I'm writing this post from my childhood bedroom in Portland. There's still a giant moon lamp from Ikea on the wall and framed pictures of me and my friends from middle school and high school. There is also now a baby sleeping in a crib at the foot of the bed, and a dresser drawer filled with my husband's clothes. I used to feel strange coming home, and seeing all the places I had made memories with people no longer in my life. Being here felt heavy and I couldn't shake the pervasive feeling of loss and regret. The constant rain and drizzly weather didn't help. As years have passed that feeling has transformed, and I've learned to love coming home again. The memories just remind me of the changes that have forced me to pivot, and to break free, and to grow. Slowly new memories take up more and more space in my heart. There was Curtis' first trip to Portland with me, not knowing yet that it would be the first of many. There's the daily expectation of...