When the movie The Odyssey was announced, I immediately wanted to see it. I’m not entirely sure why. But I figured that if a story had lasted for almost 3,000 years, it was probably worth looking at.

But first, I had to read the book. Everyone knows the book is always better than the movie, so off I went. And despite the fact that it was written thousands of years ago—and the Samuel Butler translation I read was published more than a century ago—I thoroughly enjoyed it.

But it surprised me in some significant ways.

One thing that struck me was how much the men cry in this book. It’s practically every other page. They weep when they lose comrades in war. They cry when they think about their homes and how much they miss them. They cry when someone sings a particularly moving song about their lives. There is a remarkable amount of crying in The Odyssey.

And I was always taught that crying was a weakness. Something to hide.

I remember the advice one woman gave me when I first started working in corporate America.

“Whatever you do, do not cry at work. So unprofessional,” she said.

My boss echoed that opinion.

“I find that when people cry, it’s because they’re trying to manipulate you, particularly women,” he said one day.

And yet Odysseus is neither manipulative nor weak. He is the epitome of masculinity. He fights a war. He blinds the Cyclops. He withstands the song of the Sirens. He survives Circe. And he governs the kingdom of Ithaca.

And yet the first time we encounter Odysseus, we find him on a beautiful island crying his eyes out. He is living with the beautiful Calypso, who wants him to stay with her. But Odysseus wants to go home. And so he sits by the sea and cries.

Every single day.

There are many scenes where Odysseus and other men weep. One occurs when a bard sings about the Trojan War during a feast. Odysseus can’t stop himself from crying and pulls his cloak over his face to hide his tears. He has survived the war and emerged as one of its great heroes, but hearing about it brings him to tears. In this scene, Odysseus shows us he is an intelligent, emotionally complex person who experiences his feelings deeply.

When he visits the underworld and encounters the ghosts of people from his life, he cries again. He sees his mother, who died during his long absence, and is moved to tears. He tries three times to embrace her, but each time she slips through his arms. It’s a moving scene, and it shows how deeply connected he is to his family. Tears should hardly be unexpected here.

And his men are equally emotional. They cry over comrades who are killed. They cry because they cannot get home. They cry when they are frightened by what lies ahead.

When Odysseus tells his crew that instead of going home they have to sail to the underworld, he describes their reaction:

“The men were brokenhearted as they heard me, and threw themselves on the ground groaning and tearing their hair, but they did not mend matters by crying.”

These are warriors. They won a brutal war against Troy, sailed dangerous seas, battled monsters, and watched their friends die. They are some of the most traditionally masculine men I can imagine.

And yet they cry because they miss home. They cry over the deaths of people they love. They cry over things they regret. And they cry when they are afraid.

Isn’t that normal?

Crying is one of the ways human beings express intense emotion. Tears can communicate distress to other people and invite those around us to console us. And many people report feeling better after crying—it releases something that has been contained in them.

And yet, when I saw the movie, there were a few tears here and there, but nothing like in the book. Christopher Nolan apparently decided that a retelling of The Odyssey for modern audiences couldn’t have a hero who was wiping his eyes quite so much.

So how did crying become something shameful—particularly for men?

I can count the number of times I’ve seen men cry in my life.

When I was an undergraduate at the University of Delaware, I once saw a man I didn’t know crying. The image has stayed with me all these years. It was the week of final exams, and he was walking quickly toward me on a path across campus. His face was red, and he kept wiping tears from his face as he walked.

I was shocked.

Not because someone was crying, but because a man was crying.

I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to ask if he was okay. I wondered what terrible thing had happened to him. More than forty years later, I can still see his face.

I saw my father cry only a couple of times in my life. I’ve seen other men I love cry perhaps once or twice. Almost every instance involved the death of someone they loved. Apparently death is one of the few acceptable reasons for a man to cry.

And even then, the crying was brief and usually occurred in private.

Which makes me wonder how we got here. Nearly 3,000 years ago, someone could tell a story about one of the greatest warriors in the Greek world sitting beside the sea and weeping day after day because he missed his home. His tears didn’t make him any less masculine or any less of a hero.

When did men stop crying?

Photo of the author and her husband by JoyLyn Photography

I met him on Match.com, and I didn’t have high hopes when we met at a local bar. I’d been doing online dating for two years, and it had been nothing short of disastrous. Men claimed they wanted relationships only to get you into bed. Men were enthusiastic and said they wanted to get together soon, but then you would never hear from them again. And then there were the men who were really not suited for any kind of romantic relationship. Men who lied about their age, their fitness, their jobs, etc. One man spent an entire date describing every woman who had ever done him wrong. It was a long dinner.

So, when I met Michael, I didn’t expect a lot. And I didn’t even know what he really looked like because his pictures were so blurry.

But after one beer and the realization that we had a lot to talk about, I broached the topic of whether he wanted another drink or if we wanted to get dinner. The reality is that some men on dating websites stack their dates. One woman for drinks, one for dinner, another for after-dinner drinks. I’d had more than my share of men who were running off for another “appointment.”

“So, do you want to get another drink or something to eat?” I asked warily. “I’m not sure if you have other plans this evening.”

He looked at his watch and then back at me.

“I’m free until 6:30 tomorrow morning.”

I laughed and then smiled.

We ended up having another drink and then dinner. He told me about his work as a professor of African history and that he taught classes on gender and Africa.

“You sound like a feminist,” I joked.

“Well, I think of myself that way,” he responded.

“How is it that you’re not married?” I asked.

This guy seemed too good to be true.

***

Before I met Michael, I’d had several serious relationships. I was always drawn to men who were very attractive and a bit unattainable. Some of these relationships lasted for years. But looking back, I can see something was often missing.

I remember telling one man that a woman in our friend group had been unkind to me on several occasions.

“Oh, well, she’s always been nice to me,” he said.

I was struck by his response. It seemed as though only his experience with this person mattered. The fact that she had been unkind to someone he loved didn’t appear to change his opinion about her at all.

Another time, I called a partner in tears after an especially stressful day at work. A client had taken a dislike to me because of some office politics. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but she had said unpleasant things about me to other clients on the project, and I was devastated.

“I’ve had such an awful day—one of the worst of my career.”

“Sorry to hear that. Well, bad stuff happens sometimes. Anyway, I’m watching a movie right now. Bye.”

The relationships that were most challenging were the ones in which disagreements could never be resolved. I would try to explain how something had affected me, only to keep explaining why I’d gotten upset in the first place. It was always a version of this conversation.

“I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal out of this,” he’d say.

“But I’m trying to tell you why it hurt me.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have bothered me.”

What can you say to that?

For a long time, I didn’t recognize the pattern. I was often frustrated in these relationships and I often felt unseen. I didn’t realize something specific was missing.

***

I don’t remember all the topics Michael and I talked about on our first date, but I remember that conversation flowed easily. Because we both had PhDs, we talked about our paths from graduate school to our careers. I’d taken a nontraditional path, going into business, whereas he had become a professor. He told me about his research on enslaved people and their resistance to slavery.

When dinner ended, I didn’t want the date to end.

“Would you like to go for a walk?”

“Sure.”

I learned later that Michael wasn’t wearing walking shoes, but he didn’t want the date to end either, so we headed toward the lakefront.

We talked about the books we were reading, the true-crime show I’d watched recently, and the things we liked to do in our spare time—run, walk, go to movies.

We walked for so long that I eventually needed a bathroom break, so we headed toward an outdoor café with a public restroom.

And that’s when I saw a long-term ex-partner.

I almost froze.

“You know, let’s not go to that restroom,” I said. “A long-term ex of mine is sitting outside.”

I turned around, and Michael followed.

I tried to pick up the thread of our conversation and return to being my sparkly, attractive self.

As we retraced our steps, Michael slowly put his arm around me.

“Are you OK?”

It was such a simple question.

In just a few hours, Michael had shown me more empathy than I’d experienced in many years of romantic relationships.

I had a name for what had been missing.

***

If you had asked me what I was looking for in a life partner, I would have said intelligence, a sense of humor, a successful career, good looks, and someone who didn’t dislike cats. I might have described this person in detail, but I would never have used the word empathy. Never.

And yet, I believe that this is one of the most important attributes in a marriage partner. And it’s one of the things I found in Michael, which has made all the difference. When I explain to him what I’m experiencing, he doesn’t look at me like I’m an alien. He doesn’t like people who are unkind to me. And he doesn’t blame me for my difficulties, but he will point out times when I don’t exactly help myself. He’s not immune to some of my challenges. But he sees me for who I am—good and bad—and loves me anyway.

The first time Michael stayed the night with me, I woke up and he wasn’t next to me. I wondered if he had left, and then I heard him in the kitchen. What was he doing? I wandered out there and found him cleaning up after my cat, who had an upset stomach and had vomited. I just stood there looking at him. I’d never had a romantic partner do something like that for me.

We married three years after we started dating. We’ve been together for seven years.

Being married to a man with empathy makes the hard days less difficult. He can comfort me in a way that is heartfelt. And being married to someone who can understand a perspective other than his own makes resolving issues much easier. We don’t always agree, but at least he can see another point of view. Life isn’t always easy, and tough days are coming as we get older, but knowing that Michael will be at my side makes the journey so much better.

This realization about the importance of empathy changed my life and is part of the reason I wrote The Compassionate Writer. Compassion is about seeing other people—and ourselves—more fully and trying to understand them. And life feels different when you surround yourself with compassionate people. It changed my writing, too, but that’s a story for another day.

I didn’t know to look for empathy when I was searching for love.

Now I can’t imagine love without it.

Yesterday, I took my five-year-old neighbor, Lily, to the library. She is an energetic little girl with long blond hair and feminine dresses. I thought her mom could use a break, so I invited her along. No stranger to the library, Lily was thrilled when I suggested we visit the children’s section.

“What kind of books do you like?” I asked.

“Princess books. I like princesses.”

“Oh, what do you like about them?”

“I just like them. They have nice dresses.”

“Very true,” I responded. “I like queens because they’re in charge.”

“Well, but the king can tell them what to do. He’s really in charge.”

This little conversation was both cute and unsettling. At five years old, Lily already understands that kings have power over queens.

This is exactly what I found when I conducted quantitative research on the characters in all of the Grimms’ fairy tales. Kings have power and agency—they sometimes even imprison their wives. In contrast, queens have less power unless they’re evil, like Snow White’s stepmother. “Good” queens are generally powerless and victimized, and as a result, they exhibit the most sadness. Like queens, princesses have very little power and tend to be fearful. In contrast, princes are fearless and action-oriented, rescuing princesses from terrible situations. Happiness usually comes when the prince marries the princess.

“Which princess is your favorite?” I asked Lily.

“Belle.”

“How come?”

“I like her. She reads.”

“Reading is great,” I agreed. “But what do you think of that Beast? He’s not very nice.”

“He’s mean,” she responded

“Yeah, I don’t like that.”

“And he’s ugly.”

That was all Lily had to say about it.

When we got to the library, she darted through the stacks. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure what to recommend, so we asked a librarian for help.

“Can you recommend some princess books—maybe strong princesses?” I asked.

The children’s librarian led us to a shelf of more modern princess stories. Lily wasn’t interested.

“Do you have Cinderella? Or Beauty and the Beast?”

So we wandered over to the picture books with adaptations of traditional fairy tales and walked away with a version of Rapunzel. Apparently, if Lily didn’t recognize the illustrations as looking like the ones she’d seen on Disney+, she wasn’t interested.

