Megan McDowell

It was seductive to think of myself as a different person, and I was curious about all those things I was unfamiliar with.

She tended to feel unsatisfied with her life and she thought that if things had been different, “better,” she wouldn’t have to carry around all those insecurities that made her so unhappy. I told her that she was a twenty-five-year-old woman and she couldn’t go around holding her parents responsible for her life; she had to learn to accept things, that everybody makes do with what they have.

All I can do is to try to fit—or force—each piece into place, so everything achieves its meaning. Maybe I’m just an overly concrete person, one who can’t manage in the world without possessing a few key certainties.