Thank you
, , , and many others who tuned in to today’s Write the Hard Thing Live to write and ground together.I almost didn’t show up to the LIVE today.
Yesterday, I found out my cousin was murdered. I didn’t sleep last night. Today, grief was still humming through my body like a bolt of lightning. I was tired and buzzing and heavy all at the same time. But I showed up anyway. And I’m glad I did. Because life isn’t tidy or easy, and it sure as hell doesn’t follow the plan. Even though I wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a hundred years, what I actually needed was to write and to breathe and to sit in community with others who are writing the hard thing, too. We’re all carrying something. So thank you for being here with me, even when my energy is low and dark and mucky. This space means more than you know.
If you’re new here, welcome.
This space is a weekly invitation to write and to stay grounded while you do. Writing into the hard stuff, especially the old stories, the memories we’ve buried or blurred, can stir things up. Sometimes our bodies tighten and our nervous system slips into that old familiar survival mode.
So here, we do it differently. We begin with the body. A breath, a pause, a moment to settle. Then I offer you a prompt that you can take or leave. There’s no pressure to follow it. Sometimes it’s the nudge we need and sometimes the body has other ideas. Follow whatever thread calls you. And then, we write together for ten minutes.
We had this session outside because I’m still at my brother’s place in Michigan, and the house is full of wild joy children. But this time, during the live, one of those magic babes came outside to show me the story she wrote (she’s six) and so, I apologize in advance for that brief interruption.
I kind of loved it, though, because to be interrupted by a child’s creativity is one of the sweetest joys. And also, this is just how life is. We rarely get a moment that’s purely ours. Hardly ever is it quiet, or calm, or serene. But we write anyway. We write in pockets. In the noise and the joy and the grief. In the fringe moments and in the blue hours of morning when the rest of the house is still asleep or in the sticky sunshine cicada summer afternoons while our kids swing. We show up for ourselves and our stories in motherhood and in life and in heartache, and in the fullness of days that are both brutal and beautiful.
This is how the work gets done.
In today’s LIVE, we started with breath and we did a little grounding woven into the prompt itself to help us drop straight into the memory, not just in our minds, but in our bodies.
Our Write the Hard Thing prompt was:
Write about a place you loved or hated. What happened there?
It could be from childhood or something that surfaced just this year. Wherever your body wanted to take you.
We brought in the senses to guide us.
What did the air smell like there?
Was the light warm or cold?
What sounds lived in the background?
And what textures touched your skin—fabric, carpet, concrete, dust, grass?
We let the memory rise through the body first and we entered the place, fully, before we tried to name what happened there, before we tried to explain it.
Try it. Set the timer for ten minutes.
If anything stirs for you, whether in your body or on the page, I’d love to hear. You’re welcome to share what you wrote, or simply how it felt to pause.
Here’s what came up for me.
When joy and grief live under the same roof
When I think about places I loved or hated as a kid, they’re usually tangled together. Like the prison’s visiting ward, where we went to see Mom. My little thumping heart like a machine gun, part terror, part excitement. I couldn’t wait for her to walk through those heavy, guarded doors. Her skin like toasted sun, hair down her back like water. I’d press myself into her like a second skin, breathing in that familiar scent of nicotine that always clung to her. For a little while, the world felt bright again. Then the buzzer would sound. The doors would click and clack open, the guards jingle-jangling their way across the scuffed floors to take her back. Back through the doors. Back to her cell.
And then there was home on Arroyo Drive, at the edge of nowhere in the Mojave Desert. Tumbleweeds blowing across the yard, here one second, gone the next. Fleeting, just like Mom. Dad played video games in the dark, and I’d fall asleep to the clicking of his controller on her now-empty side of the bed, the mattress still holding the shape of her body. The sharp sting of chemicals from the meth lab Dad built in the garage filled the room, thick with stench, heavy with sorrow. By morning, he was gone. My head ached, and somehow, I still smiled, still tried to build something out of all the broken pieces and call it a home.
If you’re open to sharing, I’d love to hear what came up for you. I truly love holding this space for you and with you. There’s so much power in naming the thing out loud, on the page, in community. No pressure at all, but if you feel ready, I’m here for it.
This whole Live thing is still a little hard for me, to be honest. Not being able to see your faces makes it feel like I’m speaking into the void, even though I know you’re out there. As I was signing off, I caught a glimpse of a message in the chat where someone had said thank you and that the space felt nourishing. They said something else, too, but I missed it. I’d already closed out before I could read the rest. So if that was you, or if something came up for you during the session, drop it in the comments below. I’d love to connect with you here. Connection is such an important part of this space. Your thoughts, your feelings, your reflections are what makes it real.
These sessions have been such an anchor for me lately. I’ve been traveling, the days are long and loud with kids and wet summer heat and I’m so tired I could cry, but these twenty minutes each week have kept me tethered to my body in such a restorative way.
So thank you for being here. For carving out space for your voice in the middle of everything.
How Does It Work?:
Free Live writing every week (20 min total: 10 min writing, plus short grounding practice before/after). Here’s the next one.
All subscribers receive a notification when I’m Live, and I’ll also send a reminder in the chat 12-48 hours beforehand.
Replay will be available for all subscribers (in case you need to write on your own time).
Show up as you are. Come late if you need. Even one minute of writing is a win. You never know what’s going to show up.
And remember, don’t overthink. Just write.
The Flow:
The first 5 minutes will be a brief welcome and grounding.
I’ll give the prompt (use it or follow your own thread).
We’ll write for 10 minutes, together. I’ll let you know when you have one minute left.
We’ll close with a short, regulating breath or body practice.
You can drop off quietly or stick around to ask a question in the chat.
Why Just 10 Minutes?
Because we’re gently retraining the body to believe this is safe.
Ten minutes, over and over again, becomes a practice. A pathway back to yourself. It’s long enough to begin but short enough to stay present. It’s doable, and over time, the body builds trust, which is the whole point. We’re creating a container (a safe, repeatable experience) where your nervous system can learn that it’s safe to tell the truth. We’re offering it new evidence, rewiring the way it relates to the stories we’ve been afraid to touch.
When are the next sessions?
Friday, August 8th at 12:00pm ET
Wednesday, August 13th at 12:00pm ET
Tuesday, August 19th at 12:00pm ET
Join me for my next live here.
You’re creating a practice.
Try committing to three 10-minute grounded writing sessions a week.
Weekly (see schedule above): Join the free live writing session for all subscribers.
Sunday: I’ll drop a fresh prompt on Notes.
Thursday: Paid subscribers get a bonus prompt tied to each memoir chapter that I’m serializing here on Substack.
Look out for prompts at the end of my weekly essays and also in my monthly wrap-ups.
