Dear Somebody: A field guide.
Five things from this week that I'd like to remember
A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:
MONDAY
It’s been almost a year since F regularly slept through the night. Once a duck, quietly quacking to herself, her brain has blossomed in the months since—skyrocketed even, awakened by the world and the possibility in each moment. Even her sleep has sensorial needs, and at all hours of the night she asks for more: more engagement, more stimulation, more.
At 12:30 am, she begins chanting her own name. Refusing to look at the camera monitor, I instead imagine the early birthday party she’s throwing for herself: moonlight streamers, a parade of stuffies rolling around with her—a celebration of the spectacular wonder she is, gate kept only by her boring diurnal parents and a few wooden crib bars.
At 2:30 am F screams for coconut water, her one true source of solace, and when none of her sleeping family responds, she screams louder. For now, it’s only sleep, but all the same, it’s painful to watch your child do something that hurts herself, that will contribute to a more difficult tomorrow. At 3:30 am, she demands a new diaper, then a story, then a song. I give in to the diaper, but not the story, and pause at the request for a song. It’s 4:00 am; I have to be up in two hours.
Twinkle song, F pleads, her eyes bleary. Her perfect mouth is a perfect rainbow, quivering slightly, worn from midnight chanting. I know she hopes for acquiesce: a soft win, just something to get her through this endless night. She is tired of being awake for so long, of being alone for so long.
Not having slept well for nearly five years now, I am also tired of being awake—but F’s sweetness is too sweet, her longing too clarified, her needs far more reasonable than my own. I hold her in my arms and begin singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Her small body rests against mine. I’m fully here, in this moment. Next week, F will turn two; I don’t have many more years of this ahead.
Halfway through the song, F straightens up. She looks me in the eye. With all the solemnity of a funeral attendee, she raises two hands to cover my mouth and says: Stop. The End. Then she climbs into her crib without looking at me, and closes her eyes.
TUESDAY
I am slowly making my way through Bystander, a comics anthology edited by Kadak Collective, a group of South Asian womxn, non-binary and queer folk who believe making art is “inherently political and can be an intentional, radical act of communication and change.”
I’m unsurprised in reading so many personal stories that are byproducts of sweeping political and social narratives—stories that were incubated inside a society that forgets community in favor of oneself. The actions of any bystander—one who observes but does not participate, will always transgress the walls of an individual life and seep into the fabric of our larger societies and worlds, whether or not one intends for it to. Every action has a consequence; every inaction does, too.
WEDNESDAY
I am pleased to share that my 2026 calendars with Amber Lotus Publishing are now available for pre-order!
Pre-orders do make a huge difference for artists. Now, especially, it will help my publisher give me the opportunity to create calendars for the 2027 year, too.
Start Where You Are 2026 weekly planner: Available for pre-order on Amazon and Barnes & Noble
You Are Made of Stars 2026 wall calendar: Available for pre-order on Amazon and Barnes & Noble
If you’re planning on grabbing a few for yourself or a friend, please do! I am, as always, grateful.
THURSDAY
What if every subway stop was named after a woman? the latest project by Rebecca Solnit; America’s brightest minds will walk away by Neel Patel.
I read Big Swiss by Jen Beagin, which felt far too gratuitous for me to maintain interest in—but I did finish it.
I finished The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah, which I enjoyed, mostly, for the introduction to rural Alaskan living, but it didn’t choke me the way Hannah’s work usually does.
I’m beginning Flâneuse by Lauren Elkin and drawing my way through Ghosts, Monsters, and Demons of India by Rakesh Khanna and J. Furcifer Bhairav.
FRIDAY
Once, in the cool blue middle of a lake,
up to my neck in that most precious element of all,
I found a pale-gray, curled-upwards pigeon feather
floating on the tension of the water
at the very instant when a dragonfly,
like a blue-green iridescent bobby pin,
hovered over it, then lit, and rested.
That’s all.
I mention this in the same way
that I fold the corner of a page
in certain library books,
so that the next reader will know
where to look for the good parts.
—Field Guide by Tony Hoagland
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If you'd like to support me, you can order my latest journal, Go Your Own Way: A Journal for Building Self-Confidence, or my book of illustrated essays, How it Feels to Find Yourself—for yourself, a loved one, or both!
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See you next week!
xx,
M
Every night I sing twinkle twinkle to my kids. If I try to skip even one of the five stanzas my three year old knows and tells me. My son is six months old and the last baby we’ll have. I’m leaning to give in to all the little things, even the things about parenthood that feel annoying. One day the kids will be older and won’t need me as much. I don’t look forward to those days.
Meera, this wasn’t just a newsletter—it was a lullaby for grownups. That moment with F, when she silences you with those tiny hands and says “Stop. The End.”—I’ll be thinking about that all day. The soft power of children, the absurd poetry of sleep deprivation, the sacredness of noticing… you thread it all together so lightly and yet it lands with full gravity.
Your writing reminds me that small things don’t just matter—they often hold the whole meaning. Thank you for folding the corners for us, every week.