You sit down, and the desire to write is strong. You open your WIP or a blank page and …

“Hell no,” your brain says. “Today, we shall worry about how much plastic might be inside me and whether the recurring headaches are cancer. Oh, and your to-do list is piling up, but I don’t plan to let you sleep tonight, so you won’t have the energy to tackle anything tomorrow either.”

Listening to my brain.

I’ve been there, and I know I’ll be there again. This is basically my ongoing internal dialog, no matter what. I’ve made peace with it. Kind of. Or not at all, but whatever.

“Heather, I don’t have all day! What’s the damned tip?”

IMPROV!

WAIT!!!! Don’t leave, hear me out!

I’ve told enough people this tip for creative blocks to know that the first reaction is, “No fucking way am I doing improv.” But for the people I’ve convinced to put their worries aside and give it a go, every single one has come back to thank me.

“I was so nervous, but once I watched some others and started laughing, I was hooked.”

“It was so much fun to be in a safe space where I could be silly without being judged.”

“I loved that they said the mistakes were what we celebrated. The mistakes were the funniest parts!”

Improv has been in the news lately, with articles highlighting its benefits, such as Alan Alda’s Solution to Eroding Trust in Science: More Improv, which discusses how scientists are using improv to help them connect with and become more trusted by people.

Marketing professionals are using the first rule of improv, Yes, And, to improve their industry and support better decision-making.

I started taking improv classes a year and a half ago, and it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I found a community that welcomed me and said, “Come, laugh and play with us, and don’t worry about your possible plastic brain for a few hours.”

I now teach improv to older adults. It’s magical to see them discover the wonders of improv. They come in with aches and pains, their own worries, fears, and hesitancy. But they also have hope. And it’s that hope for relief from all of life, for connection, and for something that ignites their brains and hearts that gets them up and trying things they once said they could never do.

Me, reacting to a goat statue in an improv scene. So many chins!

It’s not dramatic acting. It’s not graded. It IS joyful and challenging in all the right ways.

If you’re on the fence, try going to a show first to experience the laughter. Then, look up local improv classes or jams. Drop into a jam to see what it’s all about.

You might have fun, and there’s one thing writer’s block doesn’t like: the fun side of the brain taking over.

If you give it a try, I’d love to hear about your experience.

What’s Left is Hope Synopsis:

I’ve thought a lot about what dying is like over my thirty-eight years. Not obsessively, but probably more than the average person. It’s understandable, given the childhood I had …

Hope Lawton has spent the past twenty-five years trying to move on from the shame and guilt she feels about her role in her mother’s death when she was thirteen.

She spends her life keeping this secret from everyone she cares about while building the perfect life and family. But when her husband leaves her for his kindergarten sweetheart, she’s forced into a new life that doesn’t fit, just like her jeans, her job, and the new house that smells nothing like home.

As she struggles with her feelings of failure, her boys’ sadness and anger, and uncertainty about her job, her dad’s health worsens. Desperate to avoid the same fate as her mom, Hope vows to stop letting life happen to her and to take control by embarking on a Total Life Makeover. Soon, she’s welcoming a new friendship, pants that look good and let her breathe, and a possible perfect match on an online dating app. This new life might not be the perfect life she had planned, but maybe it can be perfect-ish.

Her life is finally looking up until she receives an email that forces her to question everything she’s believed to be true.

What’s Left is Hope explores the freedom that comes from letting go of shame, expectations, and secrets and opening ourselves to new possibilities. Told with humor, heart, and ultimately, hope, Heather LeRoss offers a perfect-ish look at the power of friendship and self-acceptance.

If you’re interested, reach out to me - heather@heatherleross.com so I have your email.

Also, the ebook is available for pre-order now!

Your hopeful author friend,

Heather

I’m reaching out to you with another random message. This one is an update on what’s been happening as I work to release Hope. As in, my book. I’ve been busy!

My husband and I have officially opened a publishing company, Offramp Books.

For those tired of the traditional publishing superhighway, take the off-ramp and enjoy the ride.

Cool, huh?

I also hired a digital artist to design my book cover! Isn’t she pretty? (Just tell me she’s pretty. IYKYK.)

Brad is actively learning the ins and outs of book formatting and working to get Hope into shape. It’s so much hard work. I have a newfound respect for those who choose the self-publishing path. I’m pretty focused on the small details and on making sure this book is as professional as possible.

I’ve also decided to embark on another new journey: stand-up comedy! Why not? I wrote and memorized a set, but now my brain is on overdrive, and all I’m thinking about are new jokes. It’s not easy, though it seems I like to take on things that are terrifying and hard, and that put me on display for the world to see. This also leaves me open to criticism, ugliness, and judgment, which I’m not good with. But I go into it with the intention of making people feel.

I want people to read my work, watch me perform, and walk away feeling a little lighter. That’s my goal, and I’ll keep doing it as long as I know there’s at least one person who enjoys it, or until the haters hate, hate, hate enough to make me turn into a hermit.

Okay, that’s my update for now. I’ll try to get better at writing these updates, since I know how much you all crave and need them (insert ginormous eye roll). But I’m told this is the way to market my book and myself, so here I am, a marketing fool.

Also, if there’s anything you’re dying to know about me, What’s Left is Hope (my book), or performing improv and stand-up, email me at heather@heatherleross.com, and I’ll discuss it in an upcoming letter.

Much love,

Heather

It would be crappy most likely. Har har. Don’t worry, this isn’t a newsletter all about poop. I have exciting news!

