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How I Carry Sadness When Life Gets Heavy

This post originally appeared in Substack. Follow me there.

The world feels heavy for me this week. Not because I’ve been caught up in tragedy or terminal illness, but because many of my friends have. Young people. People with families. People barely in middle age.

Then there’s the deep pain I feel for the family of the boy killed in Spain while vacationing with his buddies. They left the bar. He stayed. A simple enough decision that ended his life and forever altered his family’s.

sad woman on dock at sunset

And my heart breaks for all of them. The ones I know and the ones I don’t.

I know what it’s like to lose someone unexpectedly. My best friend took her own life at 45. In fact, I’m writing this on the anniversary of her death. She feels especially present to me right now. She chose not to come out of the winter and see the beauty of spring.

I also know what it’s like to lose someone to an incurable illness, where their own cells turn on them. I’ve watched the withering, the gasping for breath at the end, and marveled at how even a few days can make a difference.

And I’m consumed with sadness over the pain people are feeling now and for what’s ahead of them. I think about the “lasts” they’re haunted with—not knowing they would be lasts. And I think about all the firsts they will endure without their loved one—first Christmas, first birthday… 

There are always questions. Why them? There’s guilt that it didn’t happen directly to you, and worry that it will.

So what do you do to break out of the deep sadness caused by real, logical grief and not just what-ifs?

What I Do When I’m Filled with Sadness

The key for me is to move outside of myself. When I’m dwelling only on my own pain, I simmer in it and it cooks me. But when I turn outside of it, I can see something else.

Here’s what I do to get outside of myself:

  • I listen to the birds sing, all their different songs. The melodies, the chirps, the strange mechanical sounds of the myna.
  • I pet my dog and notice how soft he is.
  • I compartmentalize and try to forget whatever sadness is in my heart. Hey, I’m keeping it real. My first reaction is always to run from the pain.
  • I throw myself into work. Here I am, writing.
  • I take a shower or a bath, even if it makes me cry a little.
  • I try to convince myself this pain is part of the human condition. This one doesn’t work all that well, but I’m trying.
  • I go for a walk and look for something that shouldn’t be where it is, like a flower pushing through a crack in the sidewalk and then I marvel at how that could happen and everything that needs to go into it.
  • I sit in the pain. Usually after I’ve tried to outrun it, I ruminate and let myself feel all of it.
  • I listen to a mix of my favorite songs. It’s hard to stay sad when Cyndi Lauper or Katrina and the Waves is coming through the speaker.
  • I pay attention to personal hygiene. This one doesn’t make me feel better the way it seems to for some people, but it keeps me from feeling worse.
  • I read.
  • I try to think about it as a learning experience. Admittedly, this one sucks. But the intellectual in me is always trying to make sense of what feels like random pain.

What I’m Not Good at in Managing Sadness

I obviously don’t have all the answers. I’m not Brianna Wiest. 

Here’s what I tend to screw up:

  • Knowing what to say. I know, a writer without words. But the words I write are labored over. In the moment, I’ve got nothin’.
  • Hugging. I’m not a hugger, and I know that’s what most people need at a time like this. But I’m just not good at it. I’m awkward and sticklike. Nothing comforting in that.
  • Keeping a positive attitude. This is why I usually say very little when faced with a grim medical prognosis. Stage 4 is the end in cancer. There is no stage 5. I assume everyone knows this, but sometimes they don’t. And when I say something matter-of-factly and see the horror on their face, like they’re only now realizing their loved one may die without a miracle, I feel terrible. So when friends share medical details, I try to put on my best poker face and simply nod because in times like that, I have the bedside manner of Dr. House.
  • Being part of a community. I process loss by myself. I withdraw. I’m not the person who brings you casseroles, even though I know I probably should.

Things are unbelievably heavy right now, on so many fronts, for so many people. I often think of this as the “end of the empire.” A time of great riches and great pain. I’d like to tell you how to barrel through it or offer you a big hug, but that’s not me.

What I can do is walk with you in silence. We can listen to the sound of each other’s breath and remember that this is the only moment we have.

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Even People Who Preach Clarity Feel Lost Sometimes

There are just so many choices.

Do you want to live in the city and be able to walk everywhere, meeting new people every time you go out? Or do you long for acres of quiet where the only noise disturbance comes from the angry-sounding blue jays?

Do you want the ocean at your doorstep, or the mountains outside your window?

Do you want to be fit and have a Hollywood physique, or do you like to eat?

Do you want to tend a garden or travel the world?

The only answer I can definitively give is that I want acres and acres of property on the ocean that is in walking distance of a small town that has delicious restaurants that few people ever go to and that everyone knows me there but also stays out of my business and that every calorie-laden favorite I have is suddenly good for me and delicious with less calories than an asparagus spear.

Whew.

But alas, that option doesn’t appear to be available–at least not anywhere I’ve been so far.

