Hundreds of Catholic women priests are quietly leading their own progressive parishes — despite denouncements from the Vatican.
A writer and a photographer visited the places Prince lived in his native Minneapolis, making a pilgrimage along what might be called The Purple Trail.
“I have not inherited the cognitive dissonance necessary to unconditionally love something that hates you, and I am childless— I have dogs, not kids— so I don’t take consolation in the hope that my children will reap what I sow, that I will plant seeds that will bear fruit my children will eat. This all ends with me.”
In this as-told-to personal essay, High Maintenance Katja Blichfeld speaks about the vital importance — and difficulty, particularly after being raised evangelical — of coming out as gay this past year, and ending her marriage to her collaborator.
Mimi O’Donnell reflects on Phillip Seymour Hoffman, his very public death via overdose, and overcoming loss as a family of four.
In a stirring personal essay for Vogue, novelist Brit Bennett writes about the compression of time and the emotional toll of the months since the election of President Trump.
Serena Williams is planning on returning to the women’s tour to defend her Australian Open title, just three months after she gives birth. “It’s the most outrageous plan,” she says.
Mascia, a writer at The Trace, a nonprofit media organization focused on guns in the U.S., discusses her work and gun violence in her own family.
Two years ago, activist and WikiLeaks editor Sarah Harrison spirited Edward Snowden out of Hong Kong and into safety in Russia, but not before the pair spent nearly six weeks living in Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport.
The writer on watching her parents fall in love three decades after their arranged marriage and what she learned from it:
I was 24, and deeply absorbed in my own dramas. I barely noticed how close my mother was sitting to my father at dinner at our favorite restaurant. They watched me with giddy smiles. Poor parents, I thought. So lonely when I’m not here. Then I saw them playing footsie under the table.
That night, after we’d all gone to sleep, I woke up to the sound of them laughing. “You!” my mother squealed. “No, you!” my father insisted. I’d never heard them speak that way to each other in my life. Were they . . . flirting? The next morning, just as I was beginning to think it had all been a strange dream, I walked into the kitchen, and my parents sprang to opposite corners, blushing.