The moon and I are no longer together. A scalpel cut me adrift.

I inhale, tasting the air; savory with seaweed. This is my first full moon swim since surgery. From now on, there will be no blood mingling with salt, no hormone surge mellowed by the cold and the company.

At least it’s over. The dread; years of counting down, dodging illness, wondering at every twinge—cancer, cancer, cancer—railing against the inevitable. Now it’s done. It’s over.

I’ve completed the cycle—girl, woman, mother—and stepped out of it altogether. Now I am other. No breasts, no ovaries, none of the parts left. My body, finally defused.

Standing in the Atlantic wind, scars fresh but healed, I’m ready for this Strawberry Moon.

They all have names, the full moons: February is the Snow Moon; May is the Flower Moon; the Beaver Moon in November elicits sniggers.

I met the Wolf Moon at dawn in January. The sky was overcast and the ocean was black and wild. The moon, just a smudge of red, softened to blush, by the cloud. The sea must have been cold but all I remember is the embrace of it. It was a swim where you felt held.

It used to be that my period coincided with our full moon swims. Fuck’s sake. I’d think every month. The inconvenience of the blood, the bloating, the spots, the cramps, the moods.

I don’t miss that.

But also, I really, really do.

They begin to arrive, in ones, in pairs, these women with whom I have this bond in the ocean. We have shared cold and wind and salt and sun; the chop and the bounce and the still and the sparkle.

It’s our custom to hail the full moon with a night swim, clothed in nothing but darkness.

Right now, it’s 10pm.

But it’s June, in Ireland.

It’s not at all dark.

It’s bright.

Not far off daylight.

Seaside walkers are in for an eyeful.

To add to it all, the tide couldn’t be lower and the moon is nowhere to be seen. It’s tucked away behind the rich, quilt of cloud that cloaks the sky.

“What’ll we do?”

“We’re not backing out right?”

“No way!”

“Let’s go around the other side.”

My heart is racing at the freedom, the wildness. If anyone sees us, they’ll survive the shock.

Probably.

We strip in the small changing room that smells like damp wood and stone.

“Ready?”

“No!”

“We’ll be grand.”

“Come on!”

Wrapped in our towels, together we make our way over the concrete and rock to the diving tower that juts out into the water. Brave souls jump from the top when the tide is high.

Not now, however. Right now the tide is as low as I have ever seen it. The sea is heaving; alive with grey, foam topped waves, but it laps the shore well short of the tower. There will be no diving. We’ll have to climb down the steps and walk across the stones to reach the water.

“Okay?”

“Okay!”

We secure the towels to the handrail and clamber down to the shore. I’m towards the head of the huddle, focused on the sea. I don’t want to think about it too much.

The ground is pebbly, treacherous with gut weed. The waves rise to meet us as we venture in, screaming and laughing, trying not to fall over.

“Shit! This is fucking crazy!”

“Jesus the stones!”

“Babes, this is mental.”

“Christ! The fucking stones!”

“Oh my God, vagina freeze!”

“There’s a jellyfish! Just there!”

“Jesus! Where?”

“There!”

“God it’s cold.”

We are seal-like; clumsy on land. Our skin is not smooth like the stuff on magazines; we have tattoos, stretch marks, wrinkles, stomach folds, hip flesh, arm flesh, fat, dimples, bones, scars, inside and out.

That skin and all it contains is now being enveloped in the sea. I dive as soon as I can, emerging with a whoop. Others take longer. Soon we’re all down, roaring with laughter, howling at the moon which remains coy, hidden behind the clouds. The cold is mellowing all the time as we approach summer. An initial shock when you get in, but the freeze of spring has softened.

We swim, dive and float, coming together in a circle to take it all in. I close my eyes, feeling a part of this; the wind, the waves, the salt, the gulls, and us. The water is all bounce and pull. It forces you to breathe deep.

Darkness creeps in. This is our element. The wind is still high as we are raised and lowered by the waves. The tide and current carry us towards the other side of the tower.

There is a glow of orange over above the greyscale of the mountains to the south. The clouds are beginning to thin. Then suddenly:

“Look!”