Life is full of choices that often mean settling for one and discarding the other.

That’s why one of the best things you can do for yourself is to get clear about what you want.

Flotsam and Jetsam

When I was a kid, I loved tossing sticks into streams and watching them navigate the current.

Some would right themselves and glide through rapids like they knew exactly where they were going. Others would get stuck in the muck almost immediately. What fascinated me was how often I was wrong. The ones I was sure would make it didn’t. The ones that looked doomed somehow kept floating long past where I could see them.

Those sticks were flotsam and jetsam. Just pieces of wood pushed wherever the current decided.

We’re not supposed to live that way.

We’re supposed to make decisions. Choose directions. Decide what kind of life we want to build instead of drifting wherever the current happens to take us.

At least that’s the theory, if you’re not a stick.

It’s All Been Done Before

This season, I feel a little like one of those sticks.

Part of it is that there are several new things happening in my life right now. Things I can’t fully control. For someone who likes to know where she’s going and what she’s having for dinner every night, that can feel unsettling.

Especially when I’m supposed to be writing a book about clarity for high achievers.

The rough draft is about seventy-five percent done. On paper, that should feel like progress. Instead, I’ve felt oddly adrift.

Part of the problem is that I’ve always liked finding a new path. A different way to get somewhere.

In school, I used to get frustrated during science experiments when the teacher already knew exactly how they would turn out. The entire scientific community knew how they would turn out. We were just repeating the steps.

I wanted to experiment with something that might surprise us all.

That same instinct has been following me around while writing this book. Since I started, I’ve seen at least four other people release books on a similar topic.

And I know what I would tell anyone else in this situation. I wrote about it in The Glinda Principle. The topic might be the same, but the voice and the story never are.

Still, there are moments when it makes me feel a little… dull. Like I’m just repeating an experiment where everyone already knows the result.

The Truth About Clarity

But the older I get, the more I realize something about clarity.

It isn’t permanent.

We talk about “figuring out what you want” as if it’s a destination. As if once you arrive there, the path stays paved forever.

It doesn’t.

Figuring out what you want is like landing a helicopter on a moving boat.

Sometimes the landscape shifts. Circumstances change. New questions appear that you didn’t know to ask before.

And suddenly the person who usually has a plan finds herself standing in the water again, watching a few sticks float past and wondering which direction the current is actually going.

The difference is this.

When I was a kid, those sticks had no say in where they ended up.

We do.

Even in seasons when things feel uncertain, we still get to decide whether we’re drifting or steering.

Right now, I may not know every turn ahead.

But I do know this.

I’m not flotsam.

And neither are you.

Sometimes the most important thing isn’t knowing exactly where you’re going.

It’s remembering that you still get to steer.

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The First Thing You Need to Do to Be Successful

Everyone wants the secret. The shortcut. The perfect routine that leads to instantaneous success.

But at the risk of this blog post being labeled clickbait, there is no immediate button you can press to be successful. No magic pill you can take or star you can wish on.

But I do know what has to be aligned and fully functioning to be successful. And it all comes down to one thing.

Energy.

No, not what Nikola Tesla wanted to give to the world for free.

Personal energy — the stuff that keeps you going.

Energy fuels creativity, focus, your curiosity, your patience with a messy first draft, your willingness to sit down again tomorrow.

And if you let everything else drain you first, there’s nothing left to write from.

Energy Is Your Writing Taskmaster

Most people talk about making time to write, but that’s only half the equation.

You can carve out an hour on the calendar and still have nothing to give if you feel depleted. You’ll sit down, stare at the screen, and it feels like trying to push a car uphill. That “free” time does nothing for you if your energy is non-existent.

Protecting your writing life means protecting the part of you that wants to write at all.

So, how do you do that? Cut out your biggest drains.

For most people, that looks like:

Avoiding People Who Drain You

This is hard because you may not be aware of how draining they are. It’s not always dramatic toxicity on par with a “Housewives of” show from your town.

Energy drains can be subtle:

The friend who turns every conversation into a complaint session, and you come away feeling worse about the world than when you sat down with them.

The family member who “checks in” but leaves you tense from all the questions.

The social circle that expects you to be constantly available, constantly agreeable, constantly on.

This isn’t villainizing anyone. People are like chemical elements. Some people help us make something very useful (say sodium and chlorine making table salt). Those pairings add value. But that same element, chlorine, mixed with ammonia creates a toxic vapor. Neither element is to blame. But the latter is a hazardous situation.

After you spend time with someone, do you feel clearer… or smaller?

Do you feel more like yourself (or the person you want to be)… or like you need a map and a shovel?

Guarding your energy means getting honest about who is your sodium and who is your ammonia.

Avoid a Job That Takes Everything From You (if you can)

I know this one isn’t simple. People have bills and responsibilities. Not everyone can quit a draining job tomorrow.

But you can stop pretending it doesn’t cost you.

