Way back in March, I spent a weekend in New York City with a dear friend for her birthday.

Since I was in town, I also met up with my agent Tina Dubois for the first time in person. It was magical.

Her delicate beauty is almost as captivating as her passion and intellect, the force of which is tempered by kindness and humor. We talked for over an hour, and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute. I felt like we could have gone on for hours more.

My last Writer Unboxed post — “What Motherhood Has (and Hasn’t) Changed About My Writing” — touches on much of the same territory that Tina and I covered in our conversation that day. About my publishing journey so far, the successes and the failures. About becoming a parent, and how that impacts the creative process. About how my sense of identity has evolved. About the way forward from here.

Two other highlights, which didn’t fall under the scope of that post:

• When thinking about which ideas to commit my time and energy to, I have typically asked myself, Do I have enough to give this story? Can I sustain it over the many months and years that I will likely be working on it? Tina flipped the script on me and said, What about asking, Can it sustain you? What does this story feed you? I had never ever thought to ask myself that, and I think it’s an amazing, possibly revolutionary mindset to apply to my work.
• Most of all, I walked away reveling in the incredible feeling that Tina gave me — and has always given me — of being understood, of being safe, of being supported. It’s exactly what I need to feel confident and do my best work.

One evening, the birthday girl and I met up with two other friends from high school. The four of us shared bowls of ramen in an alcove at a quiet restaurant in the Flatiron District, reminiscing about the years we had spent together, and catching up on the years we had spent apart.

We talked about #metoo — the movement, and our own stories — sometimes saying the words “me too” literally.

Between the four of us, there was quite a bit to unpack, big and small. Trauma that we didn’t even realize (or want to admit) was traumatic until the stories poured out of us, hot and strong, like cups of tea that nobody wanted to drink.

It was sobering, but it was healing too.

I don’t want this to sound melodramatic, because that’s the irony. It was a big moment, and yet we were all so close, and our stories so commonplace, that there was a very casual feel about it too.

I hope someday my daughter has friends like this. I hope she and her friends have even more laugh lines, and fewer scars.