My mother recently encouraged me to stop writing about my years living in income-based housing. She noted that I’d likely written enough about that time now and wondered why I kept referencing it. As with nearly all thoughts from my mother, this was more of a kindly command than a suggestion. I countered in a sort of mumbly stumbly way that even though I was well past the reality of them, they were pivotal and still defined me in so many ways. I was frustrated by the conversation because I couldn’t articulate why I keep going back to those years even though it’s my blog, and I am making great…