How Are You, Really?
Checking in with our community
This morning, my son accidentally slammed the screen door on me as I was stepping outside, sending coffee cascading down the front of my shirt. Normally, I’d stay calm—eight years working in elementary schools will strengthen your patience muscles—but this morning, I yelled. The fury surged before I could catch it, and for a moment, I wanted to scream into a pillow.
It wasn’t the coffee. It wasn’t the door. It was everything smoldering beneath the surface.
After I calmed down, I apologized. I told my son I knew it was an accident, that I was feeling overwhelmed and it bubbled over. We hugged. I took him to school. But I left the drop-off line feeling off—like something in me had cracked open.
The truth is, I’ve been on edge for months. I’ve been doing my best to navigate the fear, anxiety, and helplessness of what’s happening in the U.S., but it’s starting to leak out sideways. I’m snapping more often. I’m grumpier. I’m hard on myself because I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of someone else’s anxiety. I don’t want to pass that pain along to the people I love.
Work doesn’t help. Every day, my colleagues and I quietly tiptoe around looming layoffs, market volatility, and the gnawing dread of civil liberties under threat. Last week, a coworker asked how I was doing. I paused. “Do you want the real answer or the corporate one?” I asked. He laughed, and for a few minutes, we had a rare, honest exchange—about parenting through the chaos, about holding it all together when everything feels like it’s falling apart. Just being real, for those few moments, felt like a relief.
How Are You? Can we start with a simpler question? Tell me what’s on your mind. Are you weary of rain? My skin is saturated with sun. See the hydrangeas blooming? The bumblebees love them. Did they call? The lump was benign. When did you last drink water? I’m not hungry. Have you been to the doctor? Insurance has yet to kick in. What are you reading? The songs of birds. Do you miss her? Always. How will we survive? On salted heirloom tomatoes & laughter. Will you leave me? Never. Is it me? It isn’t. What gives you hope? The redwoods. How can I help? Keep talking. From my poetry collection, If Adam Picked the Apple
Even when I’m not consciously thinking about all this, my body holds it. Stress, fear, and rage show up somatically. My therapist keeps repeating: self-compassion. My partner reminds me I’m human. But I know myself well enough to recognize that if I don’t find a healthy outlet, the pressure will build—and eventually, it will burst.
That’s where writing comes in. Not just any writing—intentional, guided writing. Writing that helps us move through what we’re holding instead of letting it harden inside of us. Writing that slows us down enough to notice what we’re really feeling. Research backs this up: expressive writing has been shown to lower blood pressure, reduce anxiety, improve sleep, and even strengthen the immune system. It helps our brains reorganize difficult experiences. It gives shape to the things we don’t yet have language for.
And so often, when I write, I uncover something I wasn’t expecting. Behind the anger, there’s grief. Behind the anxiety, there’s tenderness. When we create space to explore those layers, healing becomes possible.
That’s why I’m offering a new four-part generative writing series this spring. It will build on the monthly Poetry as Medicine circles I hold for paid subscribers, but this will be a deeper dive: a space to sit with the emotions we’re so often told to suppress.
Each 90-minute session will center on one emotion—Rage, Fear, Grief, and Joy—and include poem readings, prompts, writing time, and the option to share in community. We’ll gather every other Wednesday at 7 PM CST:
May 14, May 28, June 11, and June 25
This series is for anyone longing to make sense of what they’re carrying. Whether you’re a lifelong writer, an occasional journaler, or someone who hasn’t written since high school, you’re welcome here. Your voice is welcome here.
We’ll write not to fix ourselves, but to face ourselves—with gentleness, curiosity, and care.
If you have a paid subscription to The Understory, you’re in. If you don’t yet, now is a beautiful time to join.
I hope to see you there.
Come write with us.
With Love,
Danielle
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Community Discussion
How are you, really? I want to know, really.
Additional Opportunities for Community & Connection
Women’s Hiking & Writing Retreat in the Scottish Highlands
The world feels heavy right now — but there’s something profoundly healing about gathering with women in nature. That’s what this retreat is for: reconnecting with yourself, your voice, and a community of kindred spirits. I’ve partnered with WHOA Travel to create a soulful, spacious experience in the Scottish Highlands, with daily hikes, generative writing workshops (no experience needed!), nourishing meals, and time to rest and reflect at Ballintean Mountain Lodge. May 9-14, 2026, and only 11 spots are available. If it calls to you, I hope you’ll join us. Full details and itinerary here:
Monthly Writing Circles
If you’re looking for a safe, communal writing space, our next writing circle is Tuesday, May 20th at 7 PM CST. Every month, our Poetry as Medicine generative writing sessions offer a tender, open space to read and discuss the work of a specific poet, to write what needs to be expressed, and to share (if desired). These sessions are unrecorded for a reason—they are meant to be experienced in real time, together. These monthly sessions are a balm, a place of connection and vulnerability. They are open to all paid subscribers, and we would love to have you join us!
Below are the poets we’ll be exploring for the rest of this year:
Tuesday, May 20th at 7 PM CST – Diane Seuss
Sunday, June 8th at 10 AM CST – Ilya Kaminsky
Sunday, July 20th at 7 PM CST - Danusha Lameris
Thursday, August 21st at 7 PM CST - Pádraig Ó Tuama
Monday, September 22nd at 7 PM CST - Maggie Smith
Sunday, October 26th at 10 AM CST - Danez Smith
Wednesday, November 12th at 7 PM CST - Naomi Shihab Nye
Tuesday, December 16th at 7 PM CST - Marie Howe
It feels like everything good is being cut - education, science, health and human services, the old growth forests. The dystopian novels are coming true. A friend and I talking today - we are hurting for the younger ones. We are older. We have lived our lives. We go to the rallies with the other people born in the 1950s, wearing tie-dyed shirts and carrying signs for hope.
Danielle, Thank you so much for this lovely offering. I just happen to have all those Wednesdays open. I need to do this, truly. Looking forward to it.