I’M FINALLY PUBLISHING WHAT’S LEFT IS HOPE!

I know, I’ve said this before, but that was before I met my celebrity idol, Hoda Kotb!

Anyone who knows me knows that meeting Hoda has been a dream of mine for years. I mean, hello, the original title I wanted for my book was Are You There, Hoda? It’s Me, Hope.

I met her at the Spring Joy 101 retreat, and she was every bit as kind, gracious, welcoming, and lovely as I had imagined. I got FOUR hugs and pictures to prove it.

During my first hug, I blabbered about how she inspired my first novel. She grabbed my shoulders and said, “That’s amazing. I want to read it! Can I read your book?”

… ummm …

I had to say no to my idol. Why? Because I’d given up on writing and left my book hanging out on the proverbial pot (my laptop), not shitting, not entertaining, not doing anything.

I came home angry at myself.

My editor and dear friend, who has poured his time, energy, and support into Hope, has pushed me to self-publish. So have my husband and parents. So have my friends. But I needed validation from a publisher that it was “good enough.” I said that if my agent couldn’t sell it, I would self-publish. But fear held me back. Doubt crept in, and I did nothing.

I’ve now written two novels that are sitting on the pot. I let them both down. I let myself down. I let potential readers down.

My fears and doubts have kept me from so much. It’s time to create my own success instead of waiting for a publisher to do it for me.

So, I’m going to self-publish. What’s the worst that could happen? Someone might not like it. I guarantee there will be people who don’t like it.

But what if?

What if someone else likes it? What if they LOVE it? What if they read my work and laugh, cry, or simply escape the hard for a little while?

That would be success!

I already know two people who will love it (thanks, Mom and Dad).

I’m doing it before it’s too late. I’m doing it for those who want to escape into the world of Hope. I’m doing it for myself.

Because tomorrow isn’t promised and in the end, What’s Left is Hope.

I recently attended a writer’s conference, and one of the main topics was how important it is to have a newsletter to communicate with fans of my writing. The preferred communication platform was Substack.

Here’s my problem: I subscribe to quite a few Substack newsletters. I NEVER read them. I get my list of new newsletters each day and delete it immediately.

I’m guessing I’m not alone. I really wonder who has the time (or the desire) to read newsletters anymore. Hell, I keep hearing how hard it is to get people to read anything unless it’s a caption over an online video.

But I’m nothing if not persistent. So, here I am, creating a Substack newsletter for all my fans. All 33 of you. A newsletter that I’m sure only my mom and dad will read.

“Maybe if you had something interesting to say, people would read, Heather.”

This is probably true. However, for today, this will have to suffice.

Stay with me, Mom and Dad. Hopefully, my next newsletter will be more entertaining. Oh, and I sent your package yesterday. Should be there by the weekend. Love you!

If you’re not related to me and read this far, I love you too.

This past Friday, I had to say goodbye to Jax. I knew it was coming; he was very sick, but knowing hasn’t helped. Missing him is overwhelming and so, so heavy. I started this when he was still here but couldn’t finish until he was gone. It’s not award-winning writing, but it’s heartfelt.

It’s breaking me watching you fade

Knowing I can’t stop what’s in store

I hold you today with aching arms

As I wish for just one more

I hear my pain echoed by others

Those who’ve loved and lost as well

“But we’re different” I cry, knowing that’s not true

Because their hearts also beat as mothers

There’s love, then there’s us

There’s connection, then this

As I look into your eyes, a reflection of love

There’s just too much that I’ll miss

I want

One more day, one more night

One more, one more, one more

I hear it in your breath

And I know the end is near

Our days are heavy with closure

I can’t imagine you not here

Each breath is a gift wrapped in hope

Whose paper I don’t want to tear

I hold on tight, loving you alive

I can’t face what I can’t bear

I need

One more day, one more night

One more, one more, one more

They say perfection doesn’t exist

And I’d always believed that was true

But now I know perfection is real

I found it when I found you

I hear it in your breath

I know the end is near

Your days are filled with closure

I can’t imagine you not here

Every breath is a gift wrapped in hope

Of one more day, one more night

One more, one more, one more

This loss will change me

Just like loving you has

Who I’ll be is still unknown

But I know I’ll be a little bit less

So, for today, I’ll try to enjoy

Being whole a little while longer

As I kiss your head and feel you breathe

I’ll focus on becoming stronger

Because I believe love can heal

I know that you’ve healed me

Loving a dog is the ultimate gift

And so is setting them free

I’ll hold you then as I hold you now

And look into your eyes

I’ll tell you you’re loved and free to go

And that death can’t break our ties

I’ll set you free from your hurt

As a new agony settles inside

Living my life without you here

Will leave a whole that’s almost too wide

I’ll look to fill it with memories of you

And pictures of your sweet face

I’ll take comfort in knowing you don’t hurt

And are in a happy place

But every morning when I wake

And remember you’re not here

I’ll close my eyes and wish once more

That I could’ve kept you near

Just

One more day, one more night

One more

It’s been a while since I posted, so I thought I should send a note to let people know I’m not dead.

What I have been is busy. And a little sad.

In January I had to say goodbye to my dream of having my first book, What’s Left is Hope, picked up by a publisher. After months out on submission, my agent and I had to call it: Time of death, 12:15 pm on January 24, 2024. I had my rights to the book reverted back to me. I cried.

