This series emerges from a quiet dialogue between my son and myself—a mother who recognizes the same sensitivities within her own childhood and inner life.

My son is not me. Yet sometimes, I fall into the illusion that he is—as if I were he.

He relies on the rustling noise of falling light more than on the written word. But should I apologize to him for that?

At times, I catch a glimpse of my own childhood within him—especially when he is overwhelmed by the incongruity he feels with the world, nearly drowning in fear and uncertainty. Surely, this is a sensitivity he inherited from me. I recognize these shadows, because I have walked through similar places myself.

My son is not me. Yet sometimes, I fall into the illusion that he is. I hope this illusion stays gentle, allowing us to live fully—each of us as our own, distinct self.