I was in the middle of washing dishes, and that line landed in my mind as some sort of epiphany. I let out a big sigh. My shoulders softened. I looked down at the sudsy sponge and said out loud, “Wow, seriously?”

Subscribe now

They don’t think about it as much as you do.

Sometimes I find myself in a bad loop of memories that I’d rather forget. Sometimes it’s me saying something that didn’t land well, or I’m replaying a scene over and over again. Or worse, I want to say what I actually meant, but didn’t have the words and wisdom at the time.

I think this is a common thread for those of us who’ve grown up in a family with challenging dynamics—especially when you were young and had to watch them play out.

Then you find yourself as a fully grown adult replaying it all. Trying to make sense.

They don’t think about it as much as you do.

The small, yet powerful, message from the universe that I don’t have to keep doing this to myself. I don’t have to keep stressing about what happened in the past. Pinpointing moments. Nitpicking conversations. Wishing for a magical solution.

I’ll just keep healing this way. With big, deep breaths.

Reminding myself, probably tomorrow: They don’t think about it as much as you do.

XO,

Marko

Katie is part of one of the deepest friendships I’ve been gifted with in this lifetime. She has watched me grow up and become who I am today. We’ve been through a lot together, and it was an honor to speak with her about self-expression. Naturally, I brought a few things to this conversation, including bits about my sexuality, how I operate as a creative and intuitive person in the world, and the promises I try to keep for myself.

Give it a listen and enjoy! (Episode recorded in October 2025 and published in June 2026)

If you missed it, a message for Pride.

“Gay is good. Gay is proud.” I honor all who’ve come before me and those who continue the good fight. May we bathe in moments of joy and not cut ourselves off to any of it. June is here and it will leave again. But every day is Pride. Every moment we live out loud is an act of protest. A living, breathing reminder to those who only see us for our sexuality that we are humans—sharing the same humanness. Being gay is never a sorry. It’s strength. It’s unconditional love. It’s openness. It’s a lifeline. Happy Pride, dear ones. I hope you feel proud always.

Thank you for being here.

XO,

Marko

I threw on some workout clothes and shoes, filled my large Ball jar with water, and headed the very short distance down to my basement. There, I chose the perfect playlist to jam to and jumped into the simple strength routine I’ve come to love.

Subscribe now

Everything felt great. I was completing sets efficiently and with more weight. I was proud and grateful for my body throughout the entire workout.

Once I started stretching and cooling down, a reel of memories and feelings began showing up as if they were flashcards in math class. One by one, I saw and felt: how a cabin and wicker furniture could further break a family, my dad’s addiction, when my aunt called me fat when I was young, and how accountability or apology has never been in the language of my family.

All big feelings I didn’t anticipate mulling through on a Thursday night, but I guess my body needed to. I sat there. Flooded. Feelings of hurt, of confusion, of frustration, of “it should have never gone that way,” but most of all the feeling of release.

For the last handful of years, I’ve been revisiting how I could heal the relationship dynamics within my family. I still don’t have the answer. And I’ve learned I don’t need to have one.

Sometimes families break apart. Sometimes there’s nothing to do but keep living, separately. And in everything I carry, I know this much: it was never my job to fix it. I was a child, born into dynamics that predated me—and now, as an adult, I feel like collateral damage in waves of other people’s pain. I’m a part of these stories, and somehow I’ve held them as if they were mine to hold. That was never fair to me.

When I sit with the stories still circling in my mind, I notice most of them aren’t mine. I was just there—a witness to the betrayal, the uncertainty. Mostly, I was a child tossed into chaos, in a family that never knew how to heal.

And you’re probably thinking, “Wow, that’s a lot to sit with after a workout.” You’re right, but these are the stories that sit within me. The experiences that allow me to write words. The moments that shaped who I am, right now.

When my body is done holding onto something, it asks me to let it go. So right there, on a foam mat, I stretched and let go of these trapped emotions—releasing what had bubbled to the surface.

