Sandy Jorgenson

I didn’t start out as a particularly easygoing person.

Griping about adulting is a fun thing that we like to do, I know.

You'll have to excuse me while I sit myself down for one stern-ass pep talk about the importance of trusting my gut, having the courage of my convictions, and marching bodly ahead in my resove to absorb every last minute I get with my growing girl, knowing that never again will these days be upon me.

When a bereaved mother is left alone, how deep into the recesses of her mind does she wander? Does she surface for air? Does she want to come out at all?

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Why are people so mean?

Life is hard work, and I think we all know this with varying degrees of certainty. It’s grueling, it’s relentless, it’s at times unforgiving, and it is always a damn hustle. So if you want a piece of coffee cake, get that cake, girl.

You’d have a hell of a time if you ever dared to crawl through the recesses of a first-time mother’s brain.

Two years ago, I had a two-year-old daughter who’d never met her grandfather.

This article is the second in a two-part series.