This spring, I’m offering a new four-part generative writing series—a deeper dive into the emotions we’re often told to suppress. Each 90-minute session will focus on one theme—Rage, Fear, Grief, and Joy—and include poem readings, guided prompts, writing time, and the option to share in community. We’ll meet every other Wednesday at 7 PM CST:
May 14, May 28, June 11, and June 25
Whether you write daily or haven’t picked up a pen in years, you’re welcome here. This is a space to face what we carry—with gentleness, curiosity, and care. Open to all paid subscribers.
I’ve been thinking about what we say to people when they’re in pain—and what we don’t. My father died from liver and kidney failure after years of battling the bottle. I was twenty-five—a wild young rabbit, caught by the neck in the jaws of bulimia. He always smelled of Old Spice and Nivea, but in the end, it was ammonia and disinfectant that filled the hospital room.
I don’t remember much about the weeks or months after he died. I was hugged. Heard the words “He’s in a better place” and “At least he’s not suffering anymore” more times than I care to recall. Some people were so uncomfortable they didn’t reach out at all. Grief turns your blood into wet cement. Some days, I could smile or laugh while masking the constant nausea that clung to me like a second skin. People didn’t know how to talk to me. Eventually, I found it easier to bury my grief by burrowing deeper into my eating disorder.
I Am So Sorry For Your LossLet me try again. No one else appears to notice the sun stopped shining. People give you dead flowers, keep apologizing. Words are muffled noise. You nod your head. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You begin to hate the smell of lilies. Plates of food placed in your hands. Eat. Everything tastes of wet newspaper choked down to survive. Eyes everywhere. Not the eyes you want. You count the minutes until you can be alone to stare into the heart of your wound. Even as you sleep, they are everywhere but nowhere.
Grief is one of the most universal human experiences. Every single one of us has experienced loss of some kind—a parent, a lover, a child, a sibling, a grandparent, a friend, a beloved pet—yet we so often struggle to hold space for one another. We live in a culture of silver linings—always trying to fix what’s broken. But grief doesn’t work that way.
In my experience and in conversation with others, many of the platitudes we recoil from when others say them are the same ones we use to move ourselves forward. Meaning can’t be forced. Sometimes it arrives slowly, after the numbness. Sometimes it never does.
God Doesn’t Give You More Than You Can HandleA man I knew lost both children within a week, one by her own hand, the other to the road. I stood in line to hug him, my mouth full of ash. Twenty-five years later I see no silver lining. There is no lesson here. You do not have to mine for sunlight or wisdom. You will survive, but not on purpose. You do not have to find purpose in your pain.
It’s deeply uncomfortable to sit in the presence of someone else’s pain, particularly if you are an empath or sensitive yourself. To bear witness and recognize you are helpless to fix it takes courage and humility. It’s taken years for me to get to a point where I can hold space without changing the subject or trying to make it better. Sometimes, silence is the bravest offering we have.
Everything Happens For A ReasonForgive me. I am uncomfortable with how little in life makes sense. You tell me an asteroid shattered your world. My mind cannot accept purposeless pain. We are strange creatures. Hopeful. Defiant in the face of despair. But the truth is I am afraid. I do not know how to sit in a room where grief wears a crown. I love you. I cannot bear to see you hurting. I want to help. I searched our language but found no words to assuage your suffering. So I stop talking except to say: I’m here & I’m listening.
Sometimes, that’s all we can say. Sometimes, it’s enough.
If my essays resonate with you and you’d like to support this work—or join us for monthly generative writing circles—consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support makes it possible for this community (and my work on the page) to keep growing with care and intention.
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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
Thank you for this, I’m often uneasy with the need to present grief as some fucked up opportunity for our own growth. You can find joy beyond/it, it can be lived with, but it is not a story to resolve, it’s a feeling.
Thank you for this. I’m in the middle of it now in the process of losing my dad, and it helps to be reminded that I don’t need to say these things to myself or to find particular meaning in the pain.