I asked myself to let go with words my body understood.

Let it go. This was never mine to carry.

Let it go. I don’t have to worry anymore.

Let it go. I don’t have to fear.

Let it all go.

I am safe. I am enough. I am loved.

As the tears fell. My breath supported me. Letting it go.

This went on for a handful of minutes. To the point where I was like, “Okay, is this done?” And my body finally said, “For now.”

So there I sat. In the basement. Still sweating, yet lighter—choosing to feel rather than run from it.

Share

Family is so hard sometimes. It wasn’t until my late 20s and early 30s that I realized how tightly I was holding on to my family with my whole being.

For most of my younger life, I wished for normalcy. For light, fun moments we could all share together. For less conflict and hardness. Now, I realize that some people just can’t do it. They can’t take accountability for anything. For the hurt they cause or the stories they perpetuate.

And in my basement, I was done carrying it. I could have pushed it all away again, but I permitted myself to revisit and release.

I write this note with love in my heart for the complex relationships I have with people in and out of my life. I write it to heal. I choose to no longer run from the hardness that made me—because turning away is always easier. I am not perfect, but I’m doing the work.

May I always heal forward.

XO,

Marko

Share IN THIS LIGHT by Marko Dewhurst

When my grandpa died in late winter of 2022, I couldn’t believe it. He was a powerful force in my life, whether I wanted to admit it or not. On the night my mom called to tell me he was gone, I hung up the phone, and in the stillness of my dark office, I let out a deep, loud sob.

The next morning, I took the day off work to reflect on his life and our relationship. It was a cold day in February, and I imagined him sitting outside, smoking a Camel Straight, looking at me with a glint in his eye and saying, “This reminds me of ‘Nam.’” Tears welled in my eyes, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Then I cried again, wishing I had called him more.

I was bundled up in my warm clothes, walking, and facing the cold Minnesota winter. I imagined him beside me. As I looped through my St. Paul neighborhood, I began to get glimpses of memories—both good and bad. The rush of things he taught me and the things I wanted to forget started to haunt me.

Why couldn’t I just recall the better moments? The hugs that smelled like tobacco and black licorice, and, at times, bourbon. The water gun fights at the annual Fourth of July party at the family cabin. The ‘isms’ he always said, “go slow, make nice,” “what’s fair is fair.” The look he gave me when he was listening. The financial support he gave my mom, sister, and me when my dad fell into his drug addiction. All the stuff that made him my “Papa” was intermixed with negative memories I unsuccessfully buried.

So as I walked, I was confronted with memories and family issues that had no resolution.

When I was fifteen, my grandpa lunged across the dinner table at me for defending Obama’s economic policies. This was typical behavior when he had a couple of cocktails and felt he was in the right. He was a work-hard, play-harder type sprinkled with Reagan-era Republicanism. Me? I was gentle, creative, gay, and known for campaigning for John Kerry in my fourth-grade elementary class.

The irony is that out of all his grandchildren, I looked the most like him, or so I was told. We had straight, gapped teeth, strong legs, and, on a good day, were 5 feet 7 inches tall. His personality was charming to most, but he had a roughness about him that could be a bit much for me.

When my grandpa was in his forties, he inherited a successful mechanical engineering company after his dad died. Like me, he grew up on northern Minnesota’s Iron Range with tough, hardworking people who mostly worked in the taconite mines or owned businesses supported by the mines. And unlike me, he was born into a relatively financially well-off family–a difference that has only become clearer to me over time.

We were two people with similar genes, but from different generations and backgrounds, with two different ways of living in the world.

Subscribe now

In 2012, I was seventeen, and the mining industry was still recovering from the ‘08 economic recession. As it always seemed to be. I can imagine the pressure that mining-supported businesses, like my grandpa’s, were feeling.

