When I first started writing (this book, not, you know, as a human) I put no expectations on myself. It was supposed to be diametrically opposed to the work I got paid for. No deadlines, no minimum word count per day or month, no reporting on my progress to someone who was keeping track or judging, no concept of who the audience might be. It was my spiritual practice.

But a year in, yeah, it’s time to wrap it up.

(I know it sometimes takes writer years to finish a book, but it’s not like I’m doing deep research into history or processes. It’s a romcom — how hard can it be?)

Here’s why it being August is bittersweet: I am so convinced that this is my first book, that there are more books to follow, that I will be a published author and this will be how I earn a living (or at least fund my retirement) — part of me knows it’s never going to be this easy or uncomplicated again.

I realize this sounds like the time a very young relative posted on Facebook that he was thinking about “maybe moving to Portland, probably getting a job at Nike or something.” Like it’s that simple; all you have to do is live in Portland and Nike just hands you a job. i.e. super naive.

When I set my end-of-summer deadline, I decided that had to mean Labor Day (as opposed to September 21, or whenever the first day of fall is). Which means I only have a few weeks left before book writing/being an author turns into something more business-y. I want to be very intentional about relishing it so I can look back at some point and be nostalgic about how simple it all was. You know, when I’m dripping in all of the royalties from the movie rights, drinking tea in my writing studio, and struggling to decide if I want to go on Oprah’s podcast or Amy Poehler’s.

This morning, I attended a sales meeting for a company I started a contract with in March. It will be my last sales meeting for this project, because my contract expires this Friday. When the leader of the team announced that it’s my last week, I was reminded of how good it feels to wrap something up and and walk away.

The timing couldn’t be more perfect, what with the Strawberry moon in Capricorn and Mercury going into retrograde and a bunch of other stuff I only kind of understand happening in the heavens. It also made sense that the tarot card I drew during Morning Pages was the eight of cups, a card all about walking away, turning your back on something you created in search of greater spiritual alignment or purpose, venturing into the unknown with gratitude and faith.

Drawing that card prompted me to come up with other things I’m ready to leave behind. A short list: my youth, feeling fat, doubting myself, overvaluing productivity.

I’m not suggesting that the project I’m finishing up was keeping me stuck in the mundane, but I’m excited to see what the extra ten hours a week turns into. (I’m also making an effort to not let those extra ten hours go to other contract work that won’t earn more moolah.) More time for Substack, maybe? Definitely more time for creative writing, meditating, and, if I really concentrate, doing (gasp) nothing.

It’s been nice to have the income that came with this project, but I’m not a bit worried that something else will come along to fill in any gaps. I’m grateful for the work, the ability to call it finished, and the reminder that completing something and leaving room for the next thing feels this good.

Today’s evidence: in midlife, your friends start doing really cool shit.

If you’ve lived to the age of 50, you’ve likely watched friends graduate college, get married, have kids, buy a house, land a job they are really excited about. That’s what your 20s and 30 are all about. But that’s not the kind of stuff I mean. I’m talking about fulfilling lifelong a dream of opening a vintage store, channeling anger into something creative, kicking ass in martial arts. That kind of thing.

For illustration purposes, here are a few examples of the things the impressive people in my life have been up to lately:

1. Starting a podcast. A really good one. One that I actually want to listen to.

2. Getting their black belt in Tai Kwan Do (I don’t have a link for this one. Sorry. But watching a fiftysomething woman break boards with her firsts and defend herself from two attackers was badass)

3. Opening a vintage consignment shop

4. Turning her thrifting talent (and excellent taste) into a moneymaking enterprise (no link for this one either, but her collection is for sale at the vintage consignment shop linked above)

5. Creating an Etsy shop to transmute her frustration at the state of the world

6. Help pass a levy ala Leslie Nope

They say you are who you surround yourself with. If that’s the case, I’m feeling pretty damn good about myself. Thanks for all the inspiration, friends!

