Spilled milk (no crying, though), with its dusty effects

I smell like milk. All the time. No, really—all the time. Thanks to my PEG tube, which constantly feeds me, I’ve somehow become an honorary member of the New Mom Club, minus the baby. The milk leaks from the tube, seeps into my skin, and refuses to leave, like a stubborn sticky tape that's so hard to remove.

Mothers go through this every day, feeding their babies while also dealing with the mess. Respect. I, on the other hand, didn’t sign up for this, and yet, here I am—marinated in dairy. It’s quite a humbling experience, in the sense that it feels clumsy at times to acknowledge I'm still a human being. I find myself washing my feeding bag and PEG tube with the meticulousness of someone with OCD.

But here’s the thing: this milk smell is kind of like dust. You can wipe it away, scrub at it, pretend it’s gone—but it always finds a way back. Dust doesn’t disintegrate easily; it drifts along, settling where it pleases until a breeze comes along and moves it somewhere new. 

I diligently scrubbed the opening of my PEG tube and used a hand wash cleanser. But after a while, I realized—I was making myself miserable over something so small. The smell isn’t some cosmic punishment. It just is. So, like dust, I’ve decided to go with the flow. If I smell like a dairy aisle, so be it. Maybe it's my weird little Dharma lesson—learning to sit with discomfort, to accept what is. Or maybe I just need stronger soap. 

Until then, I let it be. The milk, the dust, the Dharma. All things settle where they must. And so do I.