I left feeling a little amazed. People often tell me that I take fairy tales too seriously and that they have little impact on children. But sitting with a five-year-old who rattled off every major Grimms’ fairy tale, surprised me. And she already understood the underlying power structure—that kings outrank queens, princesses wear beautiful dresses, and male characters can be beastly. It made me wonder if perhaps we don’t take them seriously enough.

Lily admitted during our visit that she can’t read yet. Most of what she knows about princesses comes from Disney+. That’s an enormous amount of cultural influence before a child even begins reading.

I was happy to discover that Lily also likes Moana, a much less traditional female character. Is she a princess? Apparently in one of her films, she explicitly says she’s not a princess—she’s the daughter of the chief. We ended up getting a Moana book. And we borrowed a Bluey book, which is a character who pretends to be a princess.

Maybe that’s what change looks like—not replacing old stories with new ones but placing some different stories and female protagonists alongside them.

I hope so.

Because yesterday reminded me just how important traditional fairy tales are to a child and how she’s already learned the power structure within them. These are significant lessons.

What do you think?

A good female friend of mine and I had lunch recently, and she told me about an experience that bothered her. For nearly two years, she had run a monthly fiction meeting for a writing organization. She organized it, facilitated discussions, helped create community, and gave her time freely because she cared about writers and literature. She worked two years for this organization. Then life became more complicated, and she had to step away.

When she left, not one person thanked her. Not one person acknowledged the hours she had contributed or the emotional energy required to keep something like that running month after month. And when she later mentioned feeling hurt by that, a member of the board responded, “You seem to expect too much of people.”

What struck me wasn’t just the lack of gratitude. It was what sat underneath the comment: the assumption that this kind of labor should simply be given. That she should not have expected acknowledgment or gratitude for the countless hours she had contributed.

Women are often expected to do this kind of work.

We organize communities. We support people emotionally. We mentor emerging writers. We edit. We encourage. We host events. We smooth over conflicts. We create spaces where literary communities can function. Much of this work is invisible, and almost all of it is unpaid.

And when women want compensation or even recognition for that labor, people often react with discomfort or hostility. A recent Substack writer, Joy Sullivan (Necessary Salt) wrote openly about wanting to earn $60,000 a year from her writing. The backlash was immediate. People accused her of “selling out.” Someone even wrote, “HAS THIS ACCOUNT BEEN HACKED?”

Think about that for a moment. A woman says she wants to make a living from her writing, and people respond as though she has violated some moral code.

Meanwhile, male writers regularly discuss money publicly—book deals, subscription numbers, speaking fees, six-figure incomes—and they are often admired. One recent male author on Substack talked about how he makes 70K a month, and there were no negative comments. Not one. His ambition is applauded. Women’s ambition, especially around money, is more likely to be interpreted as greed, vanity, or inauthenticity.

Why?

Why are we uncomfortable with women wanting financial power? Why is it more acceptable for women to sacrifice themselves for literary communities than to benefit from them financially?

As an editor, I see another version of this dynamic constantly.

Writers resist paying submission fees because they have already invested enormous time and emotional energy into creating their work. They don’t believe they should have to pay someone to read it. And, understandably, they want to be paid for their writing. I agree that writers deserve compensation for their writing. And at Chicago Story Press, we pay the writers we publish.

But literary magazines also require labor. Someone has to sort through hundreds or thousands of submissions. Someone has to read them carefully. Someone has to correspond with writers, manage platforms, build websites, promote issues, edit work, and keep the entire thing functioning. Most literary magazines barely survive financially. Many are held together by unpaid labor, and much of that kind of community and editorial labor is done by women.

What troubles me is the disconnect: writers want to be paid for their work, yet many are unwilling to help support the literary journals that rely on unpaid labor to exist.

It’s not just literary communities that expect women to work for free. According to the Gender Equity Policy Institute, women spend roughly twice as much time as men on unpaid childcare and household labor, leaving them with significantly less free time. Those expectations also extend into the workplace. The World Economic Forum summarizes multiple studies showing that women are expected to take on the emotional/social labor that keeps organizations functioning—planning events, mentoring coworkers, organizing service projects, smoothing over conflicts, and building community. Sadly, this type of work is least likely to lead to promotions or power.

I have no problem with volunteering. I’ve donated thousands and thousands of hours to literary and community organizations over the years because I care about them deeply. And I do not make any income from the literary journal that I run.

My problem is that much of women’s unpaid labor has become expected rather than appreciated. I worry that creative communities have quietly come to rely on women exhausting themselves emotionally and financially while treating acknowledgment, support, or compensation as somehow excessive—or worse, unrealistic.

Money matters in our society. It buys time, opportunity, access, visibility, and influence. When women are consistently expected to give away their labor, they end up with less power and less financial stability. And the reality is that everyone needs money to live. We cannot continue expecting one gender to have less of it than the other. The last time I checked, my grocery store accepted only currency. They don’t care about my volunteer work.

We wonder why women feel resentful, exhausted, or invisible in creative communities. Maybe part of the answer is simple: people cannot continue giving endlessly while being told they should expect nothing in return.

And perhaps it’s time for literary communities to ask themselves a harder question: Why are we so comfortable benefiting from women’s labor while simultaneously feeling uncomfortable when women want recognition or compensation?

Sources

Gender Equity Policy Institute (2024). The Free-Time Gender Gap: How Unpaid Care and Household Labor Reinforces Women’s Inequality. https://thegepi.org/GEPI-Free-Time-Gender-Gap-Report.pdf

Morgan, K. (2024). ‘The extra shift’: The unpaid emotional labour expected of women at work. BBC.com. https://www.bbc.com/worklife/article/20240313-invisible-emotional-labour-women-in-workplace

Masterson, K. (2021). Women are burning out doing invisible ‘office housework.’ World Economic Forum. https://www.weforum.org/stories/2021/11/women-workplace-2021-invisible-labour/

Most women move through the world knowing they are being watched. Research shows that both genders look at women more frequently and for longer periods of time than they look at men. This attention is often directed toward women’s sexual characteristics, such as their breasts and waists, rather than toward their faces or them as whole people. Researchers refer to this pattern as the objectifying gaze. From an early age, women learn that their appearance is being noticed and evaluated.

But the scrutiny extends beyond appearance. Women are also evaluated for how they relate to other people. Research on gender stereotypes shows that both women and men tend to view women as more caring, compassionate, and nurturing than men. As a result, women are often judged against these expectations. Are they warm? Are they approachable? Are they supportive? Are they considerate? Are they likable? These expectations extend into nearly every area of life. Women are expected to be good mothers, supportive friends, devoted family members, and successful professionals—all while remaining warm and attentive to the needs of others.

If women know they are being evaluated not only for how they look but also for how they interact with others, what are the psychological consequences?

As a psychologist, I believe many women internalize this social evaluation and begin evaluating themselves. During conversations, meetings, and presentations, they are not simply engaged in the task. They are also monitoring how they are coming across to other people. Am I being clear? Do I sound intelligent? Did that joke offend someone? Am I talking too much? Do they like me?

Over time, the external observer becomes an internal observer. Women no longer need someone else to evaluate them because they have learned to do it themselves.

This internalized observer comes at a cost because attention is a limited resource. Attention cannot be fully devoted to two demanding tasks at once. Every moment we spend monitoring ourselves is attention that cannot be devoted to the conversation, the presentation, or the work in front of us. Instead of simply participating in a conversation, women may also be evaluating how they sound, how others are reacting, and whether they are making a good impression. Instead of focusing entirely on a presentation, they may simultaneously be wondering whether they look confident, whether they appear competent, and whether the audience likes them. They move back and forth between doing something and critiquing themselves while they are doing it.

This is true for everyone. Moving back and forth between thinking about how you’re coming across and actually engaging in the interaction can impair performance. Research suggests, however, that women are more likely to engage in this kind of habitual self-monitoring. According to objectification theory, women are more likely to adopt an observer’s perspective on themselves, leading to chronic self-surveillance. Even so, everyone self-monitors to some extent, and whenever our attention is divided between evaluating ourselves and engaging with the task at hand, there is a cognitive cost.

I remember giving presentations when I was younger. Sometimes I would be in the middle of explaining an idea when another voice would appear in my head. Am I talking too fast? Am I making sense? Do they seem bored? Did I say that correctly? Suddenly, I was no longer fully focused on the presentation itself. Part of my attention had shifted to evaluating my own performance. Then someone asked me a question—and I realized I hadn’t heard it. I was so busy evaluating my performance that I had missed it. I wasn’t simply giving a presentation anymore. I was giving a presentation and critiquing myself at the same time. I suspect many women know exactly what that feels like.

That constant switching comes at a cost. Psychologists have long known that dividing our attention leaves us with less attention for the task itself. We become less engaged, less present, and ultimately less effective. Research shows that becoming overly self-conscious can actually interfere with performance. Athletes call it choking. Psychologists have found that when people become overly focused on themselves and how they are doing, performance often suffers. Attention shifts away from the task and toward self-monitoring.

Over time, this habit of constant self-evaluation can also undermine confidence. It is difficult to feel confident when you are constantly scrutinizing yourself. Instead of trusting your abilities, you learn to second-guess them. Instead of becoming immersed in an experience, you remain partially outside of it, evaluating yourself as you go. Confidence requires a certain freedom from self-consciousness. It requires becoming absorbed in what you’re doing rather than constantly evaluating how you’re doing it.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed that the happiest moments of my life are usually the ones in which I am not thinking about myself at all. When I’m deeply engaged in writing, I’m focused on the idea. When I’m power walking, I’m focused on my pace, my breathing, and the next lap. I almost always perform better when I’m focused on what I’m doing rather than how I’m being perceived.

So what do we do about it? I don’t think we can stop caring what people think. Human beings, after all, are social creatures. But perhaps we can spend less time responding to our inner observer.

One of the things meditation has taught me is to let thoughts pass by without becoming too attached to them. I try to see them the way I see the weather. It will be sunny again. It will rain again. Thoughts come and go.

When my inner observer shows up, I acknowledge her, and then I say, “Thank you for your concern, but I’m busy right now.”

Then I return my attention to whatever I’m doing. I’ve discovered there is a certain freedom in focusing on what is right in front of me instead of constantly responding to my inner observer—a voice shaped by years of being observed, evaluated, and judged. Some of those judgments were helpful. Many were not. But when I’m working, I try to return my attention to the task and remind myself, I will do the best I can do. That is enough.

True confidence comes when we stop watching ourselves through other people’s eyes. The real antidote to a lifetime of scrutiny is not becoming a better object of evaluation. It is becoming fully engaged in our lives and in this moment.

Sources

Baumeister, R. F. (1984). Choking under pressure: Self-consciousness and paradoxical effects of incentives on skillful performance. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 46(3), 610–620. https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-3514.46.3.610

Frederickson, B. L & Roberts, T. A. (1997). Objectification Theory: Toward Understanding Women’s Lived Experiences and Mental Health Risks. Psychology of Women Quarterly, 21(2). https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1471-6402.1997.tb001

Gervais, S.J., Holland, A.M. & Dodd, M.D. My Eyes Are Up Here: The Nature of the Objectifying Gaze Toward Women. Sex Roles 69, 557–570 (2013). https://doi.org/10.1007/s11199-013-0316-x

Eagly, A. H., Nater, C., Miller, D. I., Kaufmann, M., & Sczesny, S. (2019, July 18). Gender Stereotypes Have Changed: A Cross-Temporal Meta-Analysis of U.S. Public Opinion Polls From 1946 to 2018. American Psychologist.

