“Write of what you know,” Mrs Tipton told my tenth grade English class. But what I know is no longer useful to those who lead lives so startlingly different than my own. I know nothing of long marriages, but instead, ill-fated love. I don’t know about securing a career right out of college, and being compensated fairly. It is a mystery to me, the act of raising children, or having a healthy relationship with my parents. I can’t tell you the first thing about iPhones or popular television programs or streaming services. I couldn’t list five current celebrities if you held a gun to my head, or anything about winning sports teams. I haven’t a clue what’s trending in clothes, or how I should be applying eyeliner. I haven’t a clue about diets or workouts. I cannot do sums in my head or use a sewing machine. But I know about true friends, and fake ones, too. I know what it’s like to travel alone, to a destination hundreds of miles away that I’ve never visited. I am well versed in sitting in a quiet house all day, flipping pages of a book and cooking a pasta dish from a recipe I stumbled across online. I understand how it feels to not want to get up and do it again but you have to, because there is no one to bail you out. I’m familiar with being on my knees…