We do and sure enough, there it is. The Strawberry Moon; rose gold, a perfect orb, ensconced in the grey clouds and indigo sky.

I’m mute, overwhelmed, as the others exclaim in delight.

And then it’s gone, hidden again by the next cloud.

“That was just for us.”

It feels like it was just for me.

The ocean seems warm by now, a sign we have probably stayed in too long. The tide has risen a little.

Swimming towards the steps, we time our exits with the push of the waves, emerging transformed.

We entered awkward, wobbly, slapstick; we emerge glowing, powerful, invincible. The wind can’t touch us.

Wrapped in my towel, I glance back, the moon, briefly visible again. We may not be in sync but somehow, we are still connected. I think maybe it is because I am connected to them; these women, who I know on this elemental level, bonded in cold and salt, in dark and skin.

I am still girl, woman, mother.

I am also other.

And in the ocean, I am something else, altogether.

My brother and I were bone-tired from a sun-drenched day at the beach. I was 9, he was 7. We quickly changed into dry clothes, eager to continue playing. My father called me over and started to scour my knees with Ajax. He rubbed the cloth vigorously over my knees, trying to rub away the skin darkened by the sun’s sizzling rays.

When I was 10, Aunt Bessie bought me a fancy lavender dress for Easter Sunday. The wide portrait collar barely grazed my shoulders. The circle skirt floated with each step. Best of all, the dress was lavender, a color I’d never worn. I didn’t wear bright colors like yellow, turquoise, orange, or lime. Only light-skinned girls wore those.

Pulitzer Prize winner Alice Walker coined the word colorism, which she defines as a form of prejudice based entirely on skin color. Legions of people worldwide bear the skin-deep emotional and psychological stigma of colorism—which is not the same as racism.

As a kid, I cherished my Crayola crayons. Like a mad scientist, I randomly mixed the waxy wands of pigment, filling pages of coloring books with my invented hues. One afternoon—my imagination unleashed—I mixed the blue crayon with the red and got purple, my all-time favorite color. I squealed!

“If you were the same color as your brother, you’d have a much easier life.” I was too young to grasp the gravity of Daddy’s remark. My younger brother was fair-skinned with dark auburn curly hair. He looked like Daddy. I was the color of caramel candy with long wavy brownish-black hair. A mini version of Mama.

The saleslady ceremoniously hung the deep-purple wool suit and frilly hot pink blouse in the dressing room. I stared at the ensemble in disbelief. Purple and hot pink? I couldn’t possibly wear that outfit to my upcoming business meeting. What would my colleagues—especially, my boss—think? I wanted to be accepted in that exclusive setting—a conference room packed with only White men and White women. My colleagues.

After a few minutes, the saleslady asked if I needed assistance. When I didn’t respond, she lightly tapped on the dressing room door. “Are you okay in there?” she softly inquired.

“I can’t wear these colors. They won’t look right on me,” I protested.

I wore what I considered the acceptable uniform for women in business: tailored navy blue suit, button-up white blouse, and black leather pumps. Even at 29 years old, I didn’t have the guts to wear the purple suit and pink blouse. Afraid to draw any undue attention to myself, I played it safe.

James Baldwin said: “It becomes clear—for some—that the more closely one resembles the invader, the more comfortable one’s life may become.”

“You’re adopted!” The girl spat those words at me. I was only 6, but I understood what she meant.

“I am not!” I screamed.

“No, you’re adopted!” she insisted. “Look at your father and brother. You don’t look like them at all.” I knew she was wrong. Still her words stung my insides like so many bees.

At dinner, I didn’t tell my parents about what the girl said. Instead, I anxiously searched their faces for confirmation. Yes, I looked exactly like Mama, even sounded like her. No, I wasn’t adopted. I was born into my family.

My closet is now a museum of purples—from sultry sangria to unexpected periwinkle. A long-sleeved amethyst dupioni silk blouse. A hand-painted scarf the color of mulled wine with grace notes of iris and cream. The full-length magenta cape that swishes and swirls.

“I want dark brown skin like you, Mommy!”