Prentice, D.A. and Carranza, E. (2002), What Women and Men Should Be, Shouldn’t Be, Are Allowed to Be, and Don’t Have to Be: The Contents of Prescriptive Gender Stereotypes. Psychology of Women Quarterly, 26: 269-281. https://doi.org/10.1111/1471-6402.t01-1-00066

I was excited and nervous when I landed in Massachusetts. I’d flown there to compete in the Massachusetts Senior Games in power walking. I had discovered the sport a little over a year earlier after learning I could no longer run. I needed something that would still give me a great workout. Power walking is different from regular walking. It uses a more deliberate arm swing and stride to maximize speed while keeping one foot on the ground at all times. When it’s done well, it almost looks as though you’re gliding. To my surprise, I could get my heart rate up to the same levels as when I ran. I ended up feeling stronger and more toned. But most importantly, I was getting fast.

On a lark, I’d signed up for the Illinois Senior Games and ended up winning a gold medal. That unexpected victory motivated me to train even harder. I wanted to be competitive at the Massachusetts Senior Games and qualify for the National Senior Games, formerly known as the National Senior Olympics. I developed a training plan that included timed track workouts, longer endurance walks, shorter speed sessions, and strength training. I wanted to do well.

Michael and I arrived in Massachusetts on Thursday evening. The race was scheduled for Sunday. He had found a Gilded Age mansion for us to visit on Friday morning—the Muskeag House in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, once owned by the wealthy Choate family. It was a beautiful property. The colorful rose garden, the long walkway down a steep hill, and the sweeping views of the Berkshire Mountains were breathtaking.

As we walked back to the hotel, I smiled to myself. Everything about the trip was going so well. My stepmother would be arriving that afternoon with a friend, and I was looking forward to seeing Brian, one of my father’s closest friends. My father had passed away more than twenty years earlier, and I hadn’t seen Brian since. I had recently learned that he, too, would be competing in the power-walking event.

I had trained hard, going out in the snow, ice, rain, and bitter cold. I hadn’t missed a workout. I had packed every conceivable item I might need for the race: electrolyte tablets, a cooling towel, multiple outfits, and anything else I thought might help.

I was prepared for everything.

Or so I thought.

There was a sidewalk for most of the route, except for one short section. I chose to walk along the road instead. As Michael and I talked about where we wanted to have lunch, I glanced back at him. He was a few steps behind me. Without realizing it, I stepped onto a section of pavement that had crumbled into the embankment.

That’s when I started to fall.

It felt as though I was falling in slow motion. I tried desperately to regain my balance, attempting to plant both feet firmly on the ground.

I couldn’t.

I landed hard, sliding forward on both forearms and one knee. When I managed to sit up, my forearms were covered in blood, my elbow was bruised, my knee was scraped, and I felt as though all the air had been knocked out of me.

Mostly, though, I was shocked. How could I have fallen two days before an important race? I hadn’t fallen in years. Would I even be able to compete?

Michael rushed over.

“Just sit. Don’t get up.”

After several minutes, I stood shakily and slowly limped back to the hotel.

“I can’t believe I spent all this time training. I’m not even sure I can compete,” I said through tears.

“Let’s get you bandaged up and then assess things,” he said.

There is something uniquely unsettling about falling. You suddenly feel like a child again. Helpless. Vulnerable. Foolish. Something you’ve done automatically your entire life—walking—suddenly feels uncertain. The world becomes scarier. You become cautious about sidewalks, roads, and uneven surfaces. And you begin to question whether you can do something as basic as walking.

I thought about my mother. She fell when she was eighty-eight and ultimately died from complications related to that injury. Although I am nowhere near that age, her experience suddenly felt very close to me. For the first time, I understood how one unexpected moment could completely change your sense of safety.

Would I even be able to compete? I wondered. I had spent months preparing for this race, and now, in the span of a few seconds, everything suddenly felt uncertain.

Back at the hotel, Michael cleaned my wounds, applied antibiotic ointment, and bandaged me up. The pain was mostly a dull ache punctuated by sharp stabs whenever I moved the wrong way or accidentally brushed against something.

I spent the afternoon resting. I think both my body and my mind were in shock. I had very little energy and felt unsteady on my feet.

My stepmother and her friend arrived later that afternoon. When they saw my wounds, their expressions immediately changed.

“I don’t think it will affect you,” my stepmother reassured me.

I wanted to believe her. I wasn’t so sure.

The next day, we all visited Edith Wharton’s home. I sat down whenever I had the opportunity. Despite getting a full night’s sleep, I still felt exhausted. That afternoon, I put my feet up and read.

“I’m really worried about this race,” I said.

“I think you’ll do fine,” Michael said. “A lot of it is psychological.”

I also wanted to believe that. But I didn’t know whether this was simply fear or whether my body was genuinely struggling to recover.

On Sunday morning, after another restless night, I got ready for the race. I had no idea how it would go, but I decided I would simply give it everything I had. My stepmother was there to cheer me on, and my father’s longtime friend, Brian, was also competing. Knowing they would both be watching added a little extra pressure.

I arrived at the track and completed my warm-up. One of my competitors asked my age. She and I would be competing in the same age group, and I wondered how fast she might be.

Before the race began, the officials reviewed the rules. In power walking, one foot must remain on the ground at all times. Two judges would be stationed around the track, watching our form and issuing red flags if anyone violated the rules.

The gun went off, and I surged ahead. It was already hot, and I wondered whether I could maintain my pace. I heard someone behind me and glanced back. It was Brian, the only man competing in the race. He stayed close behind me for about half a lap.

After the first lap, my time was 2:26—right on target.

I heard my stepmother yell, “Go, Annie! Great job, Annie!”

Her voice gave me a boost.

The second lap gave me a total time 5:02.

As I rounded the bend, one of the race officials looked at me and smiled.

“Looking good.”

At the third lap, my total time was 7:42.

I was still on pace to finish close to a ten-minute mile—exactly where I wanted to be. There was no one behind me.

I heard Michael yell, “Just one more lap to go, Annie!”

I poured it on. But the heat was taking its toll, and I had to weave around several competitors as I finished my final lap, but I crossed the finish line in 10:19. It wasn’t my goal time, but it was pretty close.

But I had won.

I earned a gold medal and qualified for the 2027 National Senior Games.

As I caught my breath, one of the race officials walked over.

“You have excellent form,” he said. “Nice job.”

As I stood there, I realized a fall had temporarily convinced me that I was fragile. It had shaken my confidence and reminded me how quickly our sense of security can disappear. But it also reminded me that life sometimes knocks us down without warning. And that we are often far more capable of getting back up than we realize.

I’d fallen.

I’d gotten up.

And then I’d flown.

I still remember that day as if I were drifting through a cloud. I was heading to an author fair, completely unprepared for what lay ahead. Instead, I felt an odd calm—a peace that seemed placed within me that I didn’t understand or question.

Normally, I’m a worrier. I get anxious about everything. At work, I thrived as a project manager because I was always ready for any problem. I had anticipated issues days in advance and had plans in place just in case they occurred. And outside of work, my mind spiraled into constant questioning. Was I being productive enough? Was I doing all I could for my family? Could I be a better wife, a better mom? I worried constantly.

But not that day. I tossed a table, some chairs, and my books into the car and drove for over an hour. When I arrived, the parking lot gleamed under the bright sun, dotted with white and grey tents. Every author had a tent—except me.

A writer I barely knew approached.

“I don’t have a tent,” I confessed.

She smiled, unperturbed. “You can get one at Home Depot. I passed one on the way here.”

Her words gave me exactly what I needed. Under normal circumstances, I would have been flustered and anxious, but instead I felt strangely at peace. Without her, I would never have thought to buy a tent, and I had no idea that Home Depot even sold them. Still in that serene daze, I drove to the store, bought a tent, and returned—unaware of what the day still had in store for me.

I called my husband who immediately found what I needed on the Home Depot website, and he described the exact item. After buying it, he downloaded the instructions and sent them to me on my phone. It all happened quickly, and I never felt stressed.

Back at the fair, as I opened the tent’s box, other authors whom I did not know came over to help. We assembled it quickly, and their kindness made me feel as if we were part of something larger. The fair was starting, but instead of my usual overthinking, I felt peaceful, and I had no idea why.

Soon, however, the wind rose, and in one sweeping gust, my tent lifted off the ground. Before panic could take hold, the women at the neighboring tent were by my side, steadying the poles and gathering weights to secure it from flying away. Their kindness reassured me that everything would be all right. I should have felt embarrassed and flustered, but instead I felt cared for, as if the universe was somehow on my side.

Even when the weather turned into an onslaught of sudden rain, my heart didn’t race. A woman appeared with a large piece of plastic to cover the books I was selling.

“Here you go,” she said, breezing on to the next tent.

I covered my books and settled back. The rain soon passed.

My tent was in the back of the lot, where foot traffic naturally bypassed me. Ordinarily, this would have disheartened me, but not today. Today, nothing seemed to matter except the overwhelming sense that I was exactly where I needed to be.

With only a few visitors, I wandered over to the neighboring authors, handing out affirmations—small slips of paper I’d prepared with personalized messages. This is a ritual I’ve always loved. These small pieces of paper said things like, “You are uniquely wonderful,” “You’ve made the right decision,” and “You have many blessings.” The five people sitting under the tent next door accepted them warmly, though we had never met before.

One man sitting with them said in a low and knowing voice, “I have a message for you.”

A shiver ran through me. “For me?” I asked.

He nodded and followed me back to my tent. His presence was unusual. When he spoke, it was as though he understood me at a deep level. And yet, we had never met.

“Your broken relationships will heal,” he said softly, his eyes full of wisdom. “God knows they’re not your fault.”

His words cut to my core. Few people knew about my stepchildren, or the rift formed after their father and I divorced. No one here knew of the aching emptiness their absence had left in my life. How I longed to reconcile with them, how I had reached out, only to find out I’d been blocked. They had become pawns in a bitter chess game.

And here was this man speaking to my deepest sorrow.

Tears welled in my eyes. “Thank you,” I whispered. “I needed that.”

He nodded, and then he seemed to disappear. I looked for him, but he had vanished.

I walked back over to the neighboring tent.

“That man,” I stammered to one of the women, “he knew things…”

She smiled gently. “Yes, he does.”

The day drifted on in its surreal rhythm. The wind tugged at my tent, the rain came and went, yet I remained calm—a feeling so unusual for me. Visitors trickled to my tent, thanks to the authors next to me, who encouraged their friends and customers to stop by. Because of their kindness, I ended up selling more books than I had at any other event.

One woman lingered after purchasing a book and struck up a conversation with me. For some reason, I confided that I was selling my business. This decision had weighed on me for months.

“I bless that decision,” she said with quiet authority, her eyes radiating a knowing calm. “It’s what you need to do right now.”

She seemed to carry the same quiet certainty I had encountered throughout the day. It was as if she, too, had been sent to deliver a message I needed to hear.

At the end of the day, I said goodbye to my new friends in the tent next door. As I was leaving, I noticed a book one of them was selling, titled Strangers on the Way: Finding God Through the People We Meet. The title struck me, resonating deep within.