For those who know me, you know how hard I’ve worked on this book. How many rewrites, how many queries, how many pitches, requests, REJECTIONS I had. How thrilled I was when I finally signed with my agent. It was happening!!! Each time a publisher requested the full manuscript I was sure that was it. My dream would come true. 

Saying goodbye to that dream was crushing and I took some time to feel all the feels. Then I got back on the horse, or the chair in this case. I reworked the book based on publisher feedback and submitted to a writing competition where I got the feedback, “I truly hope this project sees the light of day. It was a riveting read.” Oh my yay!!!

I then took the plunge and submitted to a small press in the UK. I was sure THIS was it!

I got the rejection last week. I didn’t cry this time; I had no tears left. 

Now, I’m at a crossroads. While Hope was out on submission, I spent those months writing a new book, The Lonely Only Club, which I’m very proud of. I have two full-length completed novels and no one to read them because they’re sitting on my laptop.

What’s a writer to do in this situation?

Self-publish!

I'm tired of waiting. I believe I have a good story in What’s Left is Hope. I know what it takes to market a book, I did it with Just Tell Me I’m Pretty. I’m ready to have my book in the hands of readers. The worst that can happen is no one buys it, which is already happening now! Plus, I know my mom and dad will buy a few copies, so it won’t be a total loss. :)

I hope others will too and that you all will love Hope, Gabe, Asher, Kate, Bryce and Shawn as much as I do. That you’ll see parts of yourself in these characters. That you’ll root for Hope as much as I did and that you’ll find yourself laughing, crying, and in the end, full of hope.

Because in the end, What’s Left is Hope.

 She headed to the trail head and as she had every day for the past two and a half weeks, she said a simple prayer to the universe before starting her walk.

 “May I be well.

May I be at peace.

May I be free from pain.”

When she first started these walks and her prayer, she’d felt silly. She didn’t believe in prayer, or a higher power. But the more she did it, the more she felt like maybe there was something to it. At least she felt like she was doing something. Visualizing a time when she didn’t feel like she wanted to escape her skin, leave her body behind and be free from the emotions it kept stuck inside, she could almost remember the happy.

As she put one foot in front of the other, the memories came. She tried fighting them at first but that was useless, they came anyway, so now she said hello silently and let them play through their reel.

Their wedding day, her white gown dirty at the edges from the grass stains. Him in his tuxedo, smiling like he’d won the lottery. Their friends and family, wishing them well, laughing with them, witnessing their joy, their promises, and their love.

The honeymoon full of a sun they rarely saw because they didn’t leave the hotel much. Sipping a pina colada by the pool - in the evening - while they shared a plate of hotel nachos, him saving the guacamole for her because he knew she loved it.

“I love seeing the sun on your skin, but I can’t wait to see the snow in your hair,” he’d told her that night. He loved winter, loved the snow, and had already planned their winter vacation to Whistler.

The day she came home from a hard day at work to a bouquet of balloons in the living room, takeout from her favorite Italian place on the table and him dressed only in her heart adorned apron with a wine glass in his hand.

His smile.

His laugh.

His hands.

His smell.

He was everywhere now. In her mind, on her heart. Their sheets held his smell, his towel was still on the rack. His lone sock on the bathroom counter, still waiting for its mate. How could he feel so present when he was gone? How was it fair that they’d only had 5 months of marriage? Why did the disease come for him?

She was making use of her tissues when she saw a cardboard box on the side of the trail ahead of her. It was moving. She stopped, wondering if a wild animal was inside. The she heard a whimper. It was a language she understood. One of fear, heartache, and loneliness. She carefully approached the box and looked inside.

Two brown eyes stared up at her amidst a tangle of black fur. The same shade of brown she’d fallen in love with and lost. The tiny body was shivering in the winter cold. It been whimpering but when the puppy looked up and saw her, it let out a yelp and tried to climb the side of the box. A laugh escaped as Jenny watched the small bundle of fur try to get to her. She reached in, carefully and pulled it up. A boy. He was shivering but he licked her face, and she melted.

She looked in the box and saw someone had left a blanket, a small bag of food that was empty and a chew toy. Someone had left this puppy out here alone on purpose. The box hadn’t been her yesterday, so she knew the pup hadn’t been out here too long.  Jenny felt a rage build up - part for humanity for being able to be so callous and horrid and part for the universe for allowing horrible things to happen. 

She put the puppy inside her coat and turned to head back. Cradled in her arms, he immediately fell asleep. 

 He snored. 

 She smiled.

As she unlocked her car and set the sleeping pup inside, turning on the seat warmer and the heater on high, she looked at the trail entrance. She came here because this was where he’d brought her to propose. This day, one year ago. As they’d stood in the middle of the trail, the tall trees their canopy from the winter cold that had come early he’d asked, and she’d said yes. 

She closed the door and walked to the driver’s side. Then she felt it: Snow.

Looking up into the white blind sky she felt it, an inhale that expanded her stomach and chest. A fullness. A peace. 

“I miss you. Thank you for sending the gift,” she whispered, looking through the window at the tiny sleeping joy inside.

She understood, the universe had been listening.

‘Tis the season, that magical time of year

When the Elf on the Shelf comes, to spread Christmas cheer

His gangly red limbs, my boys do adore

His weird ass smile, I do deplore

Each night in panic, at midnight I wake

Rushing to move him, so much at stake!

