Children’s books should be prescribed alongside therapy and medication. I mean it. Every night, I ingest stories about friendship, hardship, joy, and redemption—tales of silly bears and resilient thingamajigs—and I’m convinced they’re rewiring something in me.
When I’m quick to credit my rosy, sunshiney moods to hobbies, relationships, or a good night’s sleep, I forget how steadily I’ve been absorbing these gentle, luminous stories. Almost nightly, I take in lessons about caring, overcoming, and belonging. And they’re changing me.
Tonight’s book was about a bear and a thingamajig who needed equally silly, ping-pongy words to bounce back home. We picked it up from a little free library after sharing strawberries and ice cream on a covered bench across from Dickey Farms. Just across the quiet farm road sat a playground of miniature houses and ships.
It’s great that Evelyn loves books—but honestly, I’m not just reading for her. I’m just as excited, if not more, especially since these holds at the library should be coming soon – Little Kids First Book of Dinosaurs, Dinos Love Donuts, and Never Touch a Dinosaur. The kid in me is very much alive.
Here’s something I’ve been turning over: I work with trauma. I go headfirst into it—its gunk, its thoughts, emotions, beliefs. Trauma is real, and its impact? Huge. But it’s not the whole story. Not for my clients, and not for me either.
I worry sometimes that the beautiful moments of my own life have been blotted out by the black ink of suffering. Like lying under a star-punched night sky in sleeping bags with my dad, waiting to see my first shooting star. That wonder? That memory should shine. But trauma has dimmed it. Or rather, I’ve let it. Maybe I’ve used my pain as currency, unintentionally manipulating empathy out of others.
That’s hard to admit. But it’s a fear I have.
Who am I if I’m not just my trauma?
I might be someone who can access a space beyond it. A space that simply is. A space where I can remember sitting proudly in Mr. Denning and Mr. Zenonian’s classrooms, being a TA with my best friend, feeling on top of the world. I do think trauma changed me. It made me doubt and fear in ways I hadn’t before—it made those fears feel real. But it doesn’t own the whole narrative.
That’s why I’ll keep reading children’s books, even when Evelyn outgrows them. And I’m going to start something new, too: intentional daydreaming. Not just distraction, but purposefully drifting. On the yoga mat, on the couch, in bed instead of reading—I’ll let my imagination stretch its legs again. I think it’s important. I think it’s healing.
Oh! The Mariners game is on, top of the 8th, and we just got a home run. I love that feeling of familiarity. Of home.
That’s enough for tonight. Thanks for being here.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 