A cackle. That’s the only way I can accurately describe the laughter of my 8-year-old sister. It fills the room with a sort of maniacal joy, making even the stuffiest adult let loose a snicker. Maybe something about the sound itself makes everyone laugh along with her, or maybe it’s the way we can see the emotion move like a wave through her body. Maybe it’s because we miss the days when laughter came that easily to us, and just for a moment, we want to remember what it felt like before we became too grown up to freely display our joy like that.

Much of my adult life has been spent seeking a logical brand of security out of a fear of the wild where my dreams roamed free. I was afraid of a world without a structure, favoring one that could be easily predicted and controlled. The wilderness of my dreams felt indulgent and uncertain, impulsive and untamed. In due time, I became the queen of, “That’s not a rational decision,” and, “You have a responsibility to uphold,” and on and on. I built a fence around my field of duty and pragmatism, painted it white, and endorsed it as truth. It took me years to realize my fence was built in response to fear.