I marvel at how good I was before I met him, how I lived molded to the smallest space possible, my days the size of little beads that passed without passion through my fingers. So few people know what they're capable of. At forty-two I'd never done anything that took my own breath away, and I suppose now that was part of the problem - my chronic inability to astonish myself.
In "The Mermaid Chair," the narrator reflects on her life before meeting someone significant, expressing a sense of marvel at her own existence. She describes her previous life as constrained and monotonous, living in a way that lacked excitement or true fulfillment. Her days felt small and unremarkable, like tiny beads slipping through her fingers without any real enjoyment. This realization highlights how many people may not fully understand their own...