If your work leaves you emotionally fried, mentally numb, or physically exhausted, writing is going to feel impossible because you’re running on fumes. Creativity runs on a full tank.

If you can’t quit a draining job, maybe you can:

  • Create boundaries around availability.
  • Take your lunch break away from your desk.
  • Refuse extra tasks that aren’t yours.
  • Plan your writing for your best window, not your leftover one.
  • Even small changes can give you your mind back.

Say No to More Things So You Can Say Yes to Writing

Most people trying their hand at writing have other things going on. And most of those things take precedence, like earning a living, spending quality time with loved ones, etc. That’s fine. Everyone needs to know what their priorities are.

But your priorities don’t have to include volunteering for every group that asks.

Most of us say yes to everything else first before saying yes to ourselves.

That means yes to obligations. Yes to favors. Yes to “quick calls.” And events you don’t want to attend. Yes to responsibilities that aren’t actually yours. This is especially true the better you are at those things. People know you’re an easy yes who will get what they need done.

This is problematic when you try to write with whatever scraps remain after your thousand yeses.

If you want to be successful, you have to treat your energy like a budget. You don’t get an unlimited supply.

If writing matters, it has to get the first cut — not the leftovers.

Don’t Vegetate in Front of the Television

I’m going to say something that will rile people up: TV is an energy drain disguised as rest. It’s passive. It lulls you. It puts you into a state where your mind is consuming instead of creating. And it takes longer portions of your day than you think it does.

An episode becomes three. “Just for a minute” becomes the whole evening. One Game of Thrones episode takes more of your day or night than a movie does because you can’t watch just one.

That doesn’t mean never watch TV. I’m not anti-TV. Just don’t let passive entertainment become the default way you recover from life.

Choose things that invigorate you instead of sedating you:

  • A walk.
  • Music.
  • A conversation with someone who energizes you.
  • Reading something that wakes your mind up.
  • Journaling.
  • Sitting outside with a cup of coffee and letting your brain wander on purpose.
  • The goal is not productivity. The goal is vitality.

My Rule With TV (and Why It Works)

I watch TV in my dormant stage. That’s the in-between season — when I’m finishing one book mentally and circling the next one. When I’m thinking. Gathering. Letting ideas percolate.

But once I decide what the next book is and I start writing?

I move away from TV watching and limit it to certain hours. I cut it down on purpose because I know what it does to my creative energy. It makes writing feel farther away. It keeps my brain in consumption mode. And consumption is where we get fat and happy, not where we have the hunger to create something amazing.

Guard Your Energy Like Your Work Depends on It

Because it does.

Before you worry about marketing or the perfect outline, before you worry about how long it’s taking, ask this:

What’s draining me that doesn’t deserve access to my creative life?

Protect your energy.

Success isn’t built on willpower alone.

It’s built on having enough life left in you to put words on the page — and enough clarity to come back and do it again.

Finally, if you realize you don’t have the emotional energy to write your story, you don’t have to do it alone. Bring in a partner who can help keep you on target and walk you through the emotional minefield of your story. I can help.

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Middle Age Math

middle age math

Memoir does two things at once. It helps someone survive something. And it helps someone else understand it. But more than that, memoir reminds us that we are all moving through the same cycle—just at different points in it.

Thirty-five years ago yesterday, my father died. He was 67. I was 18.

I wasn’t prepared to lose a parent.

And neither were my friends.

They supported me with the familiar, well-meaning: “Let me know what I can do.”

But we were 18.

Some of us hadn’t even lost a pet yet.

They didn’t know what to say. They felt awkward. My sadness interrupted the narrow, self-focused existence most of us were living during freshman year—and that’s exactly how it should be at 18.

We thought our parents were old—but also somehow permanent. Mortality was abstract. Something that happened later. So we didn’t talk about it much.

Now I’m older. Many of my peers have lost a parent. Some have lost both.

The Season We Once Stood Outside of Has Become Our Own

Lately, I’ve been thinking about my place in that lifecycle.

Parent. Child. Possibly soon, grandparent.

The thought makes me smile. It also makes me shift in my seat.

Imposter syndrome doesn’t disappear with age, it just takes on a different nuance, a new role to play. You’re no longer the carefree young kid. You’re in charge of people and you wonder who in the world thought giving you that level of responsibility was a good thing.

When you’re young, you don’t really think you’re going to get old. And then you get there in a hot thirty seconds. And when you do, you can’t imagine who launched you into this place where you should know what to do and say only the right things.

It’s taxing being in charge of people where only last weekend it feels like you were at a frat party getting free drink tickets because you flipped your hair in the right direction.

The Math Changes

One minute you’re trying to decide what you want to do when you grow up.

The next minute people expect you to know—because you already are grown up (at least according to the IRS).

Aging changes how the world sees you.

When you’re young, people assume you’re not ready yet.

When you’re older, they begin wondering whether you still are.