At this time, I was finding my place in the world, starting to see who I wanted to be, and separating myself from my family. I grew up in the middle of dysfunctional dynamics and couldn’t wait to go to college. Mostly, I wished for my family to get along. I longed for the days we were all together at the cabin—laughing, playing on the beach, grilling, inner tubing, and water skiing. Everyone together in a place we loved.

That same year, my twin sister and I were a part of our high school’s Spanish club and fundraising for a trip to Costa Rica. I hated fundraising, so of course, we were falling behind on the cash we needed to get there. My Mom asked us to call our grandpa for the rest of the money, but since I didn’t like asking him for anything, she called him and told me to pick up the check. I was a bit reluctant because I felt his help came with terms I no longer wanted to follow. To him, I had always been the compliant, listen-to-everyone grandson. I was so tired of playing that role.

I pulled up in my old Jeep, walked through the door, and greeted his secretary, who told me he was in his office. Grateful for the money he was giving us, I walked in, but sensed the energy was off. He was standing at his drafting table and looked at me with an expression I couldn’t fully read.

My heart started to race, wondering what he was going to say. My back was to the door, and I felt like I wanted to turn around and run out the door.

As if in slow motion, his mouth opened and said, “Take down that message. Right now.”

He just stood there, looking at me through his cheaters, and waited for my explanation.

I nervously replied, “What are you talking about?”

I had no idea, and I don’t think he did either.

He gave me a non-answer, “Just take it down.”

My mind was flipping like a Rolodex, and the one place that made the most sense was my social media posts. Not wasting any time, I took out my phone and started scrolling through my Facebook and Twitter feeds, hoping something would quickly show itself so I could get the hell out of there.

I found it. A one-line Tweet, I wish things could go back to the way they were at the cabin. Pretty vague and something that only someone with a broader context would understand.

I showed him the tweet on my phone and said, “Is this what you’re talking about?”

He read it and, in his gravelly voice, he yelled, “Take it down and don’t ever talk about our family again.”

Falling right back into my role as rule follower, I deleted it on the spot. My grandpa was visibly annoyed and disappointed in me, yet was always happy when I listened. Because I always listened.

He then handed me the check, returned to his engineering drafts, and didn’t look up at me again as I left his office.

I got into my car, took a deep breath to calm my shaking hands, and turned on the engine. I drove in silence, reenacting the whole scenario in my mind. My sadness quickly turned into anger. Why was I being silenced for how I feel? I had the right to feel however I felt about the cabin and the family dynamics it created. Why couldn’t I miss the simpler times of being a child at a place that meant so much to me?

I later searched for the person who ratted me out. I went through my 100 Twitter followers. Bingo. My aunt’s friend’s sister followed me. Blocked.

So when my grandpa died, this is one of the strongest memories I was left with. I wish it had just rolled off my back. But it didn’t. There’s an unfinishedness that lives within me. And as I’ve thought more about it, it turned out to be a pivotal moment between us. It started with the lunge across the dinner table and showed up again in his office. Each instance signified a behavior I didn’t want to condone. I was young and wanted to make him proud. I was smart, and my perspective on the world was forming. I should have been given the space to express how I felt without such contempt.

I wish that moment in his office had opened up a bigger conversation between us. I wish I could have said, “No, I’m not taking down my Tweet, Papa. That’s how I feel. Can we just sit down and talk?”

Wishing his reply was, “Ok, yes. Let’s sit and talk it out.” And from there, we could have solved all of the problems at hand–crying, laughing, whatever. It could have been a transformative conversation for us, but it wasn’t.

Share

I now know it never was about the Tweet. I think it had more to do with where he was in life. He was upset that his kids didn’t get along. His daughter, my mom, set her silent boundaries and stepped away from the family. His cabin was now a battleground for memories rather than a place of peace, or maybe because the economic ups and downs of living in a mining community affected his business. Any combination of these scenarios could push someone to lash out over a handful of words that spoke even a small truth.