My boys still believe, the magic is real

But I hate this elf, that’s just how I feel

Each night must be better than the one before

I’m out of ideas, I’ll scour the internet no more

So maybe this year Jingle comes with a letter

“I’m old these days and I’m not getting better

It’s all I can do to get here each night

So I’m staying put, in the line of sight

No more flour angels, no more Lego scenes

I’m old, I’m tired, and you know what that means?

I’m retiring next year, this Christmas is it

I’m moving to Maui; no more Christmas sh*t.”

He’ll sign it with love, my boys will cry

“Why is Jungle retiring Mommy, why oh why?”

I’ll look at their faces, all sweet and sad

And tell them it’s because their fighting made Jingle mad.

Did you all know I have a WILDLY improbable dream of meeting Hoda Kotb? So much so, What's Left is Hope has a main character who also loves Hoda & talks to her throughout the book (in her head of course).

The TODAY Show has a Connect page where you can connect with Hoda and Jenna. There, you can nominate someone for a makeover. Guess who got nominated?

Me!

By whom?

Me!

I wrote a friggen book called Just Tell Me I'm Pretty and to say that's the last thing I feel lately is an understatement.

Is feeling pretty vital to my survival? No. Is it vain? Probably. Is it helping the world in any way? No. Does any of that matter really? Also no.

When I published JTMIP, someone reached out with an article on why pretty shouldn't be a goal (or something like that). I don't hinge my value as a human on how I look. That said, I've always loved the girly things in life: makeup, curls in my hair, outfits I adore, painted toes and nails, and all things sparkly. I "think" as an evolved woman I'm supposed to shun all that and even look down on any woman who admits she wants any of that in her days. At the bare minimum, I’m not supposed to ADMIT any of this!

I refuse.

If mascara makes me feel better, bring it (even though I can't wear it anymore due to dry-eye). If lipstick makes me smile wider, slather that shit on (as long as it's titanium dioxide free). If curling my hair gives me a pep in my step, curl away (although I can’t because my hair’s falling out). Ugh.

I'm tired of feeling like there's some script for how to be a woman today, a strong woman, an evolved woman, a powerful woman. There isn't and we don't get any sort of certificate or award for denying the things that bring us joy (unless the joy is heroin or something harmful to ourselves or others, then yes, deny that joy).

So, I'm going after a makeover. A frivolous, un-evolved, stupid, vain, makeover. If it happens and I get to meet Hoda, WOOT! If it doesn't, I'll continue to write, to teach my writing classes which bring me more joy than I thought possible, to love my friends and family, and to try to bring some good to the world.

I'll do it in my normal, non-TODAY Show clothes, without mascara, with bright pink lipstick, hair in a bun, and I'll be grateful. Then, I’ll try to figure out another way to meet Hoda that won’t get me labeled a stalker and go buy a new outfit on my own.

Shane slams on his brakes about 7 seconds too late. The car in front of him makes contact with his front bumper and his first thought is, “How did they back into me so hard?”

At almost the same time his body is forced forward as another jolt impacts his car from behind and the sound is a physical force. How can sound be so loud and why does he feel it in his chest?

Once everything stops, the sounds, the engine, the shrieking in his brain, he tries to take a deep breath. It’s funny how hard it is to inhale while a steering wheel is sitting on your chest. Or in your chest, in Shane’s case.

I just need to get butter, he keeps thinking as the woman from the car in front of him gets out of her car and looks back at him, stunned. There’s blood on her face. I wonder if she was going to the store too, he thinks. Maybe they would have passed each other in the dairy aisle in another universe, him nodding politely as he waited for her to grab a pack of butter. She would have smiled and thanked him for waiting, turned her cart and left. He never would have thought about her again.

Now, he’s taking in this woman who is walking in slow motion to his car. Her dark hair has come loose from her ponytail and a few strands are stuck in her lip-gloss. She doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

Kara has hair almost as dark as this woman’s. But Kara’s is longer and thicker. She complains about how heavy it is.

“Why don’t you cut it? That would cut down on the weight, har har.”

“Because I like it long. It feels like a warm hug around my shoulders and back. I can live with the weight,” she would reply, pulling it into a ponytail.

The woman is now at his window. He can see her eyes, brown, nothing like Kara’s green eyes. She’s knocking and he can hear her asking if he’s okay. He can tell the moment she sees his abdomen. Her hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wide and she looks around. Probably looking for help, or a way out of this nightmare. She looks behind his car, to the car with its nose is in his trunk, and she chokes. Tears are everywhere, on her face, her shirt, in Shane’s ears.

He looks in the rearview mirror and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The car behind him has no windshield. It’s cracked and hanging off to the left side and someone is laying on the hood of the car. They’re facedown and not moving and Shane is glad he can’t see more. There’s a man behind the wheel who is staring out the driver’s side window not moving.

Shane looks away.

He should call Kara and let her know he doesn’t have the butter. She’s waiting for it so she can make the cake. She’s been agonizing for weeks over this cake.

“I think we should make a strawberry cake. She loves pink and I can decorate it with pink and white icing flowers.”

“That would be pretty,” he’d said, falling in love with her a little more as he basked in her excitement.

“Or maybe lemon? Yellow and white flowers would be pretty too.”

“Honey, she’s only one. I think she’ll love whatever sugared concoction we put in front of her and let her faceplant into.”

Kara had laughed then, and he remembers thinking she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her joy at planning their daughter Hailey’s first birthday had consumed his wife for weeks and even though he thought making such a big to-do about her first birthday was over the top, he loved seeing how excited Kara was. She’d finally decided to stick with strawberry, and she spent hours lost online looking up cake recipes.

