Frances S Wren (Page 7)

A life fully lived, written down.

I write essays about the things I can't stop noticing. A bird trapped in an airport terminal. The hour before everyone else wakes up. What it costs to stay soft in a world that rewards armor, and what we owe each other when the systems we live inside are built to keep us small. The work lives in a few different rooms here. Some pieces are flagship essays I've been turning over for months. Others are field notes, letters to no one in particular, or short dispatches from the ordinary. Subscribe above and new writing will land in your inbox when it's ready. I'd rather show up well than show up often.

The Same Wound

We are both lonely in the exact same way. We just narrate it differently. Same wound. Different scar. She burned every net that was cast. I've been building one instead.

What my body knew

The love for him arrived complete. The love for me is still a work in progress. I don't think that makes me a bad mother. I think it makes me a very recognizable one.

The Gap

We built an economy that requires two incomes to survive, then expressed shock that nobody's home with the children. That's not a metaphor. That's Tuesday.