It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I signed up for it anyway: to read some of my writing in front of an audience. I was so anxious about it, so afraid that I might freeze while in front of everybody, that I might panic and cut my reading short so I could be anxious in solitude, that I practiced immensely. I read and reread my piece aloud to myself. I cut words I stumbled on. I shortened the superfluous. I practiced some more. And when it came time for me to get up in front of a big group of people to read my own writing—I didn’t trip up on a single word. Not for three minutes.

It took until I sat back down in my chair afterward, hands shaking, adrenaline still coursing through my veins, thick like syrup, that I realized I had done it without messing up at all.

We have all become mental Olympians these past two years, bending everything we once knew and trying to shape it into something that will work in the new landscape we’ve been thrust into. If our time making adjustments has taught us anything, it’s that stagnancy is the antithesis of success.

Those who didn’t pivot to accommodate the new state of affairs we’ve found ourselves in were left paddling furiously upstream (or worse), while those who were able to drop what they’d been doing and implement new ways of operating found themselves skimming along the surface with less effort, less fear, and less doubt. By no means was everyone able to adapt, no matter how willing they were. Sometimes it takes a lot more than the will to pivot in order to evolve to meet our environment’s new demands. Other times, though, we are able to unstick ourselves and find ways to keep paddling along.

We will do anything to make the physical spaces we live in beautiful. We will clean out the closets, get rid of clutter, and wash our windows. We will swap out the old with the new and refreshing. We will do all of this and not even give it another thought.

But our minds — the only spaces we truly cannot leave — often receive less love and care, less priority than our physical spaces. Our minds are hidden, the illnesses plaguing so many of them are invisible, and as such, our mental health is often not making it to our lists of priorities.

It is the golden hour. The sun is low in the sky and casts oblong shadows that dance as the wind rustles the fiery leaves still clