by Judy Chicurel

It’s funny, but looking back, what restored my passion for my work was as simple as a game of improvised hide-and-seek. Continue reading →

by Amy Weldon

At first, shucking off my professor identity felt easy. But then preening self-awareness crept in. . . . Next stop—I congratulated myself—would be mastery! . . . Yet by the end of the second day I was stuck. Continue reading →

by Anjali Mitter Duva

In school in France, I was American, because the French have an obsession with America. In the US, despite my perfect American accent, I was French, because that’s glamorous. No one could figure out the Indian thing, even in India. Continue reading →

by Bonnie ZoBell

I was quite the voyeur as a babysitter. Even then, I wanted to know what made people tick. I looked through closets, under beds, trying to discover folks’ secrets, who they really were. Were other families more normal than mine? Continue reading →

by Lauren Francis-Sharma

Gone were the twenty-hour work days; now we were talking twenty-four hours. Seven days a week. . . . And the dream of being a writer seemed not only impossible but also, quite frankly, inconsequential. Continue reading →

by A.X. Ahmad

Then one of them told me that the divorce was just a shattering of my personal narrative, and I was intrigued. After all, I had struggled with narrative and story for years. Continue reading →

by Jessica Levine

In retrospect, I see the nine years I spent working on my Ph.D. as a similar kind of detour, a quest for a lineage that might give me a right to speak. Continue reading →