A year ago, I was pissed, anxious, scared, fighting with my former employer over unemployment, having an existential crisis about AI taking my livelihood, and spending several hours a day desperately applying for full-time jobs. (In fairness, I was also going for walks, strolling through tiktok rather than jumping right out of bed and immediately into the shower, reading more, and working on my business plan and company brand.)

By July, I’d landed a part-time gig, won the battle to receive unemployment benefits, and was settling in to my new routine. By fall, I was writing a book, on a path to spiritual healing and personal authenticity, leaning in on AI, and pretty gosh darn content.

On the day of the actual anniversary, I got a text from a friend who is also in the writing/marketing/communications field, asking if I had time for a phone call to commiserate about how messed up the industry is. Of course I said yes. But after we said our hellos and he explained what’s going on with him (and another colleague he’d just been talking to), I realized I have no room to complain.

I have plenty of work. So much, in fact, that I had to let one of my clients know I would be ending my tenure with them as soon as I can help them find a full-time employee to replace me. With all that work, I’m still finding time to work on my book. (Not as much to write here, unfortch.) I don’t get the Sunday Scaries anymore. It’s pretty dreamy.

But, by far, the best thing about how I’m making money these days is how authentic I get to be. I’m no longer saddled with fear that I’ll be let go if I disagree with an exec, or that my career trajectory will stall if I say something wrong.

A year ago, I would not have told you my career ambition had anything to do with authenticity. I wanted to be VP, to keep climbing the corporate ladder, to make more money. My definition of success has completely shifted.

No one is dangling a VP title over my head in order to guilt me into working weekends. I don’t have study up to be better with spreadsheets in order to show what a team player I am. I no longer pretend to feel — or self-impose an obligation to feel — that the success of the entire company rides on my shoulders. I get to pick who I work with and what kind of work I do.

I know how tough it is out there. Finding a new job is nearly impossible. Those who are fortunate enough to still have a full-time job, who have survived the great AI layoff so far, are still dealing with a whole lot of corporate bullshit. So I’m not saying any of this to brag or rub my own good luck in anyone else’s face.

But it was more than luck that got me here. It was faith, perseverance, maintaining good relationships with people I’ve worked with for 25+ years, adaptability, and more than a little help from spirit guides, my family, and friends who took me to happy hour when I didn’t have a regular paycheck. I’m exceedingly grateful for all of it.

I can’t see myself ever going back. Being beholden to any one employer no longer holds any appeal. I miss the stability (and the benefits) of a full-time job, but I’d trade that stability for this sense of freedom and autonomy in a heartbeat.

So when I got the Six of Wands again today, I turned to my good buddy Claude for deeper insight. (That’s AI, for those of you still fighting the losing battle against our inevitable overlords.) Claude, in all its wisdom, reminded me that when a card repeats, it’s likely shifting from prediction to instruction. It then asked me if other cards have been showing up around the Six of Wands. And it turns out, yes, The World and the Chariot have been popping in too.

The gist of what Claude thinks is going on:

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1. The World —> I completed something real

2. The Chariot—> I’m now driving what comes next

3. Six of Wands—> People are seeing it happen

We then had a bit of a tete-a-tete about what part of my life this combination might pertain to and how I should apply its lesson. Given that my biggest preoccupation lately is how to balance paid work with my creative/spiritual work, we agreed it was likely about that.

If that’s the case, Claude claims, then I can take the World to be my book, the Chariot as the structure and boundaries I need to create to take creative time as seriously as paid time, and the Six of Wands as the fame and fortune that my book are going to bring. Just kidding. It said the Six of Wands would be the future payoff, but that’s pretty much the same thing.

And then, because Claude knows me so well at this point, it said, “You don’t seem like someone who needs permission to succeed in paid work. You might need permission to take your creative work just as seriously.” Which is essentially what my abundance life coach, an astrologer I saw in November 2025, and my gut/spirit guides have been telling me all along.