You start to notice subtle considerations like the quiet calculations you make before walking the dog in the rain. In the awareness of uneven sidewalks. In the passing thought that a fall might mean a different level of injury now than it once did.

When someone mentions the year 2000, I instinctively think, not that long ago.

And then I count.

Twenty-six years.

You Understand It Later

Someone my age might read this and nod.

Someone who is 25 might roll their eyes.

I would have.

I read an interview with Bruce Willis where he said at 40, “I feel like a 25-year-old kid in my heart.” Until he looked in the mirror.

At the time, I thought it was funny, maybe slightly delusional on his part

Now I understand. Perspective doesn’t just change how we see people. It changes how we see stories. I read literature differently now than I did in my twenties. Things hit me that I didn’t notice or understand before. When I read the short story “The Swimmer” by John Cheever, I didn’t understand his progression through his neighbors’ pools. It seemed like Cheever had indulged in his favorite vice a little too long before picking up the pen that day. But now I know that life really does fly by with the brevity of your best summer.

Meaning Comes After

Memoir meets people where they are in the lifecycle. It helps someone living through a season feel understood. It also helps someone approaching that season feel prepared. And it helps someone long past it remember who they once were.

Your story stops being a collection of events.

It becomes meaning.

And meaning is what endures.

If you’ve found yourself revisiting old memories differently lately—seeing them with new perspective—you may already be closer to writing your story than you think.

When you’re ready to explore it, you don’t have to do that alone.

.

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5 Hard Things I Tell My Clients

Most people think ghostwriting is ‘just writing.’ It’s not. There’s a lot of work done shaping the story, deciding what makes it in and what doesn’t, and translating memories into life lessons that everyone will understand and relate to no matter what their experience.

It’s tricky. I’m part confidante, part grammarian, part impersonator (I want the book to sound like you), part story strategist, part producer, part project manager, and part guide (after all, I have to make sure we don’t get lost in the process.)

That’s why sometimes I have to give my clients some tough love so that our work together is the best it can be. If you’re considering writing a book, whether you do it with me, AI, your assistant, or on your own, here are a few hard things I tell everyone.

Tough Love Advice When Writing a Book

  1. Some stories will be left out. A strong book is selective. More detail usually dilutes the message.
  2. If you tell your truth, some people angry may be angry. Real life involves real people, and they may not agree with your version.
  3. A good book makes people feel things—and you might not like what they feel. Reaction is part of impact and you can’t control other’s reactions. The goal isn’t universal approval. It’s resonance.
  4. You don’t have to tell everything. Privacy is part of craft. If a detail doesn’t serve the message, you can protect it.
  5. This process can be emotionally demanding. Even business books ask you to make meaning out of experience. That takes energy.

What This Looks Like When We Work Together

My job isn’t just to write clean sentences. It’s to help you shape the story, choose what belongs (and axe what doesn’t), and build a book that’s tight, coherent, and true to your voice.

While each project is vastly different, my professional goal for each is the same. I want my clients to hear the phrase, “I thought about your book long after I finished it.” That’s the mark of a story told well.

If you’re considering a book and want a strategic partner in the process, reach out.
Use my contact form and tell me what you’re trying to say, who it’s for, and where you’re stuck. I’ll reply with next steps and let you know if I’m the right fit.

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Your Story Might Be Someone Else’s Escape Route

Every time the lottery grows to multi millions, most people play the entertaining game of “what would you do with the money?”

Paying off a home or buying one, cars, vacation villas, jewelry, designer clothes…there are a million ways to unburden yourself of your newfound winnings and each of us has our own ideas of how we’d do it. (Although, paying off a mortgage or buying a home is the number one way most Americans confess they’d spend their money).

And I’m not any different. I’d pay off the house.

Maybe take a vacation. Definitely would pay for the boys’ college and pay off the small remainder of my car loan.

But my extravagance, if I was one of those billionaire winners, after I covered all the things that add stress to life, is something more outlandish.

My own private island?

Hardly.

How I Would Spend My Lottery Billions

I would make a list of all the things I have ever wanted to do or experience, but because I chose another path in life, I never did.

I’m not talking about buying a Ferrari. That was never something I saw myself doing.

I mean things like moving to Maine and becoming a lobster (or is it lobsta?) fisherman.

Exciting things that could’ve been. Lives I could’ve lead. Very “Midnight Library.” (Love that book’s concept.)

Then I would take that list, find people who are currently doing those things, and pay them to show me their world. And I could experience all of those things–if just for a week. <Sigh.>

That’s why I love memoir.

Before I discovered its beauty, I thought memoirs were trashy tell-all books that celebrities paid others to write.

Now, I know better.

A beautifully written memoir can help you do as George R.R. Martin said,

“I have lived a thousand lives and I’ve loved a thousand loves. I’ve walked on distant worlds and seen the end of time. Because I read.”

