Why do gratitude and grief feel the same in my chest, in my throat?
Because of the egregious lack of theater work for middle-aged women, I’m spending much of my career writing roles for them. This month, I have been given to doubt the wisdom of that choice. Perhaps a lifetime of disenfranchisement – in part by our own volition, to be sure – has moved us into the realm of believing our own hype? Might we feel a bit too entitled?