I am not a religious person. I do not go to church, and I don’t subscribe to any particular faith. I would describe myself as spiritual. I believe there is something larger than ourselves, though I can’t define exactly what it is. And sometimes that larger force seems to reveal itself in unexpected ways.

In that moment, I understood the source of my serenity. Throughout the day, I had felt guided by something I could not quite explain. From the moment I arrived at the fair until the moment I left, help seemed to appear whenever I needed it. A stranger offered me a tent. Another shared encouragement. Conversations unfolded at just the right moments. It felt as though each person I met carried a small message I needed to hear. From arriving without a tent to packing up at the end of the day, everything seemed to fall into place.

That evening, I didn’t just drive home—I floated. The peace I felt was so profound that it seemed to lift me beyond the worries and concerns of ordinary life. Even now, when I look back on that day, I think of the kindness of those strangers and wonder if I encountered something sacred through them.

It felt unearthly.

I revisit major turning points in my life and sometimes regret the decisions I made. I suspect most of us do that at some point. We look back at relationships that ended badly, jobs that turned out to be poor fits, friendships that fell apart, and decisions we wish we hadn’t made. And sooner or later, many of us find ourselves asking the same question: How did I not see it? How did I not see that relationship was going to fail? How did I not realize that person couldn’t be trusted? How did I not know that job would make me miserable?

Looking back, the answers often seem obvious. But that’s because we’re looking back with knowledge of how the story ended, and that changes how we interpret the facts. Psychologists have a name for this tendency. It’s called hindsight bias. Psychologist Baruch Fischhoff, who pioneered research on the topic, found that once people know how something turned out, they tend to believe the outcome was predictable. In retrospect, we often focus on the information that supports our eventual interpretation. Researchers sometimes call it the “I knew it all along” effect.

The problem is that we didn’t know it all along. At the time, we were making decisions with incomplete information.

In my twenties, I was seriously involved with a man I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. He was different from many of the men I had dated. He loved to cook and sew and fix things. He could repair just about anything. We met when we were both pursuing advanced degrees, and he agreed with me on the need for equality between men and women. He didn’t believe in traditional roles, he said. Men and women should be free to define their own lives. It was exactly what I wanted to hear. We moved in together.

Then my career took off. And suddenly I found myself with a partner who deeply resented my success.

“Why are you making more money than me when you have a psychology degree and I have a science degree?” he lamented one day.

The man who had talked so confidently about equality adhered to traditional gender roles when we lived together. I would come home after a long commute and find him in front of the TV drinking a beer.

“What are we having for dinner?” I’d ask.

“I don’t know. What are you making?” he would respond.

He contributed little to the cooking or cleaning, and when I complained that I had no time for anything except work and household responsibilities, he responded, “Well,” he said, “that’s what you get for having the big job.”

Eventually the relationship ended, and I spent a lot of time blaming myself. How could I not have seen this coming? Why had I been so focused on securing a commitment from him? His parents had traditional roles. He was often resentful of people who were more successful than he was. He tended to take offense easily and could become surprisingly angry over relatively minor things. On weekend drives, he would scream at other drivers and complain about people who seemed to have more than he did.

The signs were there. Or were they?

When I met him, I wasn’t successful. We were both students. And any resentment he had wasn’t directed at me. And he told me that he believed men and women should be equals. How exactly was I supposed to know how he would react to circumstances neither of us had experienced yet?

The truth is I couldn’t.

Years later, I had a similar experience with a job. The firm offered me an equity-track position, meaning I could eventually become part owner. They told me they needed exactly the skills I brought to the table. There were a few things I didn’t love. The office felt outdated. The furniture was definitely from the 1970s, and the large metal desks and file cabinets had not aged well. And I wasn’t entirely sure that a couple of the senior employees liked me. Still, the opportunity seemed promising, so I accepted it.

Within a year, I realized I had made a mistake. The firm had little interest in changing how it operated. The expertise they claimed to value wasn’t particularly welcome. Whenever I suggested a new approach, I generally heard the words, “Well, not this time. Not for this client. Not for this project.” Eventually I realized that “not this time” really meant “not ever.”

Again, I found myself looking backward. The old furniture should have told me everything I needed to know. The employees should have tipped me off. The clues were right there.

But were they?

The owners offered me a good salary, a respected title, and a vision of my future there. Why shouldn’t I have believed them?

The reality is that none of us have complete information when we make important decisions. We don’t know how people will change. We don’t know how circumstances will change. We can’t see the future.

Looking back, it all seems obvious. Hindsight has a way of changing how we view the past. We remember the warning signs and forget the reasons we were hopeful. We remember the red flags and forget the green ones.

In my relationship, there were certainly signs that should have concerned me. But there were also reasons to believe the relationship would work. He was kind and sensitive. He was willing to move for my career. And he told me that he believed men and women should be equals.

The same was true of the job. Yes, the office looked outdated. Yes, some of the employees were a little cold to me in the interview. But the owners offered me a great position and a competitive salary. They told me they valued my experience and what I could contribute to their firm. Why wouldn’t I believe them?

Nobel Prize-winning psychologist Herbert Simon built much of his work around a simple idea: we make decisions with limited information. We cannot know everything about a person, a job, a relationship, or a situation. And because we don’t have complete information, we can’t make perfect decisions. Simon called this “bounded rationality.” Rather than identifying the perfect choice, most of us settle on an option that seems good enough based on what we know at the time. He called this process “satisficing.”

Later research by psychologist Barry Schwartz found that people who constantly try to make the absolute best decision—what he called “maximizers”—tend to be less satisfied with their choices than people who accept that uncertainty is part of life. Maximizers spend more time second-guessing themselves and wondering whether another choice would have produced a better outcome.

I find that idea comforting. The goal isn’t to make perfect decisions. Perfect decisions are impossible because perfect information doesn’t exist. The goal is to make the best decision we can with the information available at the time.

Looking back can make us forget that.

We look at where the road ended and convince ourselves we should have known where it was headed the whole time. We judge our younger selves for not recognizing information that only became meaningful years later.

But life doesn’t work that way. The person you were ten, twenty, or thirty years ago wasn’t standing at the end of the story with the benefit of knowing how it turned out. That person was simply doing the best they could with what they knew at the time.

Perhaps the mistake isn’t what we did. The mistake is expecting our younger selves to have known the future.

Sources

Fischhoff, B. (1975). Hindsight is not equal to foresight: The effect of outcome knowledge on judgment under uncertainty. Journal of Experimental Psychology: Human Perception and Performance, 1(3), 288–299. https://doi.org/10.1037/0096-1523.1.3.288

Schwartz, B., Ward, A., Monterosso, J., Lyubomirsky, S., White, K., & Lehman, D. R. (2002). Maximizing versus satisficing: Happiness is a matter of choice. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 83(5), 1178–1197. doi: 10.1037//0022-3514.83.5.1178. PMID: 12416921.

Simon, H. A. (1956). Rational choice and the structure of the environment. Psychological Review, 63(2), 129–138. https://doi.org/10.1037/h0042769

The author with her two mothers—Image courtesy of Joy Lyn Photography

The music began, and I clasped my stepmother’s arm with my left hand while holding my mother’s hand in my right. My mother was in a wheelchair, with my stepsister Kimmy pushing her down the aisle at my wedding. Traditionally, it’s the father who escorts the bride, but my dad had passed away nineteen years earlier. These two women had shaped my life in profound ways. It seemed fitting that as I entered this new phase, I would honor them both.

They had both been central mother figures in my life, and they had both loved my father. At different points, I had lived with each of them, and I called them both “Mom.” They taught me some of the most important lessons of my life.

My earliest memories of my birth mother are of a woman who struggled. When I was around six, she tried to ride her bicycle to work because my father had the car. She fell in traffic and hit her head. When I visited her in the hospital, she had a bandage wrapped around her head. After that, she complained often of headaches and feeling unwell. Even as a child, I worried about her constantly.

Another memory is from a family vacation in New Zealand. My sister, my dad, and I were admiring the geysers while my mother lingered behind. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at the forest floor.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” she said, wiping her face.

Even at seven, I knew she was battling things I couldn’t understand. Later, I would learn she was deeply unhappy in her marriage. My father’s lack of financial success weighed on her. She had grown up poor, hated working as an administrative assistant, and felt that perhaps a more affluent lifestyle would make her happy.

She was also very depressed. In the 1970s, mental illness wasn’t discussed, but I knew something was wrong. I remember her saying, “I have special problems. I’m not like other people.” Perhaps that’s why I became a research psychologist—to understand people, to ease some of their suffering.

Not long after, my mother left my father for a more successful man who could offer financial security. I watched her transform from hiking boots and ratty clothes to silk dresses, makeup, and high heels. She reveled in her new lifestyle.

At the time, I resented it. Divorce was less common, and I wanted my parents to get back together so we could be “normal.” But looking back, I see her choice differently. Leaving was brave. She showed that leaving an unfulfilling marriage was an option.

But her new marriage was tumultuous. Chip was an alcoholic—charming in public, volatile in private. One night, he pushed her down the stairs. She filed charges, then dropped them. The woman who had seemed brave now seemed trapped.

She had sought financial security and found something else entirely. He provided the lifestyle she wanted, but he controlled everything—where they lived, what they did, even who she became. My mother, who had never been athletic, became a golfer because that’s what he did.

Although they separated and even divorced at one point, they stayed together for forty-two years. Her feelings about that life were never simple. At times, she spoke with a kind of nostalgia about my father—the kind professor who had loved her—and told me leaving him had been a mistake. At other times, she seemed resigned, as if she were simply doing the best she could with the life she had chosen. She once told me, “It wasn’t at all what I expected. I thought it was going to be much happier.”

I felt compassion for her—caught between longing and resignation, living a life that never quite became what she had hoped.

Her life haunted me later, when I found myself in an unhappy marriage. I stayed longer than I should have, paralyzed by doubt. What if I left and regretted it the way she did? What if I was the problem? I left several times and returned. It was a cycle of fear and second-guessing until I finally found the courage to say goodbye. Even then, I wasn’t sure I had made the right decision.

My mother taught me that marriage is a gamble—that you can lose things you didn’t even realize were at stake.

While my mother struggled, my father moved on. He remarried when I was twelve, and Barbara quickly became an important part of my life. Before long, I was calling her “Mom.”

Barbara couldn’t have been more different. A career woman before the term was common, she was the principal of a high school, spoke fluent French, and held a master’s degree. Seeing a woman like that was transformative. She showed me that women could be ambitious and self-sufficient.

She was also a take-no-shit kind of woman. I remember a telemarketer calling. She picked up and said, “Who is this and why are you calling? I consider it an invasion of privacy. Take me off your list.” The tone alone made it clear this wasn’t a request. And they didn’t call again.

Watching her, I realized women could assert themselves unapologetically. Barbara didn’t manipulate or placate. She was direct, and she expected respect. If my birth mother showed me what not to do, Barbara showed me what was possible: a life of independence and control.

I took her example to heart. I spoke up. I challenged things. I wasn’t always popular, but I believed standing up for yourself mattered.

Barbara never saw herself as a victim. When people framed their lives that way, she would say, “I’m not a victim. That’s not how I see it.” That stayed with me.

She also modeled something I had never seen before: a true partnership. She and my father were equals. They talked about everything—music, books, ideas. They held hands. She sat on his lap after dinner. Their love was obvious.

Once, while hiking, she lost her wedding ring. “Stop. Everyone. Stop. We need to search for my wedding ring.” She stayed calm, and we found it—but then she burst into tears at the thought of losing it. Another time, when my father returned from a trip, she ran out the door shouting, “Dad’s here!” She loved him deeply, and it showed.