I’ve read memoirs about lobster and crab fishermen, addicts, a twenty-something with a terminal illness, a funeral director, a homesteader, someone who walked the Pacific Coast Trail (and another who walked the Camino de Santiago), a trekker to Mt. Everest, a girl trapped in an attic, and countless memoirs of people trying to find themselves among awe-inspiring settings.

With some memoirs I came away wanting to switch places with the author, while others I gave thanks that I wasn’t in their position.

But all of their stories made me appreciate their experiences.

Reading builds empathy and no genre builds it quite the some way memoir does. After spending several hundred pages with an author, how can you not feel something for them?

Many people tell me they want to tell their story but few follow through. Much of that is because they wonder if their story is worth telling. I assure you someone is waiting to live life the way you have or to learn something from the challenges you’ve experienced.

While your perspective may be unique, your story is about connection, and helping people see things through your lens. By doing so, you help people not feel so alone. And that is an incredible service.

Until I am able to find a way to live a thousand lives of my own, I will escape into the adventure of memoir.

I hope you will too.

If you have a story to share, but don’t have the time to do it, contact me today. We’ll see if we have a compatible view on the project and a mutual respect of venturing into the unknown.

Until then, keep living.

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I’ve Never, Ever Done This Going into a New Year

I am a list maker, a thinker, and a goal-driven middle-aged girl.

Yes, all those things. (And yes, the phrase middle-aged “girl” is probably best understood by most of my Gen X compadres.)

But for the first time in my “adult” life, I went into this new year with absolutely no goals, promises, or resolutions.

It just wasn’t in me.

Oh sure, I thought about them.

No Resolution Rose to the Top

I have plenty of things I can work on to better myself and improve my career. But none called out to me. No area of my life seemed more poignant than another, demanding my attention and the righting of the ship, so to speak.

Since the turn of the calendar page, I’ve asked myself why I didn’t follow my usual zeal of creation and promises into the new year and it came down to several things.

  1. I’m in a different season of life. My kids left for college this past August. In some ways I have more free hours, but in others I’m facing new demands on my time and patience. Creation seems more difficult for me these days. It feels like a season to replenish, to let the fields grow fallow for a moment or two, to catch my breath.
  2. I want my choices to be impactful. This year, it was all about timing. The end of the year happened too quickly. I was in the driver’s seat for holiday celebrations and I believed that I was at the center of making everyone’s every meal as well as ensuring all of their Christmas delights were incorporated into a two week period. That left me emotionally exhausted with very little time for introspection. (Something I really need.) I didn’t want to default to the obvious resolution–lose weight, get in shape (although that’s a good idea and I have a lot of work to do in that area). I also couldn’t quite pinpoint the answer to the old question of “What’s the one thing you can do today that would have the biggest impact on your tomorrow.”
  3. I’m worn out. I’m not naturally a people person. I felt worn out by social commitments this year. I need some extra time to recharge. That’s why I’m taking a groundhog approach to early 2026. Hoping to see my shadow in the spring. Until then, I plan on a little hibernation and being more selective with my social obligations.

At the end of 2025 I gave myself permission to ease off the gas pedal and I’m working now on protecting my time.

I guess that in itself could be a resolution. (See how hard it is for me not to latch on to something? I’m a work in progress.)

As you metaphorically write your story this year, it’s important to understand that every chapter is different. Some are page turners and others are plot builders for future action.

But both are essential.

What type of chapter are you in right now? Are you in the middle of a big build-up or a plot twist? Perhaps, you’re learning something about the main character.

Give yourself permission to enjoy each chapter and what it offers to the greater story.

If you’re ready to explore the deeper themes in your life or help others learn from your experiences, I can help. Contact me today and let’s talk about you and how we can get your story out into the world where others can enjoy it and apply your lessons to their own challenges.

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The Only Gift You Need (but you have to be the one to give it)

Amidst all the hustle and craziness of this time of year, the Ghost of Christmas Past lingers close in my mind.

During those few stolen moments early in the morning before the sun rises and the slumberers awaken, and the cracking fire is my only companion, my mind often wanders to where I am this year compared to last. I reminisce about who is no longer in my life, what challenges I’ve faced this year that wasn’t apparent last, and think about who has entered my life.

It’s not morbid.

It’s my way of telling myself that the only constant is change.

This year, we sold a house in a state where I had spent two decades raising my children. We moved 1,000 miles away to a new time zone. There I met dozens of people—several of whom I now call friends. Our youngest kids went to college—one in the state where he was born and one in the state I spent my youth, each 1,000 miles away from where I am now.

We’ve spent more time with family who had previously been far away. We traded our flip-flops for cowboy boots. Yes, we’re those people.

I ghostwrote a book with a double transplant survivor about the importance of keeping a great attitude. And I’m talking to other people who want to tell their stories.

I walk more than I drive these days.

We visited my brother in Hawaii, I saw my son win a dance contest with his fraternity, I took my other son on a two-day road trip to school. I was there when my mother celebrated her 90th birthday.