My grandpa always wanted control over everything in his world. He wanted me to be his rule-following, ‘A’ student grandson, and I wanted him to pull our family back together—expectations neither of us expressed. What happened in his office was just a small piece of a huge puzzle that a 17-year-old me couldn’t solve, and someone decades older couldn’t either.

When I think about him right now, I know I always loved him. Fully liking him was a different story, but there is beauty in this unfinishedness. In the conversations we never had. In the situations we never figured out. This space and distance between us allowed me to expand into the person I am today. Into the writer I am today. I’ve found meaning in our dysfunction and let it center me in what remains. We couldn’t have been more different, but our common place was always the love between “Papa” and his grandson. He showed up in his way, in his own time. I am grateful for it. A true testament to the complexity of our relationship. I think all things can live in this truth: We never finished talking, but maybe I’ve said enough for both of us.

XOXO,

Marko

Subscribe now

No matter how I’ve cut this tragedy over the years, I can never seem to soften it, because it can’t be softened. It is hard, gritty, and tragic. Something a family can never come back from, and mine didn’t. Before the accident, life may have been more beautiful, but after was less than idyllic. What I know is that I was a child trapped in the collateral damage of a life-changing event—not fully understanding the extent of the tragedy, but knowing enough to understand I would never see them again.

This year has been one of the hardest for me. I’ve yearned for their presence more than ever. I’ve also cried more and harder than ever. Because it really hasn’t gotten that much easier. A lot plays into the complex grief I carry. I not only lost the girls that day, but a part of my dad. I not only lost beloved family members, but the foundation of my immediate family: Mark, Jayne, Marko, and Katy started to break. March, the end of a Minnesota winter, always brings this up in me. I grieve a lot during this time of year. And now, in year twenty-five, I’m feeling it more than ever. I’m not fully sure why, but my body has kept this score. What I’ve grieved most is six-year-old me, who didn’t have the words to comprehend any of this. Now, as an adult, I do.

The wholeness of my life has been lived in “after the accident.” I don’t remember the happiness of before. At six years old, I hadn’t lived enough life for those memories to stay with me fully. What I remember instead is how every adult in my life was so sad and just holding it together. I watched, for years, people use their names as permission slips for bad behavior. I watched that hurt get covered by rose-colored glasses and perfectly appointed houses, all in the name of being together, being one big happy (dysfunctional) family. I saw how the adults in my life treated one another: no one ever did enough or said the right thing. Judgment prevailed in nearly every interaction. And even if anyone had fixed anything, we still couldn’t bring our girls back.

Now in my thirties, I have this deep yearning to know my Aunt Joni and my cousins, Annie and Stephanie. I knew them for such a short time on earth. Now I know them only through stories. But I want to know them today. I want to hear their voices and their laughs. I want to text them about the shows they’re watching or the projects they’re working on. I want to plan dinner dates and go on trips with them. Dammit.

What I’ve realized, on some spiritual level, is that I have groups of women in my life who fit their absence. Dear girlfriends in their late thirties, and some even into their early sixties. Women I love deeply. Women who support me and my dreams. I choose to believe my girls placed them in my life to say, “We can’t be there with you, but here are some rad chicks to help you get through.” Maybe that sounds a little ridiculous to less spiritual types, but it grounds me in these moments of grief.

Share IN THIS LIGHT by Marko Dewhurst

I know they have guided me and protected me throughout my life. I know I’ve used all this hurt and pain to build and create a good life. I’m grateful for that. I’m also grateful for the mom I have. For how she held us together in the best way she could. For how she had to explain this unfathomable reality to my sister and me. She told us they would always be with us—just not here in physical form. She let us know our girls were now the guardians watching over us in this life. Even all these years later, I still believe it. I have to.

This tragedy will always be something I carry. It has made me the writer I am today.

I’m okay. I always will be.

In this light.

XOXO,

Marko

What will others think?

I wonder if I write my heart, will people break it?

I wonder if I write my mind, will people hate me?