From Barbara, I learned that a marriage could be a partnership—built on respect, affection, and shared interests like music, hiking, art, and reading. That model stayed with me and gave me the courage to eventually leave my own unfulfilling relationship and seek something better.

When I met my eventual husband, Michael, I recognized it. He was my intellectual equal, someone who could engage with me fully. It felt like the relationship I had seen between my father and Barbara. And that mattered.

Barbara and my father stayed married for over thirty years. When he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, she stood by him, and they bought a house in Wisconsin to renovate as he managed his illness. When he later developed stage four lung cancer, she spent four excruciating years caring for him. During periods of remission, they traveled to places that meant the most to them, like England. She knew he was dying. But as she told me, “We were living in the moment. And it was glorious.”

She taught me that love isn’t supposed to be easy. It’s about staying with the right person when it isn’t.

So, as I walked down the aisle, Barbara was on my left and my birth mother on my right. My birth mother taught me the courage to leave—and the danger of losing yourself. Barbara taught me independence, strength, and what a true partnership looks like.

And for that, I will always be thankful.

I almost stopped writing because of a critique group. Not because I ran out of ideas—I couldn’t survive the feedback. My stories were dissected line by line until I felt sick. I stopped bringing in fiction. I told myself I’d stick to nonfiction—writing about my own life felt safer.

It wasn’t.

At one meeting, the group began dissecting my decision to get engaged.

“Why would you want to marry him?” one woman asked.

That wasn’t feedback on the writing. It was a judgment of my life.

I nearly stopped writing altogether. And I wasn’t the only one. The group had no structure. No boundaries. No leadership. People said whatever they wanted—with total confidence and very little experience. Some writers left and never came back.

I understand why. And I keep hearing versions of this story.

At a writing retreat, a fellow writer shared an essay about the difficulties of being a stepmother. Several women declared that stepmothers are selfish and deserve their reputation. They had nothing useful to say about the writing. By the end of the night, she was in tears—wondering why she had traveled so far and paid so much to be there. The next day, at the airport, she was still crying.

Another writer joined a group, and the leader told her she “wasn’t a good writer.”
No guidance. No specifics. Just a flat judgment.

She never wrote again.

We don’t talk about this enough: some critique groups don’t improve writers—they drive them out of writing entirely.

The experienced writers I know are careful about who they share their work with. They don’t open the door to just anyone. There’s a reason for that.

Because without structure, skill, or restraint, critique becomes the Wild West. In the wrong group, almost anyone can take a shot. And some critique groups tend to follow the first comment. If the first person praises the work, others agree. If the first person dismisses it, the pile-on begins. And when ten or twenty people dismiss your work, it’s hard to conclude that you should keep going. Psychologists call this groupthink. It’s a huge danger in writing groups.

Another dynamic is the role of the leader. When a leader weighs in too early—especially with negative comments—it can undercut the writer before the conversation has even begun. I’ve seen this happen. A few critical remarks from someone in authority, and the tone shifts. Others follow. Not necessarily because they agree, but because people tend to align with whoever holds the most influence in the room. And just like that, the writer is judged.

The problem with the group I joined was simple: most of the members were novice writers. And they had no idea how to evaluate writing. I would have been better off asking them for advice on gardening or bricklaying or cake baking. Setting up a critique group without teaching people how to critique is irresponsible. And it happens all the time.

But here’s the problem: you can’t grow as a writer without sharing your work. What feels clear to you may not be clear to anyone else. You need readers.

So I created a critique group of my own. It has rules and structure. We first describe all the positive aspects, then we identify where the piece has issues and offer some ways to strengthen it. For example: “I wasn’t sure why the main character made that decision. Maybe you could give more context earlier in the piece about their backstory or show us in more depth how they saw the situation?” In other words, it’s criticism paired with guidance on how the piece could be strengthened. We leave the writer with concrete ways to address issues.

I’m strict about how the group runs. Not because I want to control people—but because I want to protect the writers. If someone has nothing constructive to say, they don’t give feedback. I also don’t let one person dominate the conversation. I’ve been in groups where one person goes on and on about what’s wrong, delivering a lecture on writing principles that everyone else should follow. The longer they talk, the less useful they tend to be.

The goal of my group is to build a culture of compassion. That doesn’t mean being nice or avoiding hard truths. It means recognizing that someone has taken a risk by putting their work out there. It means understanding that behind every piece of writing is a person trying to say something that matters to them. When that’s ignored, feedback becomes careless. With compassion, critique becomes something a writer can actually use.

I’ve seen this approach work. Writers tell me they’re writing more than ever because the feedback is useful, they feel encouraged, and their work improves. We do not sugarcoat the hard truths. If a piece is weak, we let the writer know. But it’s done in a way that helps the writer fix the issues and validates the effort it took to put the work forward.

But it’s not foolproof. And I don’t have all the answers. Even with our approach, people still get hurt. They feel misunderstood. They feel judged. And I try to do better each time. Because the goal isn’t just to improve the writing, but to make the group better. When there is an issue, we discuss it openly. At the end of the day, our goal is to help the writer say what they’re trying to say and to encourage them to keep going. Because they have something worth saying.

Critique groups can be hell. And if you’re not careful, they won’t just shape your writing. They’ll decide whether you keep going at all.

What kind of feedback makes you want to keep writing—and what makes you want to stop?

When writers talk about getting help with their writing, they often focus on improving their sentences, dialogue, structure, pacing, and tension. But what about the emotional experience of writing? Who helps us with that?

Let’s face it—writing is hard. It’s an emotional endeavor that involves pouring yourself onto the page, whether you write fiction or nonfiction. That requires vulnerability. And then you give that piece to someone to critique, or you submit it for publication. That brings an even greater sense of vulnerability. And what happens if your work is disliked, misunderstood, or rejected?

It’s no wonder writing can feel like a rollercoaster. It’s also not surprising that many writers feel like imposters—even famous ones. And on top of all this, is it any wonder that people experience writer’s block—periods when they can’t write at all? Or when they feel paralyzed by the inner critic?

I think many writers are sensitive people. Perhaps that’s why they can bring so much of their internal life onto the page. But writers are also often highly critical of themselves. They can be hard on one another, too. Just attend a bad critique group, and you may find yourself never wanting to write again.

As someone who has done research on emotions academically and in the business world, I see emotions as signals—something to be listened to. When we experience difficult emotions, like feeling that writing is hard or wondering if we are imposters, I believe we should lean in with curiosity and explore them. Most people run from negative emotional experiences, but they are trying to tell us something—and it’s important.

Take the “inner critic,” for example. It’s often discussed in writing circles, and most people tell you to shut that voice down. I disagree. I think the inner critic is trying to protect you, and it’s a voice worth understanding. I’ve given exercises to writing groups where they create a dialogue with their inner critic—to personify it and understand its motives. I ask writers to describe how it looks, who it might be from their past, and to question why it’s there. That can tell you a lot about yourself and what influences you. And once you understand this inner critic and what it’s trying to protect you from, you can manage it much more effectively.

My own inner critic is a voice from my past—a blend of people in positions of power who didn’t see my value and, at times, denigrated me. One professor at Yale comes to mind, who told me I wasn’t all that smart. A real darling of a person. My inner critic is trying to protect me from taking risks and embarrassing myself. Once I understood that, I told it to step aside during early drafts, but to come back when I call. We’ve had a much better relationship ever since. It has a role to play, but I direct it.

Many writers also struggle with the feeling that they are imposters—that they will be “found out.” I see that feeling as a signal, too. That’s often the voice of the inner critic. Perhaps it’s a signal that you need a little more confidence. And what would give you that feeling of confidence? A publication? Another writer telling you something is good? And why does that external stamp of approval matter to you? Explore it. In my opinion, if you put words on a page and communicate your thoughts through writing, you are a writer.

And what about those feelings of dejection that come when your work doesn’t land, or when you share pieces you feel are strong only to have them dismissed? It makes you want to stop writing, doesn’t it? When that happens, I try to treat the feeling as a signal. It tells me how much I care—and that matters. Because I care, it’s worth improving. And it’s also time to get a dose of reality and understand what percentage of submissions actually get accepted, and to do a little more inquiry into why a piece didn’t land. I occasionally ask for help from writers I trust. That helps me reset and get back to work. Sometimes it’s something I want to fix, and at other times, I make the decision that this is what I want to say in the way I want to say it. It’s mine—and I’m good with that. It will find its audience.

And what about the feeling of exclusion? The moments when other writers are celebrated, and you are not? The writing world can be elitist at times. I’ve heard people dismiss self-published writers, and it makes me angry. That anger is a signal, too. Anger often points to a sense of injustice—and I believe there is some of that here. Writing can be highly competitive, and some writers exclude others because it gives them a sense of their own worth. Those feelings motivate me to seek out writers I admire who appreciate my work, and to steer clear of people who diminish others. I’m also motivated to work harder and to be more inclusive with other writers.

Emotions, at the end of the day, are signals. They are not something to ignore.

And as writers, our best work doesn’t come from pushing past what we feel, or silencing it. It comes from listening, getting curious, and understanding what those feelings are trying to tell us—so that when we return to the page, we’re not fighting ourselves anymore.

Emotions are something I explore more deeply in The Compassionate Writer—because understanding them changes what becomes possible on the page.

Recently, I watched a Netflix documentary, The Predator of Seville, about a travel agency owner in Spain who drugged and raped American women. He encouraged young women studying abroad to use his agency because it was “safe” and led them to believe their universities had a relationship with it. In the evenings, he often told the women not to go out in the country where they were visiting because it wasn’t safe. Then he invited them to a party and gave them excessive amounts of alcohol laced with drugs. They became sick and disoriented. The next day, they remembered very little—only flashes, along with clear physical evidence of what had been done to them. Many never went to the police. They were in a foreign country, unfamiliar with the legal system, reliant on guides, and eager to move on. They did not want to believe something so terrible had actually happened to them.

He had found his ideal victims: women who were afraid, disoriented, and inclined to blame themselves.

One woman, Gabrielle Vega, returned home deeply depressed. She finally told her family what had happened, and they asked if she wanted to press charges. She didn’t. She just wanted to move on. But when she learned that another woman had been hurt by this man, she changed her mind. She reached out to his other victims and helped build a case that led to his trial and eventual conviction in Spain.

In other words, she became motivated by her compassion for other women—not by self-compassion. There’s a pattern here. Many women struggle to extend compassion to themselves but will fight fiercely for others.

Self-compassion is one area where significant gender differences have been found[i]. Men tend to be more self-compassionate than women. Why is that? Researchers have found that women tend to be more critical of themselves and engage in more negative self-talk. In other words, when they find themselves in difficult or challenging situations, they are more likely to blame themselves.

That was the case for the women who were raped by this tour guide. Many were in their late teens and early twenties and saw themselves as capable adults. They selected a tour group that emphasized safety. Many had done research on the company, read reviews, and asked friends about it. Little did they know how unsafe it would be. And they often blamed themselves for the rape.

This is a common pattern—women having less self-compassion for themselves than for others, then stepping in to protect others when the same harm occurs. I’ve read many accounts of women who acted only when others were at risk. Young girls who have been molested by a family member speak up only when a younger sibling is in danger. Women in abusive relationships endure years of harm but leave when their children are threatened.

