My name isn’t Atlas.

So as you probably figured out, my name isn’t Atlas. But let’s assume it is. Not because I have a burning desires to feel the crushing weight of the entire world. Or because I want people to think I’m some Titan or hero. None of that seems true. But I think there is something beautiful to the name and in some ways, it describes how I feel most of the time–as if I’m carrying a weight I didn’t quite choose and I can’t put it down. It’s just there. Almost as if that weight grew out of my hands, or into my hands, so that at this point, it is a part of me and I can’t tell where it starts and I end.

I’ve realized I spend a hell of time berating myself, stressing, anticipating conversations, and narrating all my shortcomings in the back of my mind. I love memoirs because they are nuanced and sometimes that feeling when I read one isn’t comforting, it doesn’t make things better, but I can sink into it and at least appreciate the minute feeling of connection that comes from somebody’s lived experience sounding so much like my own. If I’m going to be narrating my life to myself, then I might as well do it in writing and in this artificial world of looking at everybody’s perfect lives from perfectly square Instagram windows, put it out there in the event it might resonate with somebody who needs it.

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