So, if I find my deepest truth and write from my chest and head, is it enough to protect me?

From the comments:

“That’s not true.”

“That hurt my feelings.”

“How could you write that?”

I answer:

If I’m to be true, I must write for me.

Because it’s better in this light.

Open and free.

Subscribe now

3 Beautiful Things

A view from a recent walk.

A book I finished reading and loved.

Share

A podcast that I enjoy weekly.

For now, take good care, more writing is coming.

XO,

Marko

How wonderful and strong the people of Minnesota are, how urban cities are built by immigrant communities, and how I still wasn’t wrapping my head around why my home was being targeted by an administration.

Subscribe now

I parked my car and hurried into the coffee shop, shivering from the cold. I saw my beautiful friend waiting for me, ordered my coffee, and we started catching up.

Within thirty minutes, I was getting texts from another friend about a shooting twenty blocks from where we were sitting.

I watched the staff scramble around, and through her tears, the manager announced that they were going to close for the rest of the day and that she wanted us to stay as long as we needed to enjoy our coffee, but she would be locking the doors to keep us safe.

I looked at my friend and around at the others; some had tears in their eyes and were holding hands, some were talking softly, and others weren’t talking at all. We texted our husbands to let them know we were okay.

All I could think was that this shouldn’t be happening here, let alone in America.

As we sat behind locked doors with coffee in our hands, it hit me how quickly here becomes everywhere. How much of what’s happening in our streets is being rewritten right before our eyes.

Minnesota has been in the news a lot. Minneapolis even more. With the occupation of ICE, the murders in our streets, and the tearing apart of family units, I find it hard to keep my head on straight. I’m finding it even harder to understand how people can turn a blind eye to what is happening here and across the rest of America.

Propaganda is at an all-time high. We saw it in the wake of George Floyd’s murder, and we are seeing it again, in real time. There are videos upon videos reverberating through social media, yet when you turn on the actual television, you see this administration spinning a story of good people doing no harm, only to see the actual harm ICE agents are doing to our communities and our people.

My heart aches for humanity.

It aches for the immigrants who’ve risked everything to build their American Dreams.

It aches for the families of Renee Good and Alex Pretti—and for others lost in this unnecessary violence.

It aches for the America I love.

I never really considered myself a political person, but when I think back, I am.

I’ve always been part of some form of political process—participating in kids’ voting initiatives throughout my schooling, campaigning for an office on the Student Council, or even reading Weekly Readers in elementary school, deciding I’d campaign for John Kerry in my 4th-grade classroom, and being disappointed by another George W. Bush presidency. Yet, no matter the outcome of elections, my public education in northern Minnesota taught me the importance of my civic duty to our nation.

When I was able to vote in my first election, it was the Obama/Romney face-off of 2012. The era of socially liberal and fiscally conservative politics. And little did I know, the last era of respectful politics.

This election meant something to me. The state of Minnesota was voting on gay marriage. At the time, I was a closeted gay boy in a rural town—voting for hope in Obama’s promise to America and for my future to marry. It was an honor and a symbol to me that I, as a newly minted 18-year-old, had the opportunity to invest in America’s destiny. I hoped that my one vote would do that for us.

When Obama won his final term and gay marriage was passed in Minnesota, I felt it in my whole body.

A pride I will never forget.

Share

My pride in our country has disintegrated over the last decade.

A part of me was left in 2016, with the hope of our first woman president, and another with Trump’s hateful rhetoric, inaction on COVID, and the dehumanization of all marginalized people.

A part of me was also left when we had another chance to elect our first woman president and gave it to a fascist felon, again.

By now, you’re reading and thinking, “Oh boo hoo, Marko, you liberal communist!” You can think that, and I’ll proudly wear it. But what I think about all that isn’t really important right now.

What concerns me most is that humanity has actually left the building.

It’s not about right- or left-wing politics anymore. It’s about what’s right and what’s not, and what we, as a nation, can no longer put up with.