What is it about being female that leads us to tolerate harm—and then blame ourselves for it?

Part of the answer may be what we’ve been taught. Society often places responsibility for harm on women: “Why were you out so late? Why did you go back to his apartment? Why did you drink so much? You should have known better.”

Over time, these messages become internalized. We take responsibility for the actions of those who harm us—believing the world is fair and that we must have done something to deserve it.

Self-compassion, however, is something that can be learned. It starts with asking different questions:

• Could I realistically have seen this coming?

• What was happening at the time that I couldn’t see clearly?

• What did I believe then?

• If this had happened to a friend, what would I say to her?

Only when we learn to be more self-compassionate can we demand the kind of world we want to live in.

Anne E. Beall is the author of the book, The Compassionate Writer: Find Your Voice, Enhance Your Story, and Touch Lives.

[i] Yarnell, L. M., Stafford, R. E., Neff, K. D., Reilly, E. D., Knox, M. C., & Mullarkey, M. (2015). Meta-analysis of gender differences in self-compassion. Self and Identity, 14(5), 499–520. https://doi.org/10.1080/15298868.2015.1029966

When I was fifteen, my stepfather, Chip, gave my mother a mink coat. As she took the coat out of its oversized box, tears welled up in her eyes. She looked at him as if he had just given her a million dollars or the Queen’s jewels.

“Won’t they be so jealous of me at the club,” my mother said proudly.

My sister Katherine and I exchanged horrified glances. The thought of spending so much money on a single piece of clothing was something I could hardly fathom. And the concept of killing an animal for its fur bothered me. My sister and I turned away and looked instead at our gifts. Little did I know then, this coat would weave a narrative of its own, becoming a significant part of our shared story.

Katherine and I had our feet in two different worlds: one in which my mother and stepfather equated a person’s worth with the amount of money they spent, and another where my academic father and stepmother disapproved of excessive spending. In Dad’s home we played the game of guessing how little we paid for things. I held the record by getting a brand-new dress for $15.00, and my sister was actively trying to beat me. My stepfather bought the mink coat during a time when they cost between $8,000 and $50,000. He paid at least $10,000. It came with a luxurious striped satin scarf that matched the lining.

I disliked the coat because it served as a reminder of the gulf between my mother and me. When we went out together—her donning her fur coat and me in my simple parka—we represented two distinct lifestyles. Her display of wealth embarrassed me, but she wanted the world to know she had money; she sought to show it off to as many people as possible.

“Mom, do you have to wear that? We’re just picking up some takeout,” I would plead during these common errands.

“This is the warmest coat I have. It’s cold outside.”

I also didn’t like the coat because it solidified her connection to Chip, whom I had mixed feelings about. Chip was the successful business executive my mother left my father for; she had worked as his administrative assistant. She was unhappy with my academic father, partly because he couldn’t provide her with the lavish lifestyle she desired. Her upbringing in poverty in Baton Rouge, Louisiana haunted her. As a child, she only had two dresses: one for Sundays and one for the rest of the week. She once mentioned that she didn’t have shoes until she turned six. Caught in a midlife crisis and enticed by a romance with a man who could offer her a life of luxury, she abandoned our world for his. That garment symbolized her new life and her relationship with Chip in a painful way.

I loved my mom and wanted her to be happy. She had not found happiness with my father, and my earliest memories are of her crying. There was a particular moment when I was seven that I’ll always remember. As we hiked through the woods, we stumbled upon a serene pond filled with fish, which delighted me. However, when I turned to glance at my mother, she stood there with tears silently streaming down her face.

“Mom, what’s wrong?” I asked.

“Oh honey, I don’t know. I’m just not happy.”

“Mom, look at how pretty the pond is. That will make you happy,” I declared.

I didn’t realize until later how much she struggled with depression and how unfulfilling she found her marriage to my father. Looking at a pond couldn’t fix that.

As a child, her rejection of my father was a difficult thing for me to understand. I felt sorry for him and didn’t completely understand why she wanted such a different lifestyle. My father once said she was such a different person in her two marriages that he likened her to a chameleon who altered herself to those around her. Because I knew her in both of those relationships, I struggled to understand who she was. Was she the woman who hiked and sewed her own clothes or the businessman’s wife who wore designer silk dresses and had her hair professionally done every week?

It’s difficult to be close to someone you don’t know. And it’s difficult to know someone who doesn’t reveal who they are and what matters most to them. I didn’t realize as a teenager that understanding my mother would be a lifelong process. Perhaps she didn’t reveal herself because she did not truly know who she was, or perhaps she worried about being rejected. I was never sure. And I alternated between confusion and disappointment with her. The way she and my stepfather lived, with their enormous houses, multiple golf-club memberships, matching Mercedes cars, and expensive dinners where she bragged about ordering the most expensive item on the menu was something I couldn’t relate to. I much preferred the modest old Victorian home my father shared with my stepmother, our family canoe trips, and the comforting homemade meals.

Mom and Chip separated and reconciled multiple times. She occasionally wondered if she had made a mistake in leaving my father.

“I want for nothing, but Chip treats me terribly sometimes. He yells at me and won’t speak to me for days. Your father would never have done that to me.”

I felt angry hearing about this mistreatment. “Then leave him. Money isn’t important, Mom. It’s better to be poor and happy than rich and miserable,” I asserted.

“You’re right, but remember I only made it through high school. It’s not so simple for me.”

They ultimately divorced, which I thought would be better for her. And afterward I asked her if she wanted the fur coat. She refused to part with it. Then, they reconciled and remarried. I accepted that this man would be in her life for a long time. They moved eventually, spending winters in Florida and summers in New Hampshire. There was no need for a heavy winter coat now.

As we sorted through her belongings during a holiday visit, I asked, “Do you still want this winter coat?”

“Absolutely!”

“But, Mom, you don’t need it anymore. People don’t wear these nowadays.”

“I want to keep it,” she said firmly.

When Chip passed away, she relocated to the Chicago area to live closer to Katherine and me. My mom spent months retrieving various possessions she had either lent out or left with others. A mansion’s worth of belongings was packed tightly into a massive moving van, and in the following months, Katherine and I were overwhelmed, trying to declutter and manage the surplus. Eventually she settled into a cozy retirement facility with small private apartments, a stark contrast to her past life in 6,000 square-foot five-bedroom homes. She did the best she could to make her tiny apartment look cozy with a small blue loveseat and matching chair. The community’s dining halls and many activities kept her inside most of the time. The need for a heavy coat was minimal.

Nevertheless, the mink coat continued to hang in her closet. It had aged well, unlike my mom, who struggled to walk and did everyday tasks slowly because she worried about falling. Sometimes when I visited, we went through her paperwork and items, organizing her apartment. Now and then, we’d look through her closet, getting rid of unwanted clothes. Occasionally we talked about the mink.

“Mom, what about this coat? You never wear it.” I asked as gently as possible.

“I want to keep it,” she would say, resolutely.

“But you could sell it.”

“No.”

“You could donate it and someone else could get a lot of use out of it.”

“No. I need it.”

No argument worked. It didn’t matter that the man who had given it to her had disinherited her from his will and left all his money to his biological children. It didn’t matter that during the last days of his life he had screamed at her, “You never appreciated all I did for you!” It didn’t matter that it was no longer in fashion or that wearing it might make her an easy target for robbery or theft. The mink coat would remain.

When we had to downsize her possessions to move her into a smaller assisted-living apartment that provided around-the-clock care, she would let almost anything go. She donated all her kitchen items—ones she had used for over fifty years. She gave away most of her books and disposed of all her art supplies—paints she had lovingly used for decades to create beautiful watercolor paintings. She discarded arts and crafts supplies she used to make trinkets for gifts on birthdays and holidays. And she got rid of many clothes she knew she wouldn’t wear. But not the fur coat.

My mom lived to be eighty-eight years old. A few days after she moved into her assisted-living apartment, she fell and broke her hip, and we transferred her to hospice care for the last days of her life. When she was gone, Katherine and I sat in her apartment looking at the few pieces of furniture and the closets that held all the clothing she loved. We faced the heartbreaking task of going through her things one final time. She had so much clothing that we ended up filling six enormous contractor bags with her floral dresses and colorful polyester trousers she had worn over the years.

As we sorted through my mother’s belongings and unraveled her life, I found myself in front of the mink coat. It hung alone in the closet, as if it was waiting for my mom. For the first time, I admired its soft and silky texture and regal appearance. Despite its age, it seemed to shine. Not a single rip or stain marred the satin lining, and the matching scarf looked as new as it did that Christmas. I pressed my cheek into the plush fur and felt comforted by the feeling of it. The familiar scent of my mom lingered on the coat, bringing me a sense of closeness to her. I imagined her wearing the coat with a big smile on her face, parading into the country club, or meeting a friend for lunch. She was younger, vibrant, happy, and full of hope.

I’m ashamed to say I only viewed the coat through the lens of my own experiences and feelings; it symbolized her departure from our lives and the rejection of my father. But I now understood this coat represented so much more to my mom than just a fashion item. It symbolized my mother’s relationship with Chip and all the hopes and dreams they had shared, even through the difficulties of their forty-year journey. It reflected her desire to be cared for and indulged by a man who expressed his love through material possessions. It embodied her aspiration for a better life, to be seen as someone who had arrived and lived well. Above all, it offered a promise of warmth on bitter, wintry days to someone from the deep South. I now had a deeper understanding of my mother on that day than I did at any other time when she was alive.

As I sat there surrounded by the remnants of my mother’s life, I realized the coat was probably the most valuable thing she owned. It held a piece of her and her memories, and I just couldn’t let go of it. But then I thought about someone else wearing it, loving it as she had, and carrying a piece of my mom with them, which gave me the strength to place it in the donation bag.

As I did, I collapsed on the floor in tears. My mom was truly gone.

Did you know that women apologize more than men?

Researchers Karina Schumann and Michael Ross found that women report apologizing more frequently in everyday life than men[i]. Women are more likely to believe they have done something that warrants an apology, while men are more likely to view the same behaviors as too minor to require one. In other words, the gender gap appears to stem from different thresholds for what calls for an apology.

One reason may be that women are held to higher standards of behavior and punished more harshly when they violate rules. In my research, I found that female characters in fairy tales are punished more often than male characters for breaking rules in cultures around the world. Similar patterns appear in real life. Female lawyers are disciplined more severely than male lawyers for identical ethical violations. And when a patient dies under their care, female doctors receive fewer referrals afterward than male doctors who experience the same outcome[ii]. Women may apologize more because they anticipate harsher consequences for perceived missteps—and because apologizing is expected of them. Apologies can function as a form of social insurance.

Socialization likely plays a role as well. From childhood, girls are often encouraged to maintain harmony, attend to others’ feelings, and repair fractured relationships. Boys, by contrast, are more often encouraged to tolerate conflict or stand their ground. As a result, women may apologize as a matter of course—to keep interactions running smoothly and make things easier for others.

Frequent apologies can strengthen relationships by signaling empathy and responsiveness. They can prevent small irritations from escalating. But habitual apologizing can also carry costs, particularly in professional settings. As Deborah Tannen has argued, excessive apologizing at work can be interpreted as a signal of lower confidence or weaker leadership[iii]. Ironically, because men apologize less often, their apologies can sometimes carry greater weight when they do occur.