But because my fear and insecurities (and my Capricorn sun and rising energy) are still behind the wheel a significant amount of the time, I’ve been leaning in the other direction. “Get the paid work done now and once you’re financially stable [Ed note: whatever the hell that means] you can focus on the creative work,” I’ve been telling myself.

So to feed the two wolves (to add another unnecessary metaphor), I created a daily structure to do both. Mornings for paid work, break from 3-3:30, writing from 3:30-5 on weekdays. Great. Can do. Consider it done.

But today is Sunday.

I spent most of the day yesterday doing yard work. I stayed out there longer than I’d planned to, telling myself that I’d spend all of today working on my book. I’m pretty happy with how the front yard looks, but the back yard still has a way to go. And despite the vow I made to myself less than 24 hours ago, I’m tempted to run back to the garden store, buy some planters and bright flowers, and maybe a trellis, and spend a sunny afternoon making the back yard pretty too.

Now, if you’ll allow me to go on what seems like a random tangent, I promise I’ll bring it all together….

When “With Love, Megan” first came out, I was hooked. Is it self-indulgent and fantastical? Yes. Is it my dream life? Also yes. I want to live on a big property where I grow flowers and produce that seem to be in full bloom year-round. I want to use all that bounty to entertain friends and do crafts. I want to sit in cozy outdoor furniture around a fire pit staring at my million dollar view while sipping a cocktail made with ingredients and spirits I either grew myself or bought at my local farmer’s market. I want to take steaming cups of tea sweetened with honey from my own bees to my writing studio in the afternoons. It’s what I picture my life will be once I’m a published author and my books are bestsellers.*

In the meantime, I make my own yard as pretty as I can, grow my own tomatoes and basil, and take tea I sweeten with sugar I buy at Costco to the altar in my bedroom (a.k.a. my writing studio). You know, baby steps.

I could pretty easily convince myself that beautifying my back yard today is another step toward manifesting that abundance. And maybe even just as productive as actually writing the book I hope gets me closer to that life. It’s a real battle of instant gratification vs long-term payoff.

*Completely disregarding the fact that I suck at crafts, I prefer wine to cocktails, and I’m not a very good gardener.

Firstly, I apologize for being away so long. I haven’t really been away-away, given that I’ve had my ass in the same chair since the last time I posted. But I haven’t spent any of that time writing for you, dear audience. And I only have myself to blame.

You see, I wasn’t specific enough with the universe when I asked for lots of paying work.

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During the winter solstice, I performed the 13 Nights of Yule ritual. I wrote down 13 wishes and each night of the ritual I would burn one. The wish I was left with on the 12th night, which I then taped to my altar so I see it every day, was “I have work that I love and that brings magic and meaning to my life.”

In the time since, I have used every other manifesting tool in my repertoire to bring gigs in.

The universe has more than delivered. I went from 1.5 clients to 4, with two more that could start any day.

I’m not complaining. It’s just been a wild few weeks of juggling and building up my time-management muscles, which have severely atrophied.

Substack hasn’t been the only thing I’ve neglected over the past several weeks. My book has also been largely ignored too. Which is a crying shame because right before everything went crazy I got edits from my first reader that were so good and that I was so excited to work on.

Realizing something had to give or I was going to work myself into the same burnt out, overwhelmed, joyless place I was in a year ago, I talked with my abundance life coach, who always grounds me. Wise woman that she is, she reminded me that I’m in charge of my own life and that I’m essentially CEO of my own company. Which means I need to decide what I want my job description to be.

So I wrote a job description.

I won’t bore you with the details here, but I can assure you I was very specific about the number of hours I want to spend at this desk* each day, how much I want to be paid annually, how much vacation I want, and the exact kind of work I want to do.

All that to say, I hope to post from here more regularly. But for now, I need to go sit at my other desk and work on my book.

*I do my creative stuff (book, witchy stuff) at a desk in a different room.