I’ve embraced AI as a necessary part of doing effective work, even if it will probably replace me. And I’ve explained how to best use large language models on a few webinars.

I won an award from the Florida Authors & Publishers Association for my book The Glinda Principle but couldn’t attend the awards banquet because our house sold much quicker than expected and I was in mid route to a new life when my author peers were walking across the stage.

We glamped in Wimberley, Texas; attended our new hometown’s Oktoberfest; shopped for wedding dresses with our soon-to-be daughter-in-law; and raced to Pittsburgh thinking our youngest was experiencing appendicitis.

Life is certainly different than this time last year when I didn’t realize half of what was in store.

But there are still things I’m working on—carryovers, residuals, the same things in many respects. I still carry more weight than I should and eat more sugar than is healthy. And I haven’t booked as many speaking gigs as I had on my 2025 goal sheet.

Yet each day brings new opportunities and choices. There are things I saw going one way, that ended up another, and there were occurrences that I didn’t see happening at all, yet they did.

Redirection

But before you see this list as self-indulgent, depressing, or boastful, this look back is necessary. It’s important to understand where you’ve been to appreciate the potential in where you’re headed.

It may seem impossible for you this time of year to give a lot of thought to how things have changed. But it’s all part of your story.

And it’s only in the rearview that we can appreciate how rejection was just redirection.

On our way to Texas this year, we were buzzing along at a good clip. The weather was great and the golden hour cast a beautiful glow that made even the eighteen-wheelers look majestic. I was following my husband but he’s a more aggressive driver so he was about a quarter mile ahead of me.

Then I lost him. A few big rigs, some tall-profile SUVs, and several s-curves hid him from view. Then my GPS rerouted me. I assumed it had done the same for him and that was why I couldn’t see him. I had seconds to decide if I was going to exit the highway or continue on.

I went with the redirection.

Moments after exiting the highway, I was convinced the GPS wanted me lost in the tall grass of Mississippi backroads. There were twists and turns and one-lane bridges. How could this be the most efficient way to get to where I was going? Cell service was in and out like a twenty-something friend with benefits. The East Coaster in me broke out into a sweat.

Lost. Hopelessly lost. Sure, I followed the directions, but with fading cell service, it was only a matter of time before I had no guidance. Then I’d be trapped among the hills and hollows–a warning for women traveling. I cursed my GPS for being dumb. This was all its fault.

I realized then without a paper (or downloaded) map in the car, I was no longer in control. I had to hope my cell signal would hold until I could see the highway again or at least get out of the rural area and find a gas station oasis (preferably Buc-ee’s).

That’s when I noticed how enchanting the fading sunlight looked on the golden grasses, how the rust on the roof of a long abandoned cabin appeared to be purposefully done to offset the dismal gray color of the building, how horses are majestic beasts with gorgeous curves and tails that swish rhythmically.

I stopped worrying about what was next and concentrated on where I was. After all, there might be a chance I’d need to park my car in that golden grass and wait out the night if I couldn’t figure it out soon.

But I tamped the fear down and opened my eyes to what was all around me. The bucolic landscape of impossibly green hills and golden accents wasn’t anything like the sterile views I had seen from the highway and yet the road that took me to this peaceful place was only a few hundred feet away.

I was seeing the real Mississippi, not the man-created one but the natural one. Untouched. Less traveled. Vibrant in its simplicity. (Still, I was happy to have a full gas tank.)

Then I saw the sign to reenter the highway. When I did, cell service improved, and the views became more predictable—billboards, parts of exploded tires, fast-food wrappers.

I called my husband. He was stuck in traffic on the highway miles behind me. There had been an accident after he passed my turnoff. My concern over the time I had lost from my detour evaporated. I was thankful I had seen what I had. Undisturbed beauty and open roads.

It made no sense to me while I was in it, but my redirection had given me an experience my husband hadn’t had.

The Gift of Retrospect

We don’t always know why the plot twists of our lives happen. Perhaps they’re making way for something bigger and better or maybe, in my case, just giving you a better view.

And regrets aren’t worth your time because we can only base our decisions on the information we have at that moment. My husband hadn’t had my choice to exit and I hadn’t known why it was suggested I should.

We can only do what is best for us at that time with the tools and skills we have.

With any luck you’re not the same person reading this today as you were this time last year. You’ve learned something. You have overcome (or are working on that) and life has thrown you some curveballs.

But we learn from life in two ways—experience (having lived it) and learning from someone else by either hearing, reading, or watching their story.

So, during the holidays, give yourself the gift of reflection because when you open it, you’ll also likely receive the gift of appreciation. Be gentle with yourself and notice not what you didn’t accomplish but what you weathered and endured. Don’t look for only big wins; look for the strength it took to keep going some days whether you were battling fatigue or something bigger than that.

