My mom, dad, husband, and children are alive and well, and I have good relationships with each of them. [KNOCKING ALL THE WOOD.] But I think Mother’s and Father’s Day need complete overhauls. I am close to people who have lost parents and children; who mourn parents and children; who…

On the second anniversary of your inexplicable death, I want to name and thank you for what you’ve taught me so far. Life is tenuous, we control so little. Absorbing this fact is both terrifying and freeing. Because of you, I am booking that trip, leaning into that snuggle, throwing…

How many fictional abortions can you remember reading about (that aren’t set in a dystopian future)? What about movies in which the protagonist terminated a pregnancy (that were filmed during this millennium)? That’s what I thought. I wrote my first novel, My Thirty-First Year (And Other Calamities), so that women…

The world is rife with brokenness and suffering. But it is also full of brilliance and magic. On some days, this paradox hits you right between the eyes, and today — my second perfect nephew, Abraham Elio’s, birthday — is one of them. Abraham represents new beginnings. Abraham is the…

Surrender. It’s a concept I’ve been striving to embody. It’s what ultimately caused me to reimagine my U2 fandom. And, because you can’t make this shit up, it’s the title of Bono’s new memoir. Surrender requires honesty — an honest assessment and, ultimately, acceptance of what is, what works, and…

I started typing this piece in May and got as far as the title. (The fact that I forgot to publish it in August when I finished says nothing good.) I was exhausted. So was my family. Even the dogs seemed worn out. …

Writing a novel is hard. Like childbirth, the first tends to be the toughest and require the most endurance — to organize, to outline, to craft. It takes time to find other book-moms with whom to be honest (I did 20,000 steps to avoid writing today. Do you think I…

Look for MY THIRTY-FIRST YEAR (AND OTHER CALAMITIES) by Emily Wolf ✍️

Until recently, I luxuriated in all the standard delusions we adopt in order to move through life. I believed that statistics applied to everyone, especially to my people. That tragedy would not strike my family — just others. That healthy babies lived. …