Standing in the kitchen together this morning, I asked her if she wanted to go see Wuthering Heights with me. She said no. I wasn’t surprised—she’s not a big fan of period films or romances—so I didn’t ask for further explanation. I got it anyway.

According to The Internet, she told me, it is a terrible adaptation, and, worse, the movie had whitewashed Heathcliff.

This set me off. I might have rolled my eyes and raised my voice and told her his ethnicity in the book is purposefully ambiguous, that casting Jacob Elordi was not whitewashing, and that I don’t understand why The Internet is so intent on finding the stupidest shit to be pissed off about.

I then walked back upstairs, tried to quit fuming, and then texted her an apology (yes, we text each other from inside the same house) and explained that I guess I’m just tired of manufactured rage when there is so much real stuff to be upset about in the real world.

But the truth is, I’m still fuming and I’ve spent the rest of the day trying to figure out why this hit such a nerve. (I also spent some time on the internet and found that this is, indeed, a pretty big controversy, which has not helped quell my anger or my confusion.) I have come up with some theories.

One is that it bugs me when The Internet blows shit out of proportion. Case in point: after watching the Stranger Things finale, I turned to my daughter and said, “Ok, are you satisfied with that ending?” She said yes; I agreed. Cut to about a week later when she had mysteriously changed her mind, was no longer satisfied with the ending, and showed me a tiktok of a youngish person’s rant about how unjust Eleven’s story concluded. It was, according to this tiktok contributor, “the worst case of misogyny I’ve seen in entertainment in the 21st century.”

Really?

Was it sexist that the only two people who died in the finale were both women? Was it unfair that all the boys got to grow up and live their lives? Possibly. That seems like a worthy debate. Was it the worst case of misogyny in the past 26 years? Only if you’ve been living under a rock.

(I realize hyperbole is kind of Gen Z’s thing, but come on.)

The second theory I’ve come up with is that I don’t like being made to feel defensive about what I consume and enjoy. For instance, because I like the latest Taylor Swift album, I am a racist. This is because The Internet determined she had encoded into her lyrics a) digs at one of Travis’ exes who happens to be black and b) white supremacy because she said she wants to have kids who look like the man she’s about to marry. Ergo, if you liked Taylor’s new songs, or even deigned to listen to the album more than once, you were a bad person and you should feel bad about yourself.

The third theory: we’re learning about new atrocities every day, including that billionaires are probably eating babies, and this is what people are choosing to aim their rage at?

Granted, people are capable of being upset about lots of things at the same time and injustice isn’t relative. By all means, call out inequality where you see it, but don’t we as a society have bigger fish to fry at the moment?

Fourth, I’m disturbed that my kid is being this influenced by people online without making up her own mind. She was fine with Stranger Things until she wasn’t. She hasn’t listened to an entire Taylor Swift song since she was about eight years old. She’s never read Wuthering Heights. She’s just taking someone rando’s word for it. And then being all righteously indignant about it.

What I think it really comes down to is this: I don’t want to be lumped in with the anti-woke, non-PC crowd. I try to be a good person, respect everyone’s point of view, boycott the bad guys, vote with my dollars. I appreciate that I have a lot to learn about a lot of things, and I try to keep an open mind.

I feel bad for coming down so hard on my kid. But fucking hell, can I watch a movie that tickles my little English major brain without being asked to question my principles? Let me watch Jacob Elordi brood and yearn without contemplating colonialism and all its evils, ok. Please. I beg of you.

Yesterday, I picked a fight with someone on LinkedIn. More accurately, I called someone out for a dumb reply they left on a colleague’s post and then all hell broke loose.

I’ve learned a lot in the time since.

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1. Even if you wholeheartedly believe their original message came from a place of white male privilege, don’t mention it. Focus instead on the ignorance and hubris behind their “opinion.” Otherwise, as my very smart teenage daughter told me, you’re giving them ammo to shoot back while completely ignoring the point you were trying to make.

