A recent online forage led me back to a 2015 tweet, wherein I admitted to being a lifelong member of the informal (but undoubtedly real) Frequent Crier Program. I’m not exactly proud of it (I’m not ashamed, either; it’s merely a fact) but I will cry you under a table at a moment’s notice, and I don’t even need a good reason.

Most recently, I found myself shedding tears while reading Roxane Gay’s short story North Country. All you need to know is that I over-identified with the protagonist, Kate, who is an often spiky, needlessly difficult and surprisingly hard nut to crack. I looked into Kate’s eyes via those 17 pages and, when I looked away, mine were wet. It was navel-gazing, sure, but it was also recognition.

There were other incidents this week that brought forth the hot, salty tang of tears: at my local subway station, a toddler sporting a pink pacifier approached me and waved like we were old pals, and my smile folded into itself abruptly. I listened to Freudian, the new record by Daniel Caesar, and cried thrice, the loudest at Get You, on which he sings, tenderly, “Ooh, who would’ve thought I’d get you?” On the family side: my siblings in London sent me a portrait from their brunch, and a happy sigh turned into a mild weep; when I called my dad in Nigeria, hearing his voice made my breath hitch, before the trapped air became a little sob. While frying plantains, my wrist caught the edge of the pan and, yup, you guessed it: instant tears.

Is it healthy to cry this much? Who can say? It almost always feels good, though.