“I want it to be healthy but still yummy,” she’d said and didn’t appreciate Shane declaring that wasn’t possible.

She’d made three different cakes in the past two weeks, insisting he sample each one and waiting eagerly as he chewed. They all tasted the same he thought - pink and bland - but he couldn’t disappoint Kara and he didn’t think Hailey would care, so he finally declared the last one the winner.

“Delicious,” he’d said, as she clapped her hands grinning.

“It’ll taste better once it’s frosted. I’m going to splurge and do a buttercream frosting, but not too thick.”

This was why he needed butter. Kara had discovered they were out when she went to take the sticks out to get to room temperature that morning. He thought she might start crying when she realized she’d need to add a trip to the store to her already full to-do list for the party, so he’d wrapped her in his arms and told her he’d go.

“You don’t have to do everything yourself,” he’d reminded her. “We’re a team. I’m a very capable human being.”

She relaxed into him. “You’re the best, thank you. Hailey and I are so lucky to have you.”

“The luck is all mine,” he’d replied, meaning it.

Shane was brought back to the present when his passenger door was opened.

“Sir are you able to move?” the young paramedic asked.

Shane looked at him and wondered if his mom had made him a special cake with buttercream frosting for his first birthday.

He closed his eyes, wanting to go back to his memory of this morning, when he was whole, and everything was filled with joy.

Hailey, standing in her crib, dimpled legs bouncing in her morning delight at being awake in the world.

Kara, messy bun, and her favorite pink pajamas, carrying Hailey into the kitchen singing Happy Birthday as his little girl giggled and reached for him.

Him, taking his daughter in his arms and relishing the weight of her, the warmth and the love that came with holding her.

“Sir, we’re going to get you out. Sir, can you tell me your name?”

Shane opened his mouth, but his throat was dry, and he immediately closed it. They’d find his license soon and know his name. He was too tired to try to speak.

He could hear the sounds around him, the sirens, the man in the car behind him wailing, “No no no.” When he opened his eyes he saw the crowd gathering, the police telling people to move on, back up. He knew this scene would be broadcast to someone’s social media, #accident #sosad, #death.

He felt his body being moved and then he felt the pain. Hot, stabbing, stealing his breath and his desire to remain conscious. He felt hands on him, voices trying to get into his head while his own head lay slack and heavy. He felt his body on a stretcher the pain now excruciating as he lay flat instead of propped up with the steering wheel keeping him upright. He smelled the blood, acidic, metallic, and rubbery from the tires.

He didn’t know how long he laid on the stretcher before being loaded into the ambulance. He was at home again, in bed with Kara, Hailey between them, the TV blaring some silly kids show with ridiculous but upsettingly catchy music that he knew he’d be humming again tomorrow in the shower. He looked at his wife and daughter and wondered how a kid with an alcoholic dad and a mom who left when he was three could have pulled himself out of the fate that was in store for him and find his way to college, to the English lit class that sat him next to kara and into this bed with this tiny perfect being.

“His name was Shane Gray, age 32.”

“Blue Toyota?”

“No, the gray Honda. He was the middle man.”

The middle man.

Was.

“Love doesn’t stop because we want it to either. When we love someone and are no longer able to love them the way we want, in this case, Dan took himself out of your marriage, hate is the only available pathway to keep a channel of communication open. It’s a way to keep the closeness you once had with him alive, albeit in a negative way. Because of your kids, you’re unable to disconnect completely from Dan. Even if you wanted to move far away and never speak to him again, you can’t. The only way for your mind to reconcile this and allow you to keep a relationship open with Dan for the sake of your kids, is to protect you with hate. It’s not safe to love Dan anymore, he’ll only hurt you. You need to feel safe. Hate brings that safety.”

“Therapy sucks,” I say.

“Yeah, it can suck to go through all these emotions. But at some point, you’ll be glad you did.”

“Does it ever stop hurting?” I ask.

“What? Loss?”

I nod.

“Not everyone’s the same but in what I’ve seen with my clients is there are some losses that will always be felt. The pain of the loss can dim, but it never goes away completely. Other losses do fade, but those tend to be the ones that weren’t felt as deeply. Here’s what I know for sure, you will be okay. You’ll get through this icky time in your life, and you’ll be better for it. It’s who you are, you’re a strong person Hope. And a really, really good person. I believe you’ll find love again and that while you might always have feelings for Dan, they’ll be less hate filled and more caring for him as the father of your boys and your first love. I believe you’ll get through this grief over your mom, the anger will subside, and you’ll be left with the happy memories.”

“I hope so.”

“That’s the best thing to have. That’s what’s left at the end of the day.”

I nod absentmindedly not really listening but focusing on the emptiness in the office.

“Wait, what’s the best thing to have?”

“Hope. That’s what’s left when everything else feels heavy, scary, and sad. Hope.”

Photo by Yelena Odintsova

Hello friends, I’m hoping to generate excitement for my book, What’s Left is Hope, which is hopefully coming to a bookshelf near you before I’m dead. That’s a LOT of hope. This is a diary excerpt written by my main character, Hope. Anyway, hope you enjoy it. Giggle.

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Dear Diary,

Dear Journal,

To Me,

Dear Hoda,

Hey Hoda. Don’t worry, this isn’t another letter about how we should meet. My therapist Joanne is making me do this. Well, she didn’t say I needed to write to you, just that I should journal, but I couldn’t figure out how to begin. I figured since this is all kinda silly anyway, I might as well write to you.