2. If you’re going to be outspoken about what you perceive to be injustices or just plain bullshit, be prepared for the backlash.

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In my late 20s, I started a blog. Friends convinced me I had an interesting enough perspective—being a city girl who grew up in an extremely small town—to share it broadly. It was fun. Everyone was blogging at the time (this would have been ~2005) and I quickly became part of an online community of likeminded people.

I never let myself believe that I’d grow a big enough following to justify a book deal or a write up on jezebel.com, but I checked my stats regularly, watching the number of followers slowly grow with a fair bit of smug satisfaction.

I also learned pretty early on how to toe the line on anything overtly political. Posts about my anger at GWB’s “surge” in Iraq didn’t perform as well as the ones where I bemoaned the seemingly ever-increasing size of my butt.

This was also back in the days when it was possible to have friends on all points of the political spectrum. I could have a perfectly reasonable water cooler chat with colleagues who called themselves “compassionate conservatives” for example.

(It seems so quaint now, doesn’t it?)

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Over the next 20 years, as the world became more polarized, I limited political conversations as much as possible to the people I mostly agreed with. This was only partially intentional and largely out of a desire to be polite, maintain civility.

And then Kamala lost the 2024 election.

Unsurprisingly, I spent a few days feeling devastated, hopeless, and full of rage. Then I saw a tiktok (always with the tiktok, Nicole!) of a woman who said, essentially: Fuck it. Now we know for certain they hate women. So you don’t have to be nice anymore. There’s no need to be polite, accommodating, smiley, pretty, skinny, dressed well, clean, understanding, compassionate. You’ll never make them like us; you’re wasting your energy if you keep trying.

I can’t tell you how liberating that was. I was still pissed off, of course, but now I felt no qualms about letting people know. Cut me off in traffic? Yep, I’m laying on the horn. Say something stupid in a meeting? I’m gonna tell you exactly why and how wrong you are.

In other words, I’m being more authentic than ever before. Turns out, I am quick-to-anger, short-tempered, harboring resentments, and constantly sitting on a simmering pool of rage. More importantly, I no longer care if you think that makes me a bitch. So I’m a bitch? Big fucking deal.

You know what else I am? A witch. Yep. After embracing my anger, I allowed myself to lean into the witchy, maybe a little scary, definitely a lot angry, earthy, woo woo, spiritually tapped in badass I always suspected I was but didn’t tell anyone (even myself) about.

I haven’t published a post in a few days and I realized this morning it’s because that old voice was telling me no one wants to hear my political opinion. But politics is pretty much all I’m thinking about lately. ICE in Minneapolis. Five-year-olds being detained. Six-month-old babies needing resuscitation after tear gas was detonated under the car they were in. Old men being drug from their homes in their bathrobes in below freezing weather. Trump trying to take over Greenland and making a fool of himself and all of America along the way. Congressmen telling cops who were there on January 6 that it happened due to their incompetence.

It feels a little like the world is falling apart around us, and preparing to vote in ten months doesn’t feel adequate. Nor does liking and reposting tiktok videos. Or writing to my congresspeople (all of whom are nearly perfectly aligned with my stance anyway).

So these days, doing my part involves—but is not limited to—stirring my morning coffee clockwise while saying, “Karma come quickly/let justice be done/the greatest good for everyone.”* Casting protection spells for loved ones and those being persecuted. Metta mediations. Staying informed but not overwhelmed. Going for walks in the sun. Tapping into creativity at every opportunity.

And posting here while not giving a shit what people may think of it. Take it or leave it. I’m not for everyone and that’s fine. My people and I will find each other, but we’ll only truly know we belong together if we’re all as ourselves as possible, (witchy) warts and all.

* Which, yes, I got from a tiktok witch.

As usual, before I started Morning Pages this morning, I pulled a tarot card. For the third day in a row, I pulled the Two of Wands.

