I stood in front of my classroom for nearly two decades. During the first several years of my teaching, I’d watch nervous freshmen file into my English classroom, armed with the same defense mechanisms I’d seen for years. They’d grab a seat in the back of the room, avoid eye contact, and slouch in their chairs–the posture that said don’t call on me. They were terrified to be vulnerable, and they just needed a little help finding some courage.

This past weekend, my family went skiing. By most measures, it was exactly what a family weekend should be. The kids were on the slopes all day, burning energy and making memories. When we got home, we swam in the heated outdoor pool, cleaned up, and went out for a nice dinner. It was full, connected, and fun.

And then, almost on cue, the devices came out.

Writing is, by its nature, a solitary act. You sit alone with your thoughts, your doubts, and a blinking cursor that seems to mock your every hesitation. But the journey from first draft to finished piece doesn't have to be a solo mission, and in my experience, it absolutely shouldn't be.

I hate the expression, “I’m not religious,” almost as much as I loathe hearing people admit, “I’m not political.” Both statements make me wonder, what is it you are trying to say about yourself, and what are you afraid that people will believe about you. I’ve grappled with my lack of religious identity for decades. There was a time in my life when I was a proud agnostic toying with the idea of atheism even. For me, religion is antithetical to free will, and I’ll admit that I’m terrified of group think.

My 12-year-old is a really good sleeper. For that matter, my husband does a pretty good job at it as well.

I, on the other hand, rarely have what many would call “a good night’s sleep.”

I was greeting hundreds of attendees at a reception a couple weeks ago, excited to share with them the different resources available to help them navigate the convention center campus where my work was hosting a conference.

“We want to let you know about the many resources at your …, Oh my gosh, I know there’s a word.” I paused while my brain raced to recall the word that so obviously completed this oft-used expression.

Every writer knows the anxiety that comes with pitching a piece, whether it’s a book, a personal essay, or an OpEd in the local paper. We have thoughts to share. So moved is the writer to express herself that she’s willing to engage in this self-deprecating game of pitch and repeat on the off chance that her idea might pique an editor’s interest.

It’s been a bit since my last post, but ‘work’ has been busy. I put quotes around work intentionally, not because I haven’t really been working or because I’m being hyperbolic and making excuses. Rather, I have been doing exactly what I get paid to do. It’s just hard to call it work when it’s so dang fun.

Reflections from a runner who’s not supposed to run anymore.

I walked into my bedroom this morning to find my cat staring up at my armoire. Initially, I thought she was eyeing the diaper hanger bag that is now home to single socks waiting in limbo to see if they’ll ever be paired up with their match.

Though I’ve made it obvious in previous posts that I am not a poet, that doesn’t diminish my love of verse. In fact, I asked one of my daughter’s friends about a book she’s currently reading, and she responded, “It’s written in verse,” and my heart melted. I loved hearing those words from a 6th grader.

I made the mistake of watching Painkiller on Netflix. As was the case when I watched Hulu’s Dopesick, I was enraged at the truths revealed through these Hollywood dramatizations of Purdue Pharma, the Sackler family, and the opioid epidemic that has plagued this country for decades. Few families have not been directly impacted by the crisis. The ones who haven’t know someone who has.

My sister is a musician. We were a year apart in school, but I was light years away from her in talent. She played the trumpet and some piano, but her forte was singing. In 8th grade she wrote and performed a song for an end-of-year concert that brought the crowd to tears. 

It should come as no surprise then, that by comparison, I didn’t consider myself blessed with any notable talent.

My daughter and I were driving to an appointment last week on a gorgeous 60-degree day. 

“There are so many people out,” she noted.

“Spring is here,” I said. 

Even our dog is excited. She and I have been going out for walks every day. Much as I enjoy these walks, I’m reminded of the incident that happened a few years ago when I was out alone in my neighborhood. I was on a pipestem street, so in theory, there’s no reason for anyone who doesn’t live on the street to be driving on it. One of the homes was for sale, and coincidentally, as I ambled past, an on-coming car slowed and came to a stop. The driver, a young male alone in the car, rolled down his window as if to ask a question.

I’m not a poet by any stretch of the imagination, but sometimes—very rarely, I play with the genre just to satiate a little voice inside my head. I wrote this poem about a decade ago, and I’m sharing it here not because I think it’s great. Quite the contrary, actually.

My daughter was invited to join her friends at a new hot spot in my town, The Lazy Cat Lounge & Cafe. What a cute name, I thought. Then I started singing about dancing at the “Pink Pony Club.”