I was floored when I heard my two-and-a-half-year-old son say these words. Although technically, I was already on the floor, sitting on the hard tile of our family room as he and I played “Monsters” with figurines from a Halloween party. (Naturally, it was July.) We had been observing the different shades of the toys’ plastic faces and limbs—dark purple, light purple, dark green—so I guess I could have predicted that he would turn his attention to our own skin colors.

But I was floored because this statement came from the mouth of a child with blue eyes, stick-straight towhead blond hair, and fair skin that America would consider decidedly “white.” (He was tanned from the summer sun and was innocently describing himself as “light brown.”)

As my son had just observed, I—a biracial woman who is half Black—have skin that is significantly darker than his. I know very little about my biological parents but the teenage mother and father are listed as “Caucasian” and “African American,” respectively, in the sparse file from my closed newborn adoption. In a shocking genetic twist, my biological son looks like a carbon copy of my husband and his Swedish ancestors. His brother, currently ten months old, looks like a carbon copy of me. Brown skin, hair, and eyes.

My son repeated with earnest, “I want dark brown skin like you, Mommy!”

I embraced him and said, “You have beautiful skin.”

I was floored as I—a brown-skinned, biracial, Black woman—sat there reassuring a blue-eyed, blonde-haired, fair-skinned boy that he should take pride in his own appearance. How many times has this scene gone down in America?

And I was floored because I realized that my toddler’s “want” was really in spite of, not because of, me. He and I have not yet had any conversations about race other than the occasional observation of skin colors but I am now entering a critical point where I can try to make some profound good out of my unique role as the Black mother of a presumed-white child. I cannot do that, however, if I continue to live the way I have for the past thirty-five years, which is in denial that I am Black.

I was adopted at birth by my white parents. Although I grew up in a mostly-white neighborhood, my parents immersed our family in diverse cultural experiences. They adopted five children after me: a sister who is white and four brothers who are Black. We grew up with family friends of all different races, ethnicities, and backgrounds. My parents instilled in us that every person we meet has a story, has feelings, has equal value in society. They engaged us in candid conversations about racism and the injustices done to Black Americans in the past and present. They implored us to go out and work toward a better future for our country.

I instead went out and hand-crafted a white privileged life for myself. I attended academic magnet programs in middle and high school that were predominantly white and affluent. I chose the extra-curricular activities of swimming, cross country, and field hockey, which were predominantly white and affluent. I joined Teach For America in 2007 when the organization was predominantly white and affluent. I graduated from Harvard Law School and then worked for four years in corporate law, where the vast majority of people around me were white and affluent.

I took pleasure in my inability to code switch as I grew up. I enjoyed being called an “Oreo.” I felt relieved that my style of speaking, my cultural familiarities, and my name all fit the white stereotypes. I spent an inordinate amount of time and money trying to make my hair straight.

I prioritized friendships and relationships with white peers and declined invitations to join Black affinity groups. I told myself this was because I worried that Black America would see me as too white, but the more honest reason is because I worried that white America would see me as too Black.

In spite of all my efforts to live a white life, I have at times been the victim of racist words, attitudes, and actions. My response was always to feel a sense of shame and frustration that I had “failed” at being white. Rather than allowing myself to feel hurt or angry, rather than seeking solace from others who may personally understand this pain (my siblings included), I would go searching for acceptance from some other part of white America.

In my life I have been both a victim and a perpetrator of racism and white supremacy. I have undoubtedly caused hurt along the way and I am sorry.

As I tearfully embraced my son that July day, while he cautiously asked if we could get back to playing Monsters, I added with more sincerity than I had ever felt before, “You have beautiful skin, and so does your brother, and so do I.”

I want my kids to grow up taking pride alongside me in all of who they are and all of who I am. I should feel honored to be Black. Black lives are beautiful and valuable. Black lives are brave and resilient. I am in awe of all the Black individuals who continually rise above profound pain, fear, and societal prejudice to live their lives to the fullest. I have a lot to learn but I know that there are people out there who can help guide me.

I am grateful to the people in my life—especially my parents, husband, and siblings—who have loved and accepted me but also pushed me to be more honest on my identity journey. And I am now grateful to my two-year-old for getting me to the finish line. Or really, I should say, the starting line.