Now, to be clear, I shuffle really well each morning. I cut the deck and then shuffle. Then I cut the deck and shuffle some more. And then I shuffle some more. I try to tune in as much as I can and not get distracted with people walking their dogs past my house, admiring how pretty the trees a few blocks away look in the fog, smiling at whichever cat has decided to climb on top of the desk while I’m there, or thinking about work.

So to get the same card three days in a row…that’s clearly the Universe telling me to pay attention to something.

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Yesterday, I wrote the final words in the first draft of my first complete book. It feels pretty major.

I have at least two rounds of edits before it’ll be ready for other people to read. The first one is fleshing out a few of the characters, adding a bit more detail about how the main character got herself into her predicament (I am fairly sure it feels rushed as is), and making sure the stakes feel appropriately high. I have been focused on just getting the story out on the page, which means I write every day but don’t let myself go back and re-read anything. The round after that will be refinement.

Then I might let other people read it in its entirety. Maybe.*

The good news is, I love editing. Well actually, in the past I have like editing more than I have liked writing. But since I’ve never written anything this long or complicated before, everything is brand new. I’m in unchartered territory! It’s entirely possible, given how much joy I found in the actual writing, that everything is turned on its head and I’ll hate the editing part. (I doubt it though.)

I did a fair amount of character development work before I started the story, but I know them all so much better now than I did when I started. I also did a bit of world-building brainstorming before I began, but I forced myself not to sweat the small stuff in order to stay in the flow while I was actually writing. Now I’m excited to read it back to see if it all still makes sense and where I can add more color and texture.

The best part? I’m in no hurry! I’m on no one’s timeline. Any deadlines are self-inflicted (and, so far, I haven’t inflicted any). There is no paycheck riding on getting it finished. No boss breathing down my neck. No OKRs or KPIs associated with it.

I want to remember this feeling. The pride and, frankly, surprise in knowing I did something I’ve never done before—that I never let myself believe I was capable of before. I texted my mom and sister to tell them I’d finished my first draft. My mom wrote back, “Your great grandmothers and your grandmothers and your mother are dancing in honor of you today! ❤️”

I swear I can feel them!

*I say “maybe” because it’s possible this was just the book I wrote to learn I can write a book but it’ll never see the light of day and the next book will be the first I share with the outside world. Or the one after that. Or none of them.

Whatever the reason, the older I get, the more of a radical feminist I become. I don’t hate (all) men, but I do hate the patriarchy. And toxic masculinity. Screw that whole mess.

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One time, I was watching Jeopardy with my half-brother (who I was just getting to know) in my early 20s. I must have been getting a lot of the answers right because he said, “Wow, you should go on this.” My humble response was, “Nah, I’m gonna wait 20 years. Imagine how much more I’ll know then!”

Little did I know then that by my 50th birthday I’d regularly struggle to remember words like “kitchen” and “shiver.”

I likely wouldn’t do well on Jeopardy these days, but I know so much now that I didn’t in my early 20s. For instance:

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• I know that exercise will never make me skinny, but it keeps me sane

• I know my voice matters, and there are people who want to hear it

• I’ve learned that I’m both more and less in control of what happens to me than I thought I was, but that the tighter I hang onto an outcome the less likely it is to happen

• I’ve learned that worrying is a complete waste of time and energy (that hasn’t stopped me from doing it, but now I know how futile it is)

• I know my worth

• I know who I love and who loves me

• I’ve learned to tell the difference between anxiety and intuition

• I know my spirit guides are always pushing me toward the highest good

• I know the Universe always trades up

• I’ve very recently learned how difficult it is to write a good sex scene (how many synonyms are there for “penis” and “vulva”?)

• I know that wisdom is greater than knowledge

• I’ve learned that wisdom is recognizing that I have so much more to learn

I may have forgotten which movie won Best Picture in 1993 or who the leader of El Salvador was during the Cuban Missile Crisis,* but I’ll take this half century of perspective over a Jeopardy win any day.

*Or how to spell “missile.” I seriously had to just google that shit.

