Writing is an endeavor that transports me to a place of limited return. Delving into childhood memories is therapeutic, but exhausting. The journey through time, that place I left behind long ago, demands my complete attention. I feel like Alice must have felt as she tumbled down the rabbit hole, lost in a world from which it is difficult to return. I am captured in the gravity that pulls me to that other place, and only reluctantly return to modern-day responsibilities that demand my attention. The act of sharing the things I put behind me, the things I tried to forget for so long, removes the power of shame and unleashes freedom found in raw truth. The page waits for me, it even calls me.