A new year is just around the corner, but before you spend time thinking about how you will try to change yourself for the better, appreciate the person you are today.

And think about the message you might have to share with others.

Don’t let another year go by without sharing your story with the world. If you don’t know where to start, start small. Think about:

  • What moment changed you?
  • What did it cost you to learn?
  • What do you know now that would help someone else?

If you have a story you’ve been carrying, I’m here to help you translate it into words that resonate.

Contact me today.

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If You Don’t Tell Your Story Who Will?

Everyone tells you that you should write a book. But something’s holding you back. Let’s walk through the ten most common reasons you’re not on shelves yet. And it’s not talent.

Do you hear it?

For some people, the phrase shows up like clockwork.

At conferences.

At dinner parties.

When having wine with friends.

“You should write a book.”

If you’ve heard it more than once, there’s a reason. People don’t hand out that sentence casually. It’s usually because they see something in you — wisdom, perspective, survival, humor, or leadership — that deserves a permanent home on the page.

But if something’s been nudging you to write… and something else has been stopping you… you’re not alone.

I’ve even been there and I’m a professional.

Here are the 10 most common roadblocks I see when working with leaders, founders, and survivors who’ve carried a book inside them for years.

1. You Think Your Story Isn’t “big enough.”

It’s rarely about the size of the events. It’s about the meaning behind them.

Impact comes from honesty, not spectacle. You don’t have to have experienced something extraordinary. Your coping or leadership in ordinary circumstances can still inspire. After all, there are more of us grappling with common struggles than the blockbuster “astroid hitting the earth” scenarios.

2. You Don’t Know Where to Start.

Beginnings feel intimidating because most people confuse “start writing” with “start perfectly.”

Books begin in conversation, curiosity, and messy notes — not chapter one. When I made the switch from fiction to non-fiction with my book The Glinda Principle, I kept notes for months–little ideas I jotted down, not sure where I was going. I just knew I had something to say. Maybe a book, maybe an essay.

After a few weeks, I couldn’t believe how many thoughts had percolated into my notebook. The book practically wrote itself at the point.

But what it didn’t’t do was edit itself. (This is where you’ll spend most of your time so don’t worry about where to start. Just start.)

3. You’re Afraid of Being Misunderstood.

Sharing your story isn’t just an act of communication; it’s an act of courage.

You want control over the message, and that’s valid.

Plus, once you put it in writing, it feels permanent. This makes a lot of people step back and wonder what they’re saying and who they’re saying it about.

This is your truth. Write it first. Worry about those details afterward. Same goes for the next one…

4. You’re Worried About Hurting Someone.

Memoirs and leadership books often touch relationships, conflict, and truth.

There are ways to tell the story with integrity and kindness. You can also create amalgams of characters so no one person feels wronged by the portrayal.

But again, tell your story first, the concern about liable and feelings can come later during editing.

5. You Don’t Think You’re a Writer.

Well, you’re not…yet.

And you don’t have to be. Writing is a craft, but storytelling is human instinct.

If you speak in a truthful way that helps connect people to your experiences and how it relates to their own, you’re already a quarter of the way there. We just have to “capture it” at that point.

6. You’re Overwhelmed by the Publishing World.

Traditional? Hybrid? Self-publishing? Agents? Proposals?

It feels like learning an entirely new language before you even know what you want to say. But worrying about that before you’ve ever written a word is like being concerned about how you’ll transport a cake to an upcoming event when you don’t even have an oven to bake it in.

7. You’ve Tried Before… and Stalled.

Half-written drafts are not failures. They’re proof you cared enough to start.

Screenshot

A stalled draft usually means you didn’t have a structure — not that you didn’t have a story.

And, maybe, just maybe it wasn’t the right time for the world to hear your message.

8. You Don’t Know Who Your Reader Is.

This is the one I give my clients the hardest time about. We all want to believe our stories are for everyone.

But they’re not. At least not initially.

There is someone who wants (and needs) to hear your. Who is that person? How old are they? What’s their background? Where do they hang out online and in-person? When you can figure those things out, you can write with that person in mind.

Once you do that, it’s impossible not to finish because you don’t want to let that person down.

Clarity about your audience also sets everything up including voice, shape, pacing, purpose.

9. You’re Scared Your Experience Will Be Judged.

Anyone who has lived deeply carries stories with sharp edges.

The goal isn’t to impress — it’s to resonate. Readers connect to truth, not polish. Perfectionism has killed more writing careers than the pen (or keyboard) of a spiteful critic.

Plus, you’re not for everyone.

In fact, there are people who hate chocolate. And although they are wrong and very ill, they are entitled to their opinion.

If chocolate can’t make everyone happy, neither can you and that’s okay.

10. You Don’t Have the Time.

Here’s the part most people don’t realize:

Many of the world’s most meaningful books were not written by the person whose name is on the cover.

They were shaped, structured, and carried to completion with a ghostwriter or–at the very least–a capable editor.

