There’s a small metal box, trimmed in pink pom-poms, that sits on my daughter’s bedside table. In it rest handwritten worries—a collection of thoughts she’d prefer leave her alone.
It’s a special item I loved giving her, but not the first “worry box” I’ve gifted. The original belongs to a friend I met fifteen years ago. And I even have my own version, though it’s only in my mind.
So we have an 8-year-old, a then twenty-something, and a thirty-nine-and-three-fourths-year-old all with one common problem: Read more