So, I’m supposed to use this as a place to be honest and work through my emotions, my past, my present, my future. That’s a lot for a journal to take on I think.

I just had a panic attack in my closet. I burned the nachos. And now, I’m trying to make everything in my life better by writing to you here.

Joanne says I need to be honest, so I will.

Right now, I’m feeling emotional because I read an article that said they’ve found high amounts of lead and cadmium in chocolate. Especially dark chocolate and even the organic kind. I had to look up cadmium. I found out it’s the chemical element of atomic number 48, a silvery-white metal. Oh, and it’s also a cancer-causing substance. FFS. I could handle giving up almost any other food or treat but chocolate?? It’s my life-force some days. Most days. Okay, every day. And don’t tell me I can have white chocolate because that’s not even chocolate. It’s like a sad, unloved chocolate that wants to be like its cocoa caressed sibling. Honestly, I’ll probably still indulge. I mean, something is going to take me out so it might as well be something I love. Plus, the way these things go we’ll find out in 2 years that study was done on worker ants who were fed five pounds of chocolate every hour and not relevant for humans at all. Like the whole egg debacle. They’re good, they’re bad, they’re good and now they’re impossible to find because the bid flu is wiping out all the chickens. So yes, I’ll continue hiding and eating my chocolate. Hey! That’s a positive, I hide my chocolate, so I’m not feeding it to my boys therefore, protecting them and being a good mom.  Yay me!

That DID feel good to get off my chest and work though. Maybe journaling will be helpful.

Till next time,

Hope

p.s. Oh, my mom was bi-polar.

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Obituaries

Edith Prouse, 87, died Wednesday after a fall in her home. A devout Catholic, she’s survived by her son’s Jack and Terry and grandchildren Mark, Ellie, Stacy, and Lily.

Edith spent her time in worship, service to others, and caring for her family. Her late husband Larry called her, “A woman of the Lord and owner of my heart.”

Funeral services will be held at Taggart Funeral Home on Sunday, October 19, 2022.

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James Norfolk, 93, died Thursday after a long fight with cancer. He’s survived by his wife Margot, daughter Lisa, and grandchildren Luke and Kyle.

James was an avid outdoorsman up until his last day, with his greatest joy being deer hunting. A former Army veteran who served in both the Korean and Vietnam wars, James was a proud American who loved his country, family, and the Lord.

Funeral services will be held at Taggart Funeral Home on Sunday, October 19, 2022.

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Jack and his wife Linda arrived at the funeral home 10 minutes late. Usually he’d be a wreck, knowing he let his mother down with his tardiness, but today he didn’t have to worry about that. He parked and they went inside to find his brother.

Jack saw Terry talking to his aunt Lydia. He saw the casket but wasn’t ready to go up there yet. He wasn’t sure he could handle seeing his mother’s face now. He wanted to remember her the way she was when he last saw her. Alive in her flowered dress, her silver curls perfect, and her lips painted with the orange lipstick she was never without, even though her hands shook so badly she could no longer paint within the lines and the result was more clownish than anything.

Terry saw his brother, excused himself and the two hugged.

“They dressed her in a man’s suit,” Terry whispered into Jack’s ear.

“What do you mean a man’s suit?” Jack asked, his face immediately red and his eyes looking towards the front of the church.

“Lydia said they got the clothing mixed up and put her in someone else’s suit.”

“But she’s a woman! We brought in a dress. Why did they think we’d have brought in a suit? Isn’t that something they might ask about just to be sure? I doubt many 87-year-old women want to be buried in a man’s suit. Does it even fit?” Jack asked.

“That’s what I thought too and no, it doesn’t fit. That should have been the first clue. It’s about five sizes too big.”

Jack started walking full speed down the aisle, ignoring the well-wishers who tried to offer condolences. When he got to the casket, he didn’t know whether to cry, scream or give in and laugh. His Catholic mother, who never wore a pair of pants in her life, let alone a suit, was dressed in not only a suit, but the worst looking suit Jack had ever seen. It was a sad brown color that Jack thought looked too much like the dump his dog Milo took that morning. She had on a mustard yellow dress shirt and since the shirt was so big, they’d tied an ugly dark brown tie tight around her neck, so the shirt collar bunched up. Since they’d assumed by the clothing choice they’d mistakenly dressed her in that she didn’t want anything to do with femininity, they’d skipped any makeup outside of the foundation and a slight bit of blush to make her face look less dead.

Terry stood next to Jack and the two brothers stared at their mom.

‘She’d be so angry,” Terry said. Jack nodded. He was lost in imagining the beat down the funeral director would have taken from his mom. She’d probably even bring her wooden kitchen spoon to bat his over the head.

The brother’s stood in silence until Jack could feel terry moving. He glanced sideways and saw Terry’s shoulders shaking, then he took in his brother’s smile. Jack couldn’t’ hold onto the anger anymore, the situation was so ridiculous and all the sadness he’d been carrying since his mom passed needed a way out. Since he didn’t think his body held any more tears, it came out in laughter. Jack and Terry looked at one another and they were both laughing. Not just a snicker, but the kind of laugh that curls you up into yourself, bending your back and spreading your lips wide so you can’t close your mouth. No sound came out at first, the laughter had stolen their breath, which was fine since it looked like maybe they were crying in grief. But once they each found their breath, about six seconds apart, their voices followed and there was no mistaking the laughter for anything other than what it was.

