“In the last year and a half, I’ve realized just how isolated we all are, even when we’re in crowded rooms,” Union says. “I’ve come to understand the need for community, for connection. And I felt like I had a responsibility, just as a decent human being, that if I’ve figured out where my life raft is, I’m actually a jackass if I don’t share it. This is just me recognizing the need to throw out some life preservers, as many as I can anyway.” There’s a strong dose of self-discovery in every chapter, and Union has the relatability (and writing chops) you desperately hope to find in celebrity memoirs. She’s transparent and vulnerable and offers a reminder that whatever struggle you might be facing within motherhood, marriage, careers, friendships—life!—there is someone out there willing to listen and support. “Whether it was fertility and miscarriages, divorce, dealing with racial isolation and assimilation or not knowing your urethra from your vagina, I just found so many people who were wanting to be in community and wanting to talk about these things,” Union says. “That was the first clue that maybe I struck a nerve.” We spoke to her about pushing the boundaries both personally and publicly, the perspective she’s gained from her daughter, Zaya, and the most honest observations she’s made about herself.
It’s only been a few years, but lot has happened since We’re Going to Need More Wine—a lot personally and around the world. Why was right now a good time to write and publish these collections of stories?
Moving through the world and seeing how lonely we are, how we feel like we’re all fighting our battles solo with one hand tied behind our back. When we’re in the thick of whatever crisis, whatever trauma, whatever adversity is laid at our feet, we always kind of go inward. Rarely do we reach out for community. But that’s also because nobody talks about things. So, I realize that sharing these stories can help build community, help people realize they’re not alone, they’re not crazy, and there are people who have been in it and don’t want to be in it alone.
You’ve been very open about your fertility struggles, including unsuccessful rounds of IVF and miscarriages. So when you write about keeping your own happiness at arm’s length during your surrogacy experience, it makes sense. Is it for fear of happiness being taken away?
That’s a recurring theme that comes up all the time, whether it’s from folks who have shared their journeys of motherhood openly or people who’ve been suffering in silence and isolation. It’s hard to give yourself permission to be present, good or bad, because to be present is to feel—all of it. And when your “being present” has been met with pain and harm, you just kind of hover over yourself and disassociate. It’s your own defense mechanism. You’re numb through whole chunks of your life. And it’s a hard thing to explain to someone who’s never done that, whose mind and body hasn’t said, “You’ve suffered so much. I’ve got to do this for you. I got to separate you, separate your mind from the physical pain that I’m pretty sure is going to come.” It’s exactly what I did as I was being raped. It’s what protected me from the full brunt of what was happening. And it’s how a lot of us get through life, even when it’s good. But I just didn’t want to move through life like that anymore. I don’t want to miss any more moments with everyone I love and the things that I love. I want to be able to speak super clearly to folks about this, which is why I thought it was important to share the whole thing, not just, “It was hard, but look at my baby!” That’s being very disingenuous.
What was it like coming into your own idea of modern motherhood?
You know, today’s modern woman is supposed to be a boss bitch! She’s hard-charging, take-no-shit, talk all the shit, wants all the smoke. She’s somehow figured out balance. She’s got it all. She is that girl! And I’m like, OK, well, I guess that means success? Growing up, I watched my mom, who in my eyes was the epitome of femininity, the perfect mother and the perfect woman who was so selfless and sacrificed so much, and I watched her get trampled. So I was like, yeah, no, I see what that leads to, and I want no part of that. So I had two competing ideas of womanhood, and I had to completely unlearn it all.
And how did you unlearn it? Or at least develop your own balance of what motherhood meant to you?
A Shaman actually led me down that road. And I was like, OK, this is definitely a little weird for a Catholic girl from Omaha, Nebraska—but I find information and resources and lifelines all over the place, and this was one that really changed the trajectory of my life. It opened up the door to finding peace through the acceptance of being vulnerable. I realized that to embrace the feminine divine, if you will, isn’t to be weak or subservient or somehow innately less-than. It’s to grab onto our power. Vulnerability exists in all of us, and I need to be OK with it and not try to hide it, smother it, snuff it out, but embrace it because our vulnerability is truly our superpower. For me, that was standing in my way to emotional freedom. I still gotta work on the other parts of freedom, but emotionally, [I freed] myself from the trap of not showing weakness by being vulnerable.
Do you think that vulnerability allowed you to become a better mother?
As I moved through my healing journey, I realized that what I thought was protecting me (pushing any softness away) is now holding me back from being my best self and who I actually am, not this being that kept shape-shifting to survive, but never really to thrive. What I found is that the more I’m honest and clear and transparent about things I would have previously classified as my weaknesses, my Achilles heels, acknowledging them, talking about them, working on them makes me a better mother, a better wife, a better co-worker, a better friend, better stepmother, all of it. But it took 40-some-odd years to let that go.
You and your husband [Dwayne Wade] are fierce allies for your daughter, Zaya, 14, who came out as trans at age 12. And since this book is all about reflection, what’s one lesson you’d like to thank Zaya for teaching you?
Oh, gosh, there’s so many. I guess the biggest one—and the one I have to keep learning, you know, hard head makes for a soft behind—is that it’s OK to say, “I don’t know, but let’s figure it out together.” As parents, we feel like we always have to provide some kind of answer right away. You never want to be thought of as dumb or ignorant or not having a plan. But life is what happens when we’re busy making plans, and it’s OK to be honest with your kids and say, “You know, I have no idea. I don’t know. But let’s figure it out together.” And as a parent, even saying that right now feels a little weak, feels a little counterproductive. But your kids will respect you more. You will get so much further with them when you’re just honest.
Is writing something that you’ve come to love throughout this process or is it something that you find therapeutic?
Initially, it had been homework assignments from my therapist—for many years. And this has been a recurring theme with writing as a means to emotional evolution. So, yeah, it’s always been very healing and enlightening, and it’s always provided a lot of clarity.
Did you find anything challenging about the process this time around?
I’m obsessed with words, as evidenced by my 23 games of Words With Friends that I’m always playing. And I just have so much respect for writers. But I had this insecurity about whether I was a good enough writer to even call myself one professionally. So that has been a harder process to get to than the writing—that part comes easy. It’s the getting out of my own way and addressing my fears and then getting my work and my soul to a place that I’m OK letting the world in on.
