January
On Now: Heartache, imposter syndrome, and allowing ourselves to begin
January was watercolor mandarins and sourdough pancakes and catching snowflakes in our mouths. It was calling in the new year with my family, rocking out to Joan Jett records in the living room. It was rising in the blue dawn and finding out the story I want to tell. It was believing in my creativity and realizing that I can make money doing what I love. It was deepening old friendships and blooming new ones and being held by the strength and brokenness of women. It was reading poems in the sun and by candlelight, allowing language to move me. It was holding others’ grief at the same time that I emptied my heart of mine. It was fresh flowers in every room and the dining room table filled with citrus. It was daily portraits with my son to remind me to remember the things I would otherwise forget. It was being seen and valued for my gifts, both by myself and others. It was long winter walks with my dog and getting quiet so I could hear for the answers I’ve been seeking. It was being both mother and writer and feeling truly at home in both worlds. It was leading my first wellness and writing retreat and feeling the power of not only my words, but my voice. It was the most rewarding sleep deprivation and orange wine and gifts from India. It was being scared and doing it anyway and it all turning out better than I could’ve dreamed. It was being celebrated by my husband and my son for doing the scary thing and showing up for myself in ways that I never had the courage to before. It was having an essay published and realizing that I am already someone different than the woman who wrote it. It was growing and changing and being ready for all of it.
WHAT I’M READING
The Blue Years by Erin Rose Belair
I'm beyond excited to share that The Blue Years is now out in the world. Erin, a writer whose work I deeply admire, makes her debut with this mesmerizing collection of lyrical essays. It’s a seamless fusion of prose and poetry, beautifully entwined with meditations on the sea. The Blue Years navigates the complex terrains of grief, love, identity, and motherhood while grappling with the question of how we make peace with the decisions that we’ve made.
I was so captivated by The Blue Years that I devoured it in a single day, basking in the rare sunshine we get this time of year. Time slowed and stopped as I was immersed in a world of profound heartache–the kind of ache that takes over your senses. The kind of ache that makes you cry in the middle of the day because somehow everything means everything and nothing at the same time. This book shook me and held me, breaking my heart and healing it all at once. I remember texting Erin as early as page 9, confessing, I'm already in tears. For context, I'm not one to cry easily, except perhaps when it comes to my son, where every emotion is magnified. Page 56. Crying again. I kept crying and texting page numbers and when I closed the book I was raw and open and somewhere different entirely than when I started. And this is the true power of The Blue Years. It’s the space between heartbreak and healing—the place where we find ourselves again.
Later this month, I'm thrilled to share an excerpt from The Blue Years and a Q&A with Erin in my Artist Series.
The Blue Years is available for pre-order here.
Human Blues by Elisa Albert
I'm in the opening chapters of this book, and so far, I'm loving it. It captures the power of womanhood and the ache of motherhood, all set against the grit of the music industry (an industry that I was once a part of and know all too well). The voice is a bit unsettling and brash, but I feel it's something that will grow on me. Do we, as women, always have to be soft-spoken? I've found the answer is often yes, and it's so suffocating. Human Blues is showing me a different way. I'll have more to say on this once I've finished the book. I'll be exploring it further with a group of Mother-Artists in Rachel Larsen Weaver’s book club. There's still time to join us! Sign up here.
Poetry, poetry, poetry
I spent this month almost entirely immersed in poetry. My deep dive into poetry was inspired by the women’s writing and wellness retreat I hosted as Lume Collective. For the event, I curated a collection of poems aimed at fostering self-connection and community, embracing grief in ways we often shy away from, grounding us in the present, and cultivating gratitude for life's simple rhythms.
Selecting just 23 poems for this collection was a daunting task. Naturally, it begins and ends with Mary Oliver—no surprise there! Ellen Bass's 'The Thing Is' makes an early appearance, and if you've been reading this newsletter, then you've seen me share this poem many times. Her words never cease to move me. The collection also includes works by Ada Limón, Lucille Clifton, Joy Harjo, Langston Hughes, Anne Sexton, Derek Walcott, among others.
I spent an obscene amount of time on this little book of poems, not because anyone asked me to, but because I loved the long, slow steep in language. It was about sharing the transformative power of poetry that has deeply touched my life, hoping it would resonate similarly with the women of the retreat. It was about creating something they could hold in their hands and flip through when they needed inspiration, or needed to be moved or stilled or anything at all.
After completing the design, my husband said, “Where’s your writing?”