Everyone in the church turned to watch them. At first there was silence, then a few snickers here and there. Then their aunt Carole joined them and soon she had to sit down she was laughing so hard.

When Terry was able to catch his breath he asked, “Who do you think is wearing her dress?” That set the brother’s off in another round of hysterics. That’s when they all heard a scream from down the hall. They turned to look and soon a woman came running in.

“My dad is wearing a dress!” she shouted to the room.

Jake looked at Terry, a knowing look. They’d found their mother’s dress.

“You’re the only other funeral happening. Do you have my dad’s suit?” she asked, her face a portrait of panic and grief and the brother’s thought, maybe the beginnings of laughter.

Jack and Terry nodded and pointed to the casket. They were still trying to recover from their fit.

The woman walked to the casket and as soon as she looked in it happened. She took in their mother, the horrible suit, looked up and broke into giggles. The giggles soon turned into full-blown laughs, and she leaned on the casket for support. Once she calmed down she told Jack and Terry, “My dad is dressed in a flowered bedspread of a dress, his hair – what was left of it - was curled and they put makeup on him. Makeup! He’s wearing a soft corral lipstick! How did this happen?”

“I don’t know but guessing someone is about to have a very bad day when we bring this up to the funeral director,” Terry said.

“Well, what do we do now? Do we change their clothes or just bury them?” Jack asked.

“Ummm, I’m not changing her clothes,” Terry said. Jack nodded and the woman said, “I don’t know if I can bury my dad in makeup. It seems wrong but then again, he can’t care. Maybe we just leave them be.”

“I think that’s best but we both should get a huge discount. And I would like to get mom’s earrings on her,” Jack said.

“Yes, they’re lovely pearls. Not my dad’s usual style though,” the woman said before crumbling into laughter again. “I’ll try and wipe the lipstick off him. It makes him look pale.”

The laughter erupted again as she went back to her dad’s funeral.

They all agreed later, it was the most uplifting service they’d ever experienced.

I'm not an optimist by nature. Oh, how I wish I was. I've tried to change who I am, which usually leaves feeling like I'm working to change my eye color. Impossible. I’ve mastered the skill of the negative. With a new year here, I’ve been reflecting on the past, on the present, on who I am and who I want to be. I’m beginning to think maybe I don't need to BECOME an optimist. Maybe I don't need to BECOME anything. Maybe I just need to BE grateful – and be me.

I’ve always wanted to master gratitude. I've tried it before, but I always struggle. I start with a passion, the lists, the meditations, the hope. Then something happens that hurts, or is hard, or sucks and I fall back into old habits. I focus on the hard, the pain, the anger, and what's lost. I beat myself up for failing, I sit in the dark, and I feel overwhelming feels. I allow an invisible enemy to win and I tell myself gratitude doesn't work because I still struggle with the sads.

Maybe, that's okay! Maybe gratitude isn’t an art to master or a skill to possess but an on-going practice. Maybe there's no mastering but more of a "participation certificate" in gratitude.

I’m ready to give myself grace. To be grateful for the sad because it means I feel. I've been engulfed in big emotions my whole life, it's who I am. I sad big and I happy big. I’ve noticed though, the sad times are when the gratitude is missing, when I can't find the light.

But maybe…

… the light's always there. It might dim at times but if I look for it, focus, I always find it, bright and waiting. Maybe, it’s okay to not possess it, to simply hold it for a bit, enjoy its warmth, and let it go. That might be what makes it shine brighter, become magical each time I rediscover it. Sometimes, my eyes need a rest and I know when I’m ready, I’ll look around and there it will be. Bright and ready to be taken in.

So, today I’m grateful. Because today I have the opportunity, the desire, and the freedom to look for the light. And if tomorrow brings a dimming, or even a darkness, I’ll rest until I’m ready to let the light in again.

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Hollywood actors get a lot of credit and accolades. Oscars, lifetime achievement awards, tons of money. But, some of the BEST actors, the truly gifted at becoming someone else, are never recognized.

Because they do it in private.

Because they're SO GOOD, no one knows they're playing a role.

They're the people who struggle internally. Those who feel a void inside, a sadness, a despair, fear, anxiety. Those who sometimes have to use every ounce of strength to push away the darkness and keep looking for the light.

Those who smile when they don't want to. Who listen when they want to share. Who take and take and take what others give - even when it's not healthy - and keep going.

It's the people who show the world one face, because that's what the world wants to see, and who hide their frowns, their tears and their struggle.

These are the true actors because they do it not for money or awards but to survive.

Honestly, I think it's most of us. If not most, then a lot.

My wish is that everyone could stop acting. That we all felt comfortable enough to show ALL our sides, even the dark sides. That we could notice the signs of someone who's performing and go offer them a soft ear, a place to lay down their costume of perfection and just be. That we understood life is NOT supposed to be easy, carefree, and without struggle. The struggle is what makes the happy, the ease, and the joy even MORE wonderful!

This is a hard time of year for a lot of people. I hope those that struggle find someone who will open the curtain, show them the light and sit with them while their eyes adjust enough to take it in.

And then, once they see the light, they share it.

Hopefully, a child’s first Christmas is special.

There’s delight in seeing their eyes take in everything, the lights, the music, the wrapped gifts under the tree. There’s excitement (and worry) seeing Santa for the first time, hoping to be handed a picture of your baby smiling on his lap but more often, seeing pure terror in your child’s eyes for the first time. The terror that will be memorialized for eternity.

There’s excitement in picking out just the right gift for a baby who won’t know the difference between the gift and the box, often choosing the latter to explore and play with.