Most of us don’t have a year to carve out to learn the publishing industry, and become a full-time writer. I wrote one of my books for an hour a day in my car on my lunch hour.

You can chip away at the goal of becoming an author the same way I did in stolen moments around a full-time job and a family or you can partner who a ghostwriter who can help you turn experience into narrative and narrative into impact full-time. The first way (doing it part-time on your own) might take a year or longer depending on your schedule.

Do you want your story to wait that long? Do you want your audience to?

Just because you don’t have the time doesn’t mean the world doesn’t need your message.

If you’re one of the many people who keep hearing “You should write a book” and feel a quiet yes beneath the fear and logistics — let’s talk.

Sometimes the first step isn’t writing. It’s a conversation.

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A Reason You Might Not Have Thought of to Tell Your Story

Change is hard—even the change you want.

On our last day of Thanksgiving vacation, my computer died. I grabbed my phone and Googled solutions. Panicked. The black screen of death mocked me. I closed the laptop and stared at the ocean.

I was filled with dread.

There I was on a balcony in balmy weather and I should’ve been enjoying my last day at the beach. Instead, my thoughts were on everything I might’ve lost.

Years ago I made the decision to switch to cloud storage. While it’s my usual course of action to save to the cloud, I couldn’t help but think there might be something that perished on the hard drive.

Pictures. Notes. Things I couldn’t get back.

No dip in the pool or rainbow-colored cocktail could cure my unease. It was like the bitter aftertaste left in your mouth after swallowing cough syrup from the ’70s.

I couldn’t shake it.

My husband recognized this and went about solving the problem—ordering me a new laptop and having it delivered in two days, once we’d be home.

I was relieved he had taken care of it because I was in the type of mood that is not conducive to good decision making.

We made it home from vacation and a few hours before my new laptop was to be delivered, my old one rebooted. No more black screen. It’s like it told me it needed a rest and now it was ready to tackle the workday.

I spent several hours on it catching up on work. We were back together like Cagney and Lacey. But my husband reminded me my new computer was on its way and we could no longer trust this one. I wanted to cover its ears. After all, it had been my faithful companion for three years and visited multiple states and countries with me.

I was used to how its keys felt under my fingertips. I knew the weight of it in my bag.

But my husband was right. It had shut down with no advanced warning, no overheating, no overworking—just a slow workday morning out on the balcony facing the beach, not too hot, not too cold. And it refused to do as I asked.

As a writer, my laptop is one of the only things I need to do my job. I can even muddle through without an internet connection. But at 53, I find writing on a phone exhausting. I have an iPad, but it does weird things on some apps. My laptop is my ride or die and it had chosen to die.

When my new laptop arrived, I set it up. It wasn’t the same weight or the same size. The keyboard felt different. It didn’t feel like a Mac at all. It was clunky, like the early Dells. But my ride or die had shown me it was unreliable so my hand was forced, or so I told myself. Yet, I lingered over my old laptop.

I told my husband I would slowly transition to the new one. He reminded me my transition better move along because Apple was expecting my old laptop back as part of our trade-in deal.

Ugh. Change.

I couldn’t have the best of both worlds, keeping my unreliable but fancier laptop until it chose not to start again.

But will this new laptop perform like the early days of my previous laptop? Will it have all of my same apps and logins saved? How will this new one work with AI? Will it be faster like the marketers claimed, or will it shut down inexplicably like my other one?

I knew I had to change but I didn’t want to. Why couldn’t I keep things the way they were? I wanted to stick with what I knew, even though I also realize this change is for the best.

Perhaps you’ve made a change recently—even a small one—where you know it’s the right thing to do but you don’t want to.

If you have, you’re doing something that others have thought about as well. Even in the seemingly silly example of changing out a dead computer, someone somewhere has agonized over that decision.

Changing up your hair. Going for the promotion. Walking out on an unfaithful lover even though you appear to have the “perfect life.”

Change is a necessary part of growth, large or small. It’s that point in time hovering at the crossroads where you can go forward into something unknown or you can cling to what you do know that’s not working.

Even if you’re averse to change, you’ve been through it. Maybe you lost a parent, spouse, or child. Maybe you gave up something that was harming you physically or mentally.

You weathered change and you’re stronger for it.

Or it knocked you down like a rogue wave, scraped you up pretty badly, made you eat sand. But you learned from it.

Sharing your story of change (and how you lived through it) is a powerful way to give back. It helps someone know they’re not alone, and it teaches what you’ve learned—either as a lesson in how to survive or what not to do.

All good stories start with wanting something that is out of reach, and you can’t get what you want without change. It may bend you or break you, but if there’s something you want, you’ll have to change in order to get it.

Sharing how you did that is a story people will want to read, no matter how common the desire.

After all, you just finished this blog post, didn’t you?

If you’re ready to share your change story, contact me and we’ll talk.