We can’t let our country crumble like this or be taken over by people who pray at the altar of Donald Trump. (My god, what happens when he’s gone?)

We can’t let a cult following take away the freedoms our ancestors signed for at Ellis Island.

We can’t let them take our promise of the American Dream, whatever that looks like for you.

We can’t have this.

I’d be lying to you if I hadn’t felt a dull pain in my chest knowing and loving people who’ve voted for this current administration. It’s a cognitive dissonance that therapy can’t even fix.

I feel politics in my body. I think most people do. It comes down to empathy, for people like me and for those who are nothing like me. I’m pieced together by my identities and experiences—just like everyone else.

And every day I choose to be who I am and to walk on the side of what I believe is the right side of history.

So I write to process all of this and to bear witness to what is going on.

I write to bear witness to the hurt and pain in my cities and state.

I write to bear witness to what this nation is experiencing.

I pray it doesn’t fall, but if it has to, I guess it must, for people to wake up to the reality of this moment.

I’ll leave you with one more thing. Please do this for me.

Close your eyes.

Place your hands over your heart.

Feel its beat.

Feel your breath moving through you.

Picture yourself, then the ones you love, your neighbors, your people.

Speak love to them.

Then picture your city, your state, and its beauty.

Speak love to them.

Then picture America.

What is your promise to it?

Open your eyes.

Go look in a mirror.

Ask yourself: Which side of right am I on?

Oh my God, I love you.

XO,

Marko

P.S. Respect and protect your neighbors. Donate. Advocate. Educate yourself about what stands before us. This isn’t normal.

I’ll leave you with this.

I hope your year ends well.

I hope you did the things you said you were going to do. And give yourself grace with the things you didn’t.

I hope you leave behind all the should, could, and would-haves.

I hope you release yourself from perfection. Try a little less. And find solace in who you really are.

I hope you let your heart guide you more.

And you’re okay with the endings. And are ready for the beginnings.

I hope you let go to receive more. And slow down for what is to come.

Let your inner voice shout now rather than whisper.

May this next year be what it will be.

May we all start anew.

Grounded in who we are.

Big hugs as we close another book and open another. Love to you in the new year, always.

XOXO,

Marko

When I was laid off in early October, the sum of my work life was couriered to me. I actually requested it in an email, “Please send me my personal items as soon as possible.” By 9 AM the following day, a courier stood at my front door with a box much larger than what I’d left behind. I handed him my laptop and badge, and the exchange was over. Short and bittersweet.

I looked into the box and took inventory. I saw that my snake plant was askew (well, isn’t that fitting, same!), and checked for the two other items I cared about: the cup my twin sister brought me back from Iceland and my yoga frog figurine. Check. Gang’s all here. I then proceeded to set the box and its contents down on the table in my porch, walked back into the house, and shut the door.

Like most things that end in my life, I needed to give it space. I needed to air out and reconcile with the feelings I had from years in a complex workplace. I also needed to figure out where my plant was going to live out the rest of its life and how I would style my little mementoes on a shelf. But first, air it out.

It took me over 24 hours before I went back into the porch. This time, I was armed with a burning stick of palo santo. I reached into the box and plucked out the items that would now be integrated back into my home and cleansed them with the purifying smoke—saying a small prayer to release any unwanted energy, telling them, ‘You are home now.’ I then waved it around my body for good measure. I laugh as I write this because the act is funny, but spiritually, I needed it! Call me woo-woo, but it worked.

Subscribe now

The box wasn’t the only thing being unpacked. Over the coming weeks, I had to stare joblessness right in the eye. Questioning how this could be happening again? This would mark the 3rd time in my career that I’ve been laid off. It’s hard not to take it somewhat personally and question if I’m actually cursed. Yet, I know each time it’s been completely out of my control. I couldn’t have done anything more to prevent it. And somehow, I find gratitude:

I’m grateful that I do strategy for a living. The big-picture mindset helps in times like these. I’m grateful for my intuition, creativity, and the people who care for me. And I’m grateful that my writing, strategy, and marketing skills are elastic enough to stretch, contract, and support me.

