I sit in a green velvety swivel chair. I enjoy this chair because it is fluid, which helps me move through many of my experiences. In my chair, I can easily flow back and forth, never having to stop in any direction. In fact — flexible, mobile, workable. When I feel stuck, I gently allow the sway to soothe me back to where I want to be and make space for where I hope to go. I enjoy my swivel chair and the main reason I got it was to have a comfortable, soothing place to greet the page and write.
I have been a writer for a long time, although I have not always written. Growing up, I would find myself comprising stories and attempting to understand the world through disassembling and reassembling experiences, which mostly stayed in my head locked away without knowing how to get out. I have always lived a life in deep search for meaning, and my path to finding it has mostly come through the written word, psychology, and eventually motherhood. Over the past few years, I have learned to trust this process and myself, yet doubt still lingers in the corners, tempting me to reach out a hand.
I didn't write for a long time because I told myself I wasn't a writer. I dreamed up all the ways I imagined a writer might be while never stopping to realize, all along — I was writing.
To be a writer, I always imagined someone would have had to be brought up reading. I pictured a young person begging for one more book at bedtime, an older child hiding away in their closet under some magical fort built for their imaginations: a secret passage, all for them. I pictured a teenager pulling out their journal after the night's end, writing to remember or maybe writing to forget.
To be a writer.
I imagined a child always needing to be near their books. In the car, on vacations, back and forth, never alone. I dreamed up what kinds of bags they would be carrying. In my mind, their books would be overflowing and almost too heavy to hold, but they would insist on carrying them anyway.
To be a writer.
I pictured someone in their adolescence learning about the world, dreaming their world. Never being alone because of their stories and having a deep knowing that they were not. I pictured them writing about what they were gathering from their beloved novels. Dreaming to become. Empowered and ready for this world, ready to write their own stories. To fill it with narratives all of their own.
To be a writer.
I pictured parents calling out at their children from down the hall to put their books down and away for the evening, for it was time for bed. I envisioned it being hard for them to close their books. To stop midway through an existing plot, some magic, someplace other than where they were. So, instead, they would wait until everybody was asleep, cover themselves in their blankets, pull out their faithful flashlights, and continue. For the risk of getting caught was worth it. In fact, it was part of the story. I imagined them reading hundreds of books this way before they would be swept away to dream their own.
To be a writer.
I imagined artists, lots and lots of artists. Reading and writing, writing to change. I pictured them in groups together, sharing around a round table, chaotically covered in papers and opinions. All equipped with a new piece to share that they have been working on. I see them as they attempt to take in both deep acceptance and critique, and I notice when their shame transforms into empowerment and empowerment into a movement.
To be a writer.
I romantically envisioned someone falling in love at a cafe because of how connected they felt to what someone else was reading. I pictured them spotting someone from across the way, catching a glance at their preferred reading material. I saw them become aroused, interested, and curious. I saw a love begin. I saw shared tables, shared notes, shared ideas. One becoming two, both bringing all of their beloved stories, narratives, and wisdom to now each other. I saw hot cups of coffee and steam. I smelled the beans roasting in the distance. I could feel the freshness of the air as it poured through the open window. It was a little cold, so they sipped their tea. Hours passed, together bringing in and putting out, digesting and regurgitating beauty, the beauty of the story they were creating.
To be a writer.
In my mind, I could see a child hiding away in their bedroom, escaping the outside world in stories. I picture them finding hope on the pages. As guidance poured out in every word that they were reading, they were being taught how to live, how to love, how to survive. I imagined that this child would grow up and work in a library, for the scent of books would become just as important as water.
Although I love these thoughts, they were not my stories.
Not only have I dreamed them up, but I have also longed for them. I found my practice of writing later in life. Through this process of getting to know my voice and trusting the page, I have realized that it wasn't because I didn't have anything to say or know how to say it. In fact, I had many, many journals— just not a lot of entries. I didn't know how to listen to the deep need for expression growing up. I was too busy wrestling with ghosts and trying to get as far away from myself as possible.
Now, I am letting myself write not only for me but also for all of my younger selves who longed for the pen yet never knew how to hold it.
I write for her.
I write for home.
And I write for myself now, as a mother.
After becoming a mother, a new voice in me seemed to break open. It broke me open, for silence no longer felt like the best route. I couldn't help but want to shout from the rooftops all of the ways I was not prepared, left abandoned, and traumatized by my experience and the experience that so many others have navigated. I wanted a space to share truths about what is usually not talked about or seen during motherhood, and at the deepest root of it, I wanted others to not feel alone.
“The dance of renewal, the dance that made the world, was always danced here at the edge of things, on the brink, on the foggy coast” -Ursula K. Le Guin
Often, I hear people speak about listening to the call, the inspiration, the invitation of an idea. I have always heard that call, but only in the past few years was I open to listening, and once I was able to listen, I have finally been able to write.
These days, I am trying to live the life that almost got away. The life that I almost didn't have because I was so scared to actually listen and write. Emily St. John Mandel writes in Station Eleven, "I don't want to live the wrong life and then die."
So I write, not because I have so much to say, but because if I don't, I will continue to feel a missing piece, a grief, a longing unable to be soothed. I write because it is the closest way to connect to myself, to ask the important questions, to sit with all that comes with being human while trying to make meaning with what may be my truth.
Thank you for being here and journeying along with me.
Some Current Happenings:
Birth and The Pen, a somatic birth storytelling workshop series, is heading into week six, where we will give voice to the experience of postpartum. This group has been so unbelievably powerful, and I am gearing up to open up the waitlist for the next series, beginning in late Fall. If you are interested in writing your birth story in a group container or individually, you find more information on my website.