.

By the end of the week I found myself saying something like, “Oh you know, we’re just waiting on a couple sets of potentially-life-changing medical reports, but the weekend was pretty ordinary.”

Tomorrow I get to be the parent I wistfully wished for, the kind I could show-off at school. My own parents worked way too hard for in-school appearances. The closest I got was a fifth-grade field trip to my dad’s engineering office.

Back in college, I started the practice of writing an annual Yom Kippur reflection. What follows is an excerpt from my Yom Kippur reflection of 2011. The through lines are almost eerily apparent.

I wasn’t raised to see value in small talk. Even now I swallow a hard lump of discomfort when I answer, “I’m fine, how are you?” It feels like lying.

Below are 10 things on my mind this week. In trying to balance “recognition of what is” with an intentionally positive focus, I’ll name 7 things that build me up, and 3 that weigh me down.

As we approached, I noticed something familiar in his grownup’s features. Not wanting to make assumptions, I stayed with my girls, but my ears were on alert.

Russia made sure to note that people like me are NOT Russian. But try explaining that after sharing you were born in Moscow!

With the wave of her wand, or a whiff of that certain perfume, she can transport you back in time.

The average wedding toast is approximately four minutes long. Five minutes in I started sweating. G-d help us, he was introducing EVERY member of my family. 

The paint is only skin deep - we are still grey just beneath the surface. And not matter how many coats you apply, the paint will eventually chip. Case and point: The only vacation I ever took with both my parents was to DisneyLand. 

I try to sound calm and collected while taking a moment to regulate. “Just give me a minute Sweetheart, I’ve got to finish something,” I say in my best sing-song voice. And yet, J hears some sort of edge. 

Previous match-ups include: TV v. Make believe, Apple v. Cheetos, Creativity v. Cleanliness, and Take-out v. Savings Account. All week I fight these battles in my head, debating whether to make the prudent or convenient choice.

My name engenders pride in my parents for the way it flows with my patronymic and the subtle way it proclaims that my story would be different. So then what happens when you abandon your name along with your mother tongue?

On the other hand, the pieces my mom and I design together stay in her rotation year after year. And voila - the impetus for co-creation!

My mother still weaves these sheets into stories about our migration, describing the intricate little nomes sewn into the white linen. In that moment of empathy, the label of refugee was peeled away, and the manager saw my mother as just that - a mom.

When I was in elementary school I had a friend whose mother was that classic “room mom”. You know the one - she decorates valentines with extra glitter and wraps treats in matching cellophane.

All those stressors of my early years - the prejudice, migration, assimilation, and reacclimation - they forever changed my physiology, and maybe that of my daughters.