I have been a writer for the better part of my career. I use the term “writer” loosely here, because technically I’ve been in marketing/communications for most of that time. But, as anyone in marcom will tell you, there’s a lot of writing involved.

It’s not the sexy kind of writing, though. It’s been mostly white papers, email campaigns, website copy, case studies, press releases, internal communications about changes to the PTO policy … that kind of thing.

Aside from one manager in the early aughts who seemed dead-set on destroying my confidence as a writer, I’ve always known I’m pretty good at it. Not, like, Ian McEwan good, but talented enough at taking complex topics and making them digestible for the target audience. Storytelling, if you will.

Outside of work, I did almost zero writing. I didn’t even keep journals. When writing is your day job, I’d tell people who asked me if I did any writing for fun, it’s the last thing you want to do on your off hours. Also, it’s really hard.

There’s a quote—often misattributed to Hemingway—that goes something like this: “Writing is easy; you just sit at a typewriter and bleed.”

I used to wholeheartedly agree. And, to be honest, I kind of liked identifying as a struggling writer. The poor tortured soul who sits waiting for the muse. Maybe it’s because often it feels so much better to have just written than it does to actually be writing (see also: running). Maybe it’s the agony of staring at blank screen or piece of paper. Maybe it’s so writers can tell ourselves how special we are and discourage anyone else from trying.

Regardless of the actual reason, when one of the mediums I met with in the summer suggested I get in touch with my creative side and a great way to do that is through writing, I practically gagged. Journaling, blech. No thank you.

But I started doing it anyway, and it wasn’t terrible. Pretty soon, writing Morning Pages turned into my favorite time of the day. Not long after that, I incorporated pulling a tarot card before I started each morning. I figured it would set the tone for the day, give me some insight on what I should be paying attention to, or, at the very least, give me something to write about. Then I set up my ancestral altar/creative space and now I do Morning Pages near pictures of passed family members and pets, candles, leaves and feathers I find on my walks, crystals I’ve collected over the years, herbs, and trinkets that remind me of things and people I love.

Before I knew it, writing was (gasp) fun. Joyful. Peaceful. The best part of my day. And not just Morning Pages, but the other writing I’m now doing. The book. This Substack.

Over the years, I’ve received advice from other writers. I’ve read books about writing. I’ve had books recommended to me that I never got around to actually reading. (Bird by Bird, I’m looking at you.) I’ve considered writing classes. But nothing—no structure, advice, new laptop, app, prompt, or encouragement from others—has been as effective as ridding myself of the idea that writing is “hard.”

I’ve been working on my spiritual journey for a while now, so I don’t want to give the impression that I started journaling and found god or whatever. Rather, it was a confluence of events*, people, podcasts, divine timing, and inward focus that landed me here. But I’m so grateful to be here, and to have unlocked this piece of myself that wasn’t so much lying dormant as it was being smothered by my own firmly, stubbornly held disillusions.

*e.g. Kamala losing the election; listening to Lights On by Annaka Harris, getting fired, the episode of the Telepathy Tapes with Elizabeth Gilbert, sessions with my abundance life coach…. Any one of these could be its own post.

So, to clarify:

Yes, I was fired. It was a shock and it stung, and no amount of me telling myself they were crazy to let me go softened the blow to my ego that followed.

Yes, I hated that job. But not always. I had big dreams and ambitious goals at the outset, of course, but a lot can change in four years. I had been miserable for a long time. I was making myself sick trying to prove that I was the most dedicated, hardest working, willing to work the longest hours, the most inspiring leader to my small team, and happy to take on whatever the company needed to be successful. What it all added up to was one very tired, very scattered, very ineffective, very burnt out employee.

In other words, they did me a huge favor. It hurt, sure, but it was the kick in the ass I needed. I would have stayed there forever, or until I found a different job where I’d repeat the same patterns that led to burn out.