A similar dynamic appears with forgiveness. Women also tend to forgive more than men—and society often expects them to. In everyday life, women are frequently encouraged to overlook others’ transgressions and move on. Research has demonstrated this pattern. A meta-analysis of more than seventy studies found that women are, on average, more forgiving than men[iv]. In romantic relationships, both genders tend to agree that women are usually the more forgiving partners[v]. By contrast, men who strongly identify with traditional masculinity—and who are particularly concerned with appearing masculine—tend to forgive less readily[vi].

Taken together, these patterns around apologies and forgiveness reveal a striking dynamic.

If one gender is expected to apologize and forgive more, then they are also doing more of the relational labor required to maintain harmony. Meanwhile, the other gender moves through the same interactions with fewer expectations to acknowledge the impact of their behavior. When one group apologizes more frequently, they are more often placing themselves in the role of the wrongdoer. And the group that apologizes less often will often occupy the role of deciding whether an apology will be accepted.

Over time, these small interactions accumulate. They shape who is seen as accountable, whose behavior is scrutinized, and whose perspective becomes the default. When women are expected to acknowledge more mistakes and overlook more transgressions, they may come to be perceived as having less status in the relationship. Frequent apologizing can signal deference, while withholding apologies can signal authority.

Power is not only about formal authority or overt control. It also operates through everyday expectations about who smooths over conflict, who admits fault, and who receives the benefit of the doubt. When these expectations fall unevenly across genders, small words like “sorry” can quietly reflect and reinforce larger differences in power.

How often do you say sorry?

[i] Schumann, K., & Ross, M. (2010). Why women apologize more than men: Gender differences in thresholds for perceiving offensive behavior. Psychological Science, 21(11), 1649–1655. https://doi.org/10.1177/0956797610384150

[ii] Beall, A. (2022). Only Prince Charming Gets to Break the Rules: Gender and Rule Violation in Fairy Tales and Life. Independently published.

[iii] Tannen, D. (2013). Talking from 9 to 5: Women and Men at Work. William Morrow.

[iv] Miller, Worthington, & McDaniel (2008). Gender and forgiveness: A meta-analytic review and research agenda. Journal of Social and Clinical Psychology, Vol 27, (8). 843-876.

[v] Philip K& Sharma (2021). Forgiveness in romantic relationships: A comparison across genders. The International Journal of Indian Psychology, Vol 9, (1).

[vi] Hasehhuhn & Ormiston (2024). Fragility and forgiveness: Masculinity concerns affect men’s willingness to forgive. Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, Vol 114.

I needed a way to get exercise as I aged. I wanted to be in shape, but I didn’t want to hurt myself. I had been a runner for years. I loved the workout that lasted thirty minutes and how I felt afterward. And I liked how impressed people were that I had run a marathon or that I ran in zero-degree temperatures. Unfortunately, my knees began filing formal complaints. Eventually, they won. I learned what many runners learn too late: running is not gentle on joints.

So I went looking for something else. Something that would challenge my heart and lungs, get me into excellent shape, and not grind me down in the process.

That’s when I discovered power walking.

Not strolling. Not mall walking. Power walking—the competitive kind. Arms pumping, landing on the heel and pushing off on the toe, one foot always in contact with the ground. It looks, admittedly, a little dramatic.

And it works.

Power walking engages 95% of one’s muscles. My heart rate climbs into the 150s and sometimes 170 if I’m pushing. I now clock under an eleven-minute mile. It’s intense. I get the same cardiovascular benefits as running—arguably more, because I’m engaging nearly every muscle group. And when I tell people about it, the response is often the same.

“Yeah, but it looks weird.”

Video of author power walking

The first few times someone said that, I felt a flicker of something old inside me. A reflex. The younger version of myself—the one who cared deeply about how people perceived me. The younger version who wanted so much to be liked.

We’re trained early, especially as women, to monitor how we appear. Are we graceful? Are we pleasant? Are we doing this in a way that looks appealing? Even our exercise is supposed to look good. There’s an unspoken rule that effort should be attractive.

Power walking does not care about being attractive. Your arms pump hard. Your face gets red. Your hips move with purpose. You look like someone intent on getting somewhere quickly, which you are.

This “weird” sport took me to the Illinois Senior Olympics, where I won a gold medal in the 1500-meter power walk in 2025. A gold medal. I’m now training for the Senior Olympic games in both Massachusetts and Illinois. If I qualify, I’ll go on to the National Senior Olympics in 2027.

When I train on the lakefront path near my home, I get runners giving me perplexed looks that sometimes morph into disdain. Recently, I walked toward two male runners who looked at me with confusion, as if to say, Why aren’t you just running? And then they looked at each other with amusement, as if to say: Why is she moving like that?

I smile to myself.

Sometimes I imagine explaining that I hold a gold medal in this funny-looking sport. That my resting heart rate is enviable. That my knees are intact. That I will likely still be doing this twenty years from now. Instead, I do something else.

I go faster.

Lately, I’ve been passing runners. The same runners who might glance sideways at my exaggerated arm swing. There’s a particular satisfaction in that moment—not because I need to defeat them, but because it affirms something I’ve come to understand: Looking impressive and being impressive are not the same thing.

We spend so much energy, especially as women, trying not to look foolish. Not to stand out in the wrong way. Not to move too boldly or take up too much space. But foolish according to whom? Impressive by whose standards?

If someone looks askance at me on the path, that’s fine. Maybe my movement disrupts their idea of how people should exercise, particularly women. Maybe they just don’t like anything unfamiliar.

That is their issue.

My focus isn’t on them. It’s on my heart, pounding strong. My lungs, expanding. My legs, carrying me forward at a pace I worked hard to earn.

It turns out there’s a strange freedom in no longer optimizing for approval. In choosing strength over aesthetics. In choosing longevity over applause.

You might think I look ridiculous.

I’m still passing you.

Recently, I had the great honor of attending an award ceremony recognizing authors for their published books. The event filled a grand hotel ballroom with several hundred guests, all gathered before a sweeping stage. It was a black-tie affair—women in long gowns, men in tuxedos. More than seventy-five winners were recognized across numerous categories, and I was fortunate enough to be among them—an achievement that felt tremendously fulfilling.

But what moved me even more than receiving the award was listening to the acceptance speeches.

Some winners had traveled from as far as the United Kingdom, Australia, and Hong Kong. The authors represented different races, cultures, genres, and worldviews. And yet, beneath all those differences, there were striking similarities.

Many authors thanked God, expressing disbelief that they could have accomplished this without divine guidance. Many thanked their families and friends, acknowledging the emotional support that sustained them. Writing may be a solitary pursuit, but that evening made something clear: no book is created entirely alone.

Another shared theme was astonishment. Again and again, authors expressed genuine surprise at winning. Few had expected it. Many seemed almost bewildered to be standing at the podium. It struck me how common imposter syndrome is among writers. We so often question whether our work is worthy.

I was no different. Leaning toward the woman seated beside me, I asked what percentage of submissions actually received awards. She told me there were thousands, with the percentage of winners varying by category. I had assumed the competition was modest. Learning otherwise made the recognition feel even more meaningful—especially in the self-help category, where submissions are plentiful. “It’s actually a very prestigious award,” she whispered. “I didn’t realize that until I looked into it.”

It seems even award-winning authors underestimate themselves.

Perhaps the most powerful similarity, however, was this: every single author had a reason for writing their book. Whether they wrote science fiction, romance, memoir, or social science, each had a message they felt compelled to share.

One author said, “I wrote this to make readers uncomfortable—to challenge their deeply held beliefs.” Another explained, “We are not recognizing the true value of the nursing profession.” Another sought to educate readers about the underlying causes of health disparities among African Americans. Another was concerned about the effects of white noise on children.

Different topics. Different approaches. But the same underlying impulse: to help.

Memoirists spoke of overcoming poverty, sexual abuse, and profound hardship. Many had transformed personal suffering into advocacy. As I looked around the room, I felt I was surrounded not simply by writers, but by resilient, purposeful individuals. I found myself wanting to meet every one of them—a rare feeling for me in a crowded room.

That night, I also reflected on a statistic I once heard: roughly 80% of people say they want to write a book. About 15% begin. Only 3% finish. Fewer than 1% publish. And an even smaller fraction receive some type of award.

Despite the perception that “everyone is an author,” the reality is quite different.

The evening left me with several powerful realizations. Authors are far more alike than we know. We doubt ourselves. We feel like imposters. Yet we write anyway—because we carry a message we believe matters. At our core, most of us are trying, in our own way, to make the world a little better with our words.

And behind every book is a human being who dared to believe their voice was worth hearing—even when they weren’t entirely sure it was.

Recently, I watched a documentary called Alison, about a woman in South Africa who survived a brutal assault. Alison Botha was raped, stabbed multiple times, and left for dead by two men. Miraculously, she survived and later testified against her assailants in court. They were sentenced to life in prison. Her recovery, both physical and emotional, was extraordinary. She eventually became a motivational speaker, and her strength moved me to tears.

But toward the end of the film, one of her attackers demanded she participate in a program where victims meet their perpetrators and offer forgiveness. Alison refused.

I applaud that decision.

And yet, we live in a culture that insists forgiveness is virtuous—no matter the crime. We’ve all seen the stories about people who have lost someone who eventually forgives the perpetrator. Many victims are often encouraged to “let go” and “move on.” Forgiveness is praised as a kind of personal liberation—a sign of inner peace. Researchers have shown that forgiveness is correlated with lower stress, better health outcomes, and psychological well-being. But I began to wonder: Who is actually expected to forgive? And who benefits most when they do?

I suspected the answer is women, far more than men.

This realization took root while I was thinking about fairy tales. Many of us grow up hearing stories that feel comforting and familiar, even moral. But when you look more closely, a different message emerges—especially around how women are taught to respond to harm.

Take Beauty and the Beast. The Beast isn’t just physically monstrous, he’s cruel. He locks up Belle’s father and extorts a promise from her in exchange for his release. He isolates her, controls her movements, and lashes out in anger. In some of the earlier versions of the tale, Belle believes he will kill her. And yet over time, she forgives him. Loves him, even. Her love is what transforms him, and the story frames this as a romantic triumph. But is it?

To me, it feels disturbingly close to Stockholm syndrome: a psychological response where hostages come to identify with and even defend their captors. Yet we’re taught that Belle’s forgiveness and love are beautiful. Transformative. Noble. That her emotional labor is what saves him.

And then people say, “It’s just a fairy tale.”

Cinderella tells a similar story. She is abused by her stepmother and stepsisters, overlooked by her father (who, in the original Grimm version, is complicit in her mistreatment), and forced into servitude. She endures it all in silence. When her fortunes change thanks to magical intervention, she rises without ever holding her abusers accountable. No revenge. No reckoning. Just a graceful exit into royalty.

Why?

Because that’s the story we give girls over and over again: Suffer quietly, endure injustice, and then forgive.

And this doesn’t stay confined to fairy tales.

In real life, women are more likely to be encouraged and expected to forgive. A meta-analysis of over seventy studies found that women tend to be more forgiving than men[i]. In romantic relationships, both men and women agree that women are the more forgiving partners[ii]. And men who strongly identify with traditional masculinity—and who are concerned with appearing masculine—tend to forgive less[iii]. Forgiveness, on the other hand, is most commonly found among feminine women and androgynous men.[iv]. Apparently in many contexts, forgiveness is perceived as “feminine” and as a result, women are expected to forgive more than men.

That might seem like a harmless gender difference, but it’s not.