His question caught me off guard. It never occurred to me to include my own work. I didn’t have the nerve to include my words amongst some of the greatest writers of all time. Plus, I didn’t have a poem that was suitable anyway. All of my poems were about the raw parts of motherhood or addiction or how all good things are often fleeting, and they seemed too dark, too hopeless. But my husband persisted, emphasizing the importance of including my voice in this collection that might grace bookshelves and nightstands, and be carried in hearts. I sighed and slumped in my writing chair, but said okay.
I revisited a letter I had written to my son when he turned eleven months old. Stripping it down to its essence while preserving its core message, I transformed it into a poem. And so, my words found their place among those of the greats in this special booklet. You can read the poem below.
Oof. Sharing this feels like a leap, even in this space. The voice of imposter syndrome echoes loudly when I think of my work nestled among giants like Mary Oliver and Ellen Bass, but here we are. I said, I hear you, inner critic, but I’m going to do it anyway. And I’m so glad I did.
A few days post-retreat, I received a message that stopped me in my tracks. One of the women who attended the retreat reached out:
“Your piece ‘The Holiness of Now’ spoke to me so much. Your words are so beautiful and made me cry. Thank you for this. I read it twice and fell in love with it before even reading who the author was. That made it all the more special.”
It’s incredible what can happen when you get out of your own way, isn’t it?
I still remember the profound gratitude I felt, knowing my words resonated with another mother, another soul. When I told her how I was nervous to include it amongst so many amazing poets, she said, “Your work absolutely belongs.”
Walking in the rain to the downtown used bookshop, that affirmation in mind, I found myself clutching my heart right there on the sidewalk. It made me wonder, why can’t I believe in myself the way others believe in me?
Other Things
I have so much to say about the first women’s writing + wellness retreat I hosted as Lume Collective—this experience brims with moments and lessons that I'm eager to share with you. However, that's a story for a dedicated newsletter, so keep an eye out later this month. Until then, I’ll share what I wrote for a reel on Instagram.
I can't wait to share all the highlights and takeaways with you, so stay tuned! It truly changed my life and I’m so excited to plan the next one for summer. You can join the interest list here.
Watercolors
I ordered the watercolors months ago because I've always wanted to get into painting but never have, as I simply never dedicated the time to it. Also, the inner critic always likes to show up whenever I'm thinking about trying something new and berate me before I even begin. But, like most times when she shows up, I do the thing anyway.
I filled one of Pressley’s dinosaur-covered paper cups with water, sat down at my desk on New Year’s Day while my son napped, with the January sun streaming through the window, and painted my first watercolor. I sunk into the play of it and just painted with feeling rather than precision, and I can't say whether it's good or bad, but that's entirely beside the point. The point is that I allowed myself to do something new and to have fun doing it, without caring about the outcome. It tapped into a different level of peace and creativity than I can access with writing—a more playful, less judgmental space, and that felt good and refreshing for my soul.
The first piece I drew and painted with my left hand without looking at the paper. Using my non-dominant hand to create felt so very raw but grounding at the same time. The second piece shows my finished paintings after about an hour of really sinking into them. For anyone who hasn't embraced the unfamiliar lately, or allowed themselves the grace to be a beginner, consider this your nudge. You may like what you find within yourself.
I hung the paintings up on the fridge alongside my son’s footprints and photos of my family, and I felt proud to be part of a family that creates, plays, and loves, even if at first, it doesn’t come easy.
Daily portraits
This year I’ve decided to take a self-portrait of me and my son every day no matter what or where we are, or what we look like, or how we feel. It’s about the being-with. Being with each other, with the moment, the feeling, the space. It’s about remembering all of these ordinary, but somehow still magical moments, that I’d otherwise forget. It’s about stopping time if only for an instant. It’s about remembering. Here are a few of my favorite’s from this last month.
Thanks for being here. It felt good to have a break, but I’m grateful to be back. Just a reminder that I will no longer be publishing posts behind a paywall unless a piece feels particularly sensitive and private (and I feel like I need a safe place to share it). I’m still going to be showing up here, but I will no longer be committing to a set number of free or paid posts, meaning I most likely will not be posting weekly. I’ve struggled with this decision and felt guilty as if I'm letting my readers down or not doing enough. However, it’s the only way for me to honor both this space and FOCUS on my future writing goals. I’ll write as inspiration strikes, grateful that my writing still has a home here. I share this to be transparent so you know what you can expect from this newsletter moving forward.
You're still welcome to support my work with a paid subscription simply because you want to support my writing. Every subscriber is special to me, and I hope you'll continue to support me in whatever way feels right for you. Thank you for reading and commenting and sharing a piece of yourself with me. I’m sure you'll be hearing from me again soon, as the writing always calls. I hope you'll be here when it does.
So much amazingness in here, thank you for sharing, it’s all so beautiful. X
The beauty here is so rich - every last letter. Inspired by you, my friend!