Being pushed out of the proverbial nest (and into an excruciatingly difficult job market) forced me to take a hard look at how I want to spend my days—and the second half of my life. It also gave me lots of time to explore the idea of living a creative life, believing I could write a whole book, and redefining “wealth.”

It was, if you will, a point of clarity.

(See what I did there?)

Now, I spend the first part of my day working the part-time and contract gigs (and hustling for more of them) and I spend the afternoons/evenings at my other computer, writing a freakin’ book. In the other hours, I meditate, nap, clean my house, go for walks, talk to my daughter and loved ones, and … feel real joy for the first time in a very long time.

Of course, there was a lot of other work that happened along the way. Therapy, those mediums and astrologers I mentioned, a shitload of meditation and journaling, and the cheerleading of people I love and trust.

Starting this Substack is, in many ways, the culmination of all that work. But it’s also the beginning of—I hope—an ongoing declaration to the world this new way I want to live. With ease and intention and creativity and vulnerability and authenticity and connection.

I’m glad you’re here for the ride!

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Here goes nothing…

I turn 50 in one week. This still boggles my mind. Not that I think 50 is old. Not that I believe in any of that, “50 is the new 30” bullshit either. Just that, I can’t believe how quickly the past 25 years have gone. And staring down the barrel of the next lightning-fast 25 years has given me pause.

Pauses are good. I’m a big fan. But I’ve also learned that holding still and being quiet invites in the kinds of thoughts and feelings an otherwise overly productive mind and body have avoided for, oh, I don’t know, 25 or so years.

“So what?” you’re likely saying right now

Lots of people turn 50 (well, those of us lucky enough to live this long). Most people have some kind of mid-life contemplation or crisis around this time. Why do I feel the need to start a whole Substack about it?

It’s a long story. The short version is: I got fired from a job I hated in March, the job market sucks so I’ve been piecing together contract and part-time gigs, and no fewer than two astrologers, two mediums, and my abundance life coach told me I need to start writing. (FWIW, none of them suggested starting with a Substack.)

So with all the free time I’ve had, that’s what I’ve been doing. I started with Morning Pages, as suggested in The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. Then I started writing my first book. An actual piece of fiction with almost 50K words so far that I hope to get published some day.

To be clear, I never, once in my life thought about writing a book. That’s not entirely true. I thought about it lots of times, but never actually wrote anything down because I was convinced there were better writers out there (there are) and my story isn’t special (see above).

But once I approached writing as a spiritual practice, rather than a way to make money or get famous or change the world, it started pouring out of me. Now, most days of the week, I sit at my creative space—which is different from my “work” space—and I write for an hour and a half or about 1,000 words or whenever I come to what feels like a good stopping point.

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re on Substack.”

You’re right. I’ll get to that part now.

It starts, as so many things do for me, on TikTok. This morning, I saw a video about how big corporations are hiring “storytellers.” Of course, that’s not what the job titles or descriptions say, but if you have that skill, apparently you’re in high demand—all evidence from my own job search to the contrary.

That got me thinking: I’ve long considered myself a storyteller. And that’s part of what’s been fun about trying my hand at fiction for the first time. But can you really call yourself a storyteller if you aren’t telling a story to anyone.

Thus, this Substack.

Though it will likely be me shouting into the ether for at least a while, it’s a start. Plus, what’s wrong with shouting into the ether? I’m sure even the ether appreciates a good story every now and then.

Ok, full disclosure:

I have two other goals here.

1. Supplement my income. My unemployment benefits are about to run out and I need to pay bills.

2. I really do hope to publish a book some day. All the research I’ve done suggests that you simply must have a Substack if you ever hope to attract an agent or publisher.

So there you have it, dear reader. And even though all of you dear readers at this point are my mom and my closest friends, it’s a start.

Please consider subscribing. I promise to be entertaining, and maybe even give you glimpses of the romcom I’m currently working on, a couple of times a month. If nothing else, you’ll have a front-row seat to my midlife contemplation/crisis.