When I started to tell people what had happened, so many reached out to me. To talk and hold space. If I’m being radically honest, I felt okay. I knew I would be just fine. I knew I couldn’t use this extra time as a time to wallow and feel sorry for myself (maybe for like five minutes), but as an opportunity to step back and even more into myself.

As I started to reflect more deeply on my experience, I noticed that I had lost a lot of my natural confidence. I found that I doubted my instincts almost daily. It’s hard to fully explain. But as I continue to unpack, I realized how stunted I became in my work self. How closed off I was to my creativity.

When my layoff call ended, I let some tears flow. It hurt. Then I felt my body shift. The back pain disappeared, and my shoulders released. I can only explain this as my body taking a big sigh. It’s like my nervous system was catching up with my conscious mind and telling me, “You’ll be okay, you’re safe. Come back to you, dear Marko.”

As I dug more, I noticed how exhausted I was feeling. I was working in a space where I felt like I never truly fit into the work. Yes, on paper, I was doing content strategy, but it wasn’t always what I was used to or allowed me to be in my zone of genius. I did learn a lot and I’m grateful for it. Yet, on the other hand, it was slowly draining me. I also know I did great work with great people, but that can’t always fulfill a destiny.

Reclaiming my creativity

I believe the universe repositions you, not when you’re the most ready, but the most open to it. This redirection has allowed me space. It has allowed me to do little tasks around the house, go to the co-op when I want, make homemade meals, move my body more (still working on that one), watch comfort movies in the morning over coffee, connect with my favorite people, and move a creative cement block from my entire being. In essence, I am becoming more me again—it feels really good.

For creative types like me, life and work have to be creatively driven. If you ask my closest friends or family, one word to describe me would be: creative. Creativity isn’t just who I am; it is how I stay well. The way I move through the world is steeped in deep creativity—from writing to cooking to the way I dress, style my home, or how I work—it’s all a creative practice that centers me.

It’s so important that two weeks before I lost my job, I was in a pretty intense Quantum Somatic Energy Reset session. During this session, my practitioner found that I had an energetic block in my sacral chakra. Fittingly, the remedy lies in doing creative work—letting the energy flow again. So any form of creativity that I can bring into my life will help me heal. And so it is—if that isn’t a sign from the universe, I don’t know what to tell you.

Refer a friend

Remembering Diane Keaton

To top off this wild ride, we lost the wonderfully talented Diane Keaton. The same week, I was laid off. I was heartbroken.

She’d been in my life since I was six years old, when I first watched The First Wives Club. Looking back, this was another confirmation that I was gay, but my dear Grandma Helen knew I loved a musical moment. That’s why the iconic ending, when Diane, Bette Midler, and Goldie Hawn sing and dance to Lesley Gore’s You Don’t Own Me will forever be imprinted on me.

She was more than just an actress to me, but a creative inspiration. From Baby Boom, Because I Said So, Something’s Gotta Give, The Family Stone, Annie Hall, Father of the Bride, and The Godfathers, her characters showed me how complicated, stylish, funny, and strong people are.

Then there was the real human her: the turtlenecks, quirky personality, beautiful homes, and books. She was her true essence.

A friend joked, “I think losing Diane Keaton has affected you more than losing your job.” She might be right. Verdicts out.

Losing Diane reminds me that we must follow when the universe knocks. When it calls us to create more and be joyful in whatever capacity. So that’s what I’ll do.

Share

Even though the world is a little more dim and I lost my job, I didn’t lose my career. I am hopeful to find a path that blends my innate creativity with writing, content strategy, and marketing. I now know that when I tuck creativity away, I start to lose myself. And I won’t do that again.

May this guide me in what lies ahead. I believe in miracles. I am open to it all.

