Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

On the train from Boston to NYC, I looked out onto one of the frozen ponds, and noticed a doe in the middle of the ice. Its front paws were submerged, its hind legs splayed out behind it. It didn’t move—not in the few seconds I looked at it at least. There was no way to know if it was still alive. The moment I realized what I was looking at, the whole scene was behind us.

I’m still not entirely sure what any of this means. It felt important, loaded with metaphor when I saw it.

It’s international women’s day as I write this, and I’ve been thinking a lot about independence. About what it means to be alone, to be lonely, to not need someone’s help. What can’t I do alone, anyway? What do I need from others?

At the same time, I can’t stop thinking about vulnerability—which is often a word I look up, because its definition gets murkier the more we use it. But to be vulnerable to is open oneself up to hurt and pain. It is to be susceptible to physical or emotional attack. It is allowing the world to harm you.

It is to walk out onto the frozen ice, not knowing if it will break beneath your feet.