There’s anticipation of the future, when you can share with them the magic of Santa (or choose not to and enjoy the freedom that comes from not having to remember which gift came from Santa and which from you).

The first Christmas is a gift of joy, of hope for future joys, and traditions you’ll either hand down or begin.

Then, before you know it, it’s the first Christmas again. The first one without them home.

This is my first Christmas again and this holiday feels wrong, like that jolly, fat man decided I’ve been naughty and filled my season with confusion and coal.

This Christmas, I wrap his gifts but now I’m not in a rush to get them under the tree. He’s not here to see them until … I don’t know. We don’t play the guessing game, the one where he asks a 1000 questions and then usually ends up guessing what’s in each box.

This year, it’s me and my youngest. He loves Christmas but not in the fervent way my oldest did. He’s calmer, quietly inspecting the gifts, marveling at how beautifully one is wrapped and smiling before going upstairs to chat with his friends.

This year there’s no decorating gingerbread houses, the walls, roof and adornments scattered across the table, half-eaten before they’re fully together.

This year, I filled our advent calendar with only one candy treat each day.

This year, the fridge is eggnog free.

There’s confusion this year too because I’m wrestling with the wanting. Wanting the past to do the impossible and become present.

The past when the boys were small, dressed in Iron Man and Mario footie pajamas, splayed by the tree, counting gifts, guessing, while sucking on a candy cane. I want the “stress” of getting them to bed so I can Santa my way down with their morning gifts, unseen hopefully, while praying morning comes at 7am but knowing I’ll be coffee infused by 5am.

I want the videos of them opening each gift, one boy tearing into wrapping and running in circles of joy while yelling, the dog chasing his heels, and one boy slowly, meticulously removing the tape so as not to tear the wrapping because, “it’s so beautiful.”

I want the past and I want the present.

This new present where the holidays are easier because there’s no Santa story to uphold and the elves can sit their red asses in the same spot each night. This present where my heart expands as I see my oldest take true joy in buying everyone he loves a gift he chose, with his own money, a gift he has a hard time keeping secret until the 25th.

I want these days with my youngest because I know what’s coming. I truly understand time and how it runs now, faster, and faster into the future.

This is his first Christmas – our first Christmas with him as an adult out on his own. He has his own tree in his apartment, decorated with the ornaments they chose together, their own presents underneath. And yes, half have already been opened because, “we’re bad at Christmas.”

We’re adjusting and by next year, I’ll relax more into this new normal.

And when it comes time to write about my next first Christmas, the one where they’re both gone, I won’t be prepared. I won’t be ready, but I’ll do what we do as mothers – I’ll adjust.

I’ll look through the old pictures and watch the old videos. I’ll wrap the gifts, I’ll put out the elves. I’ll fill the advent calendar for when they do come. I’ll wait in anticipation for the big day when my boys come back to me. When I hug those men, I’ll whisper my gratitude that I get to be their mom. Gratitude that despite all the worry, the gray hairs from stress, I get to be their mom and experience their love. Gratitude for being able to watch them grow, because that has truly been my biggest joy.

I called my friend Dorothy to lament my on-going writer’s block.

“When do we have to admit our childhood version of adulthood was wrong?” I asked.

“I’m not ready to admit that yet. Why?”

“I’m sitting in my closet because it’s the only place no one looks for me, trying to finish writing this book. All I’ve managed to do is add four pounds of dehydrated cereal marshmallows to my Amazon cart.”

“Why so many marshmallows?” Dorothy asked.

“My boys hate when I eat all the Lucky Charms marshmallows on the way home from the store. This isn’t how I thought my life would be.”

“Me neither. I was sure I’d be rich after my aunt died and left me her fortune. I’d have traveled the world and live in Italy. Instead, I can’t afford to go to the new Italian restaurant, I’m divorced, and my 22-year-old son still lives at home. I’ll never experience the empty nest syndrome or know the joy of grandchildren.”

“You have a rich aunt?” I asked.

“No, but in my childhood dreams I did.”

“I was sure I’d be a NYT bestselling author whose books were made into movies. I’d be fit even though I hate exercise and sugar is my love language. I’d have lots of friends, sweet kids, a solid marriage, and I’d embrace aging with grace.

Instead, I have multiple books in various stages of un-doness, my kids play with my underarm fat, you’re my only friend and live two states away, I’m divorced, and I slept with silicone sticky pads on my neck to alleviate crepe skin and wrinkles. And these hot flashes mean I’m constantly a sweaty mess.”

 “Sweat is good! I just steamed my vagina. I’m a wellness guru now,” Dorothy said.

“How do you steam your vagina?” I asked, fascinated.

“I soak vaginal herbs in hot water. I sit on my squatty potty, put my nightgown over the bowl and meditate. Most people think it’s vaginal voodoo, but I like it.”

I added a squatty potty to my cart and looked up Vaginal Herbs.

They were on sale - 10% off.

“Here’s an herb mix for a calm vagina. Hmmm, how would I know if it’s stressed?”

“It’s tired all the time? Has trouble relaxing?”

I laughed.

“Don’t laugh too hard. It constricts abdominal muscles leading to a tight pelvic floor. Then you’ll have to see a pelvic floor therapist and trust me, getting your vagina to open up to a therapist is a physically and emotionally draining experience.”

I planned to use this in my book.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime. Next time I’ll tell you about the Solar Anus Yoga class I took. It was … astronomical!”