XO,

Marko

Leave a comment

P.S. Out of respect for my former team and company, I’ve kept specific details private. These words are my own in a season of change, growth, and reflection.

P.P.S. Check out my Halloween costume this year. Let’s keep creating joy.

Now, I’d like to introduce you to something that feels even more like me.

IN THIS LIGHT will become my new writing space here on Substack. It’s a place where I’ll keep sharing my perspectives on life—where healing and inspiration come through reading my thoughts, a story, or a poem. I also hope to include some moments of levity throughout because I love to laugh, and I hope you do too!

I chose to rebrand my monthly notes to IN THIS LIGHT because it’s a phrase I’ve used to describe the way I see things, my perspective, or bringing things to the forefront. This phrase means a lot to me. I want my writing to always leave you with a clear picture of how I see and feel life. I want to bring the stories that live within me to the light—whether they’re sad, happy, or somewhere in between. I want to share with you my truth.

Okay, some housekeeping:

First, thank you for being here and supporting me along my writing journey. What a gift.

Second, you don’t need to do a thing with this change—just keep reading my notes and let them pop into your inbox.

Third, I need some favors:
If you typically read from my social posts, please subscribe (it’s free with an option to pay for a monthly, yearly, or founding subscription), and if you’ve been here for a while, consider upgrading to a paid membership. Think of it as buying me a cup of coffee each month! (Actually, I don’t think you can buy a cup for $5 anymore!) You do you. Click the button below:

Subscribe now

Another option, if you’ve already subscribed in some way, could you please share my letters with your friends, coworkers, family, neighbors, or give a quick shoutout on social media? My goal is to get IN THIS LIGHT to as many people as possible. I’ll make it easy for you:

Share

You can also refer IN THIS LIGHT to your favorite people here:

Refer a friend

So anyway, welcome to IN THIS LIGHT. I am so grateful you’re here. I hope my writing rings true in your heart.

May we all keep going.

XOXO,
Marko

Subscribe now

9.9.2023

Since words matter so much to me, I went on a mission to find “the perfect” poem to encapsulate our love. I bought books, scoured the internet, scrolled through social media, and came up with nothing that spoke to our hearts. During this time, writing words became so difficult. My mind was foggy, and I didn’t feel creative or sagely. I just wanted to lie down.

In a rare moment of clarity, I finally said enough is enough (cue the iconic duet with Barbra Streisand and Donna Summer). You’re a writer. Write something. After a few drafts and Andy’s blessing, this is what I wrote, In the Stars:

It is in home I find you

My deepest love. 

Where we take our hearts and hold them close. 

Two souls.

Ebbing and flowing through this one precious life. 

A universe awaits us as we draw new constellations in the sky. 

Marking each moment with stars, knowing it was always meant to be. 

A love that is big and vast, bringing us home. 

May it take us in its arms and place us in our hopes and dreams. 

A new home. 

Together, here.

Always in love. 

Stay tuned for my October note, a big announcement is coming! Take good care for now.

XOXO,

Marko

Have you ever noticed your body in nature?

How it fits into its imperfect form

The sun kisses you with the love you’ve never shown yourself  

Reminding you, this place, nature, wants you to embody what’s true

Almost naked, you lie in the sand  

Watching your belly expand and soften as the water calls you to wade

You rise and ground down, feeling the earth bet…

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

Read more

Let’s not dwell here

In the division of what may come

Look around and hold on to what you know

Help each other

Hold each other

With the support of the unknown

I know it’s hard when the world is burning around you, when the news cycles on and on, and worries wash over us - wondering how this can go on

Hands to chest

Eyes closed

Deep breath

Let’s pray for peace and…

Read more

One mess…

Read more

If you enjoy IT'S OKAY by Marko Dewhurst, it would mean the world to me if you invited friends, fam, colleagues, etc. to subscribe and read. If you refer them and they subscribe, you will get rewarded (cool right?!)

How to participate

1. Share IT'S OKAY…

Read more