No. 229: Actually, it's here.

On not being "further along"—and what the story we tell ourselves is really about

Taking a page from my 1991 book. Ten means “turn” as in turning around, or turning point, or perspective change.

Dear Friend,

Last Christmas, I discovered a book in the dark closet beneath our stairwell—a micro-memoir I didn’t know I’d written.

I was nineteen years old then, a freshman year at Evergreen State College. The typewritten manuscript—yes, typewritten!—contains essays. Short stories (as in, thinly disguised short fiction.) Poetry. Letters to my siblings I never showed them.

In between the typed pages are photographs of me in a most unflattering perm that made my head look like a triangle, and magazine clippings of upbeat phrases, neatly arranged in album inserts (do you remember those? The kind with a cellophane cover you peel back to get to the sticky part?)

I shared the book with my professor, Peta, who assigned this project, and also showered praises on the vulnerability and reflectiveness of my work. When I flip through the pages, it’s obvious that younger me was lit up by the painstaking craft of turning lived experience into words, into tiny works of art.

And yet, I didn’t give myself permission to continue what I started in 1991 until 2016, when I finally launched a blog.

Why do we lose touch with what lights us up? How do we forget what once made our hearts sing? What compels us to seek permission to do what we want from people who aren’t interested in granting it?

Those are worthy questions. And I’ve wrestled with them for a very long time. But today, I want to set those aside and invite you to ponder something else with me.

It’s easy to tell ourselves painful stories about where we “should” be by now—further along, more accomplished, more impressive somehow. But what if the pain has a different story to tell, and it was never about traveling that kind of distance?

When I found my original micro-memoir in our Harry Potter closet and looked at the table of contents, I saw evocative and poignant titles, the kind I can only access on days when the juice is truly flowing:

One of those evenings.

Stir-fries, Disguise, and a Writing Assignment.

What is “meant to be”?

“Wait a minute,” I thought. “I knew how to do this when I was nineteen?”

I was wowed, but not in a good way; to be honest, I wanted younger me to be less competent so I could claim some growth.

But soon enough, I got over myself.

It’s easy to tell ourselves painful stories about where we “should” be by now—further along, more accomplished, more impressive somehow. But what if the pain has a different story to tell, and it was never about traveling that kind of distance?

I felt the pulse of the young woman I was meeting through the pages of the book: she thought deeply, cared about making beauty out of pain, and for whatever reason, felt it necessary to put aside the craft of turning lived experience into words, into tiny works of art. And do something else with her life.

I wanted to reach back through time and space and tell her, “Yes, yes, yes. This is your thing! It lights you up. You’re allowed. Do it!”

When we think about being further along, we often conjure images of greater financial or career achievements, more shiny accolades and possessions, fancier titles or more stamps on our passports, and compare them to our actual life story.

But perhaps that’s just a cover story.

Perhaps, when we open that book, we find we’ve traveled a long way without our souls alight, or even the permission to know what we want, and it hurts to think about that.

Difficult as this is, perhaps not all is lost—because the “further” we seek is actually here.

The “further” is right here inside our closets, in being closer to our youth, and coming closer to home.

P.S. I love stories about creative journeys—where they began, what got in the way, and how it became something unexpectedly beautiful because of the detours. My conversation with Cat Preston on the Do Radio podcast sheds on my story so far. Please have a listen here.

P.P.S. Big congratulations to Leanne Fournier , my dear friend and fellow writer, on releasing her gorgeous (and sometimes ugly-cry inducing) poetry collection, Somewhere, My Home. You can learn all about her book publishing journey, and purchase your very own copy So proud of you, Leanne!

P.P.P.S. What I was listening to on repeat in 1991.