I try to imagine why sometimes life is hard and doesn’t work out. We do what we’re asked and more, and still sit stuck in a space that we cannot mend from an old perch. Is it our fate at this time to suffer well, to bruise the universe and transform it through pain? To offer in sacrifice as our mothers did and theirs before, the struggle inherited from one generation to another. I feel the ghosts of ancestors holding my hand, loving me, making promises.