Because when forgiveness becomes gendered, it stops being a choice and starts becoming a social obligation. And when that happens, it can be exploited.

When one of Alison Botha’s assailants demanded forgiveness—and even went so far as to claim a share of her book royalties—it was not about healing. It was a power play. A tactic to gain parole. An attempt to rewrite his story, to make himself a reformed figure worthy of mercy. In demanding forgiveness, he placed the burden of his redemption on her shoulders.

Forgiveness, in that context, wasn’t healing. It was coercion.

And that raises a deeper question: What are we actually saying when we forgive someone? In one psychological study, researchers found that most people define forgiveness as “letting go” of anger or resentment—and choosing not to bring up the offense again. In practice, that often means acting as if the harm never happened.

If forgiveness functions as emotional amnesty—silence, acceptance, or even reconciliation—what does it cost those who’ve been deeply hurt?

And what does it mean when women are pushed to do it more than men?

It means this: women are expected to absorb the pain. To smooth it over. To show grace, even they have been violated. To be the better person—for everyone’s comfort but their own.

In this way, forgiveness becomes a tool of normalization. It keeps harmful systems—abuse, sexism, violence—intact and unchallenged. It asks victims to minimize their suffering for the sake of social harmony. It offers perpetrators a path to redemption without requiring real accountability.

Let me be clear: forgiveness can be powerful. It can bring peace, healing, and closure. But only when it’s a choice—not a duty. Only when it serves the person who was harmed, not the one who caused the harm.

That’s the problem with the way forgiveness is framed in our culture, especially for women. It’s not really about freedom. It’s about control.

So maybe it’s time we rewrite the fairy tales. Not every Beast deserves redemption. Not every hurt can be forgiven.

When one gender is expected to forgive more than another, we’re not just asking for compassion. We’re asking for compliance. For endurance. For silence. And by forgiving more, women are trained to tolerate more.

Maybe the most radical thing a woman can say is: I don’t forgive you.

Because some things aren’t forgivable.

[i] Miller, Worthington, & McDaniel (2008). Gender and forgiveness: A meta-analytic review and research agenda. Journal of Social and Clinical Psychology, Vol 27, (8). 843-876.

[ii] Philip K& Sharma (2021). Forgiveness in romantic relationships: A comparison across genders. The International Journal of Indian Psychology, Vol 9, (1).

[iii] Hasehhuhn & Ormiston (2024). Fragility and forgiveness: Masculinity concerns affect men’s willingness to forgive. Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, Vol 114.

[iv] Sidelinger, Frisby, and McMullen (2009). The decision to forgive: Sex, gender, and the likelihood ot forgive partner transgressions. Communication Studies, Vol 60 (2). 164-179.

People often tell me they love fairy tales but don’t take them seriously. “They’re just stories,” they say—fantasies from a bygone era, harmless entertainment with no real bearing on modern life.

I disagree.

Fairy tales reflect deep cultural truths, especially about who gets punished for breaking the rules—and who doesn’t. As a researcher, I analyzed more than 200 fairy tales from around the world—fifty selected at random from each of these regions: Europe, Asia, Africa, North America, and South America. The only requirement was that a character had to break a clear rule. That included murder, attempted murder, adultery, theft, deception, kidnapping, impersonation, abuse (physical or psychological), unjust imprisonment, or disobedience of a direct order. These behaviors—often aligned with religious commandments and universal moral codes—are widely condemned across societies.

Here’s what I found:

• Men broke the rules in 67% of the stories.

• Women broke them in 33%.

• When men broke the rules, they were rewarded 35% of the time and escaped punishment altogether 25% of the time.

• Women? They were punished 75% of the time—often with death.

There’s much more to the data, which I explore in depth in my book, Only Prince Charming Gets to Break the Rules.

But this isn’t just ancient storytelling. It’s a blueprint we’ve internalized—and continue to follow.

Take the case of Jeffrey Epstein. The only person meaningfully punished so far has been Ghislaine Maxwell. And to be clear—I support her conviction. But Epstein himself was barely held accountable. Despite years of credible allegations and overwhelming evidence, he was briefly incarcerated under terms so lenient they bordered on absurd: he was reportedly allowed to leave jail during the day and return at night.

Even more disturbing is the silence surrounding the other men implicated in the Epstein files—many of whom were named, photographed, and linked to explicit acts with underage girls. And yes, let’s call them what they were: girls. That’s not just a moral distinction—it’s a legal one. Engaging in sexual activity with minors is pedophilia. It’s illegal in every U.S. state. So where are the prosecutions?

These men aren’t anonymous. Many are wealthy, powerful, and culturally untouchable. In our fairy tale analysis, high-status male characters—kings, princes, sorcerers—were the ones most likely to get away with their transgressions. Sound familiar?

It should. This isn’t a coincidence—it’s a pattern.

We live in a culture that excuses powerful men’s wrongdoing while punishing women for far less. That’s not just a fairy tale—it’s a reality we keep reenacting.

I don’t want to live in that story anymore. I don’t want to watch a world where men break the rules with impunity while women are destroyed for stepping out of line.

“Prince Charming” isn’t charming if he’s preying on girls. He’s a criminal.

It’s time we stopped pretending otherwise.

There’s a certain tone many of us adopt toward ourselves when we sit down to write. It’s demanding and critical: You should be better by now. You’re not working hard enough. This isn’t good. Your writing is terrible.

Some see this inner harshness as a kind of discipline—something necessary if we want to be “real” writers. And for a while, it can even seem to work. You push harder. You produce more. You tighten the screws.

But at what cost?

When I talk to writers, I hear a common thread: exhaustion. Not from the writing itself, but from the emotional strain of constantly measuring themselves and falling short. The way we talk to ourselves about our work is part of the work. And if that internal dialogue is rooted in fear or shame, the writing process becomes unsustainable.

So what if you stopped treating writing as a test, a performance, or a moral proving ground? What if you let go of the belief that harshness makes you more serious?

What if curiosity could replace judgment?

This is something I explore more deeply in my book, The Compassionate Writer. It’s not about being soft on yourself. It’s about finding a steadier, kinder ground from which to create—one that honors ambition without sacrificing well-being.

You can still aim high. You can still revise with intention. But you don’t have to punish yourself to make something worthwhile.

You can be a writer without being so hard on yourself.

That, too, is part of the craft.

A house is so much more than just shelter. My house became the place where I confronted something deeper: ageism—the quiet, persistent views we carry about older people and anything past its so-called “prime.”

It all began with an open house and an open mind. The realtor hosted the open house, and my husband, Michael, brought the open mind. We had been looking for a home where he could have a first-floor office and where we could do laundry on the second floor. That day, we happened upon a stucco house—listed as built in 1907—within our price range.

As we climbed the front steps, I noticed the realtor was wearing the exact same dress I’d put on that morning. No one else was at the showing. She hadn’t received a single offer in eight months. The online photos were underwhelming, and as our realtor explained, “Many people don’t want an old house.” It reminded me of online dating in my fifties. Men wanted younger women. Buyers want younger homes. Others couldn’t see past her age. But I could.

As we walked through the house, I became convinced that she had once been stunning. An Arts and Crafts home, her design was a reaction to the excesses of the Victorian era—with its heavy ornamentation and elaborate décor. This home boasted clean lines, a strong triangular shape, and minimal embellishment. Her stucco exterior echoed the earth; her design paid homage to nature.

But as we wandered through her rooms, she felt tired and worn—like someone quietly let go. As if the people who once loved her had stopped trying.

Still, she was in our price range. And as we explored her creaky, spacious rooms, Michael said, “This house ticks a lot of our boxes.”

Then came the inspection—and a long list of problems.

“The roof is damaged, the fence is unstable, the skylight is leaking, the tiles are cracked in the primary bathroom, several electrical outlets aren’t up to code,” the inspector rattled off.

“Right,” I said. “But overall, would you say she’s in good shape? Or is this worse than most houses her age?”

“It’s about average for a house this old,” he replied, already moving on.

That reminded me of conversations I’ve had with friends: “Well, for my age, not so bad. Sure, my knees ache and my back hurts, but that’s to be expected.” I don’t like hearing that. I’ve always wanted to believe that people and things past their prime can be renewed, even celebrated. Some days, that belief is hard to hold onto. But my house ended up convincing me it might just be true.

Two weeks later, she was ours.

I had no idea how much work that would take. “Needing a little work” turned out to mean needing a lot. Everything cost more and took longer than expected. The house drained our bank account with every major repair: a new roof, a full interior paint job, rebuilt walls, a tuck-pointed chimney, a new fence, and new hardwood floors.

And yet—somehow—I wasn’t daunted.

As the floors were ripped out and rubble piled up outside the garage and on the porch, I felt strangely hopeful. That something old could be transformed. That something forgotten could be made new again. When the insurance company threatened to cancel our policy because of the roof, I calmly told them we had a replacement scheduled that week. And we did.

Thousands of dollars later, she’s shown me that transformation is possible. Restoring her has become a kind of restoration for me.

She represents so many of us in middle age—dealing with the effects of age, wear, or neglect. She had been overlooked. So many middle-aged women can relate to that feeling of invisibility—once young, beautiful, and vibrant, now just another face in the crowd. Once we turned heads; now we get bumped in the grocery store. People talk down to us, as if age has destroyed our intelligence.

The passage of time hasn’t been any kinder to me than to her. We’ve both aged. We both creaked until she got her new hardwood floors. Both of us have changed from our original shape. She’s better now—our painters straightened her crooked walls. And though my hair has lost some of its luster, her new green roof sparkles, like I imagine it did a century ago.

She’s reinforced my belief that beauty has less to do with age than with how we carry ourselves, how much we’re loved, and how we choose to show up in the world. I think my house stands a little taller these days—no longer overlooked, but admired by people who once passed her by. When I clean her floors and dust off her high ceilings, I imagine her feeling proud and saying, “Thank you” for caring for me.

I still get anxious whenever repairs are underway—just as I do before a doctor’s appointment. When we replaced her front door and she stood exposed to the street, I wondered if she would be okay. Does she feel vulnerable now, the way I feel? Would her historic trim survive the pounding? Does she feel upset that she’s being torn apart—even if it’s just her front door? I flinched when I heard workers drilling into her walls. I jumped when I heard the hammers pounding on her. I want to run out to them and tell them to be gentle. She’s not a young house anymore. Watching her undergo repairs feels a lot like watching my doctor remove a suspicious mole from my arm—necessary, but hard to witness.

During the bathroom renovation, we discovered mold under the floor—a gruesome surprise. But really, who knows what’s growing inside any of us? We cleaned it out and installed new tile, a fresh shower, new sinks. The space gleams now—like a smile with freshly whitened teeth.

With all the work we’ve done, I’m proud to show her off to friends.

“Wow, this is a spectacular house!” a friend of thirty years said recently.

“You think so?” I replied—just the way I respond to my husband’s compliments, hoping to hear it again in a different way.

It turns out that older things can be restored and loved just as deeply as when they were new. And she’s even older than we thought. She wasn’t built in 1907, but sometime in the 1880s.

Her restoration has given me a new perspective. As I lace up my shoes and racewalk along the lakefront near my old-new home, I feel that anything is possible—for both of us. I’ll train for the upcoming Illinois Senior Olympics and see if I can qualify for the national games next year. I’ll watch what I eat, get my sleep, and tend to the small and significant parts of myself—just as I’ve done for her.

And as I continue uncovering more of her history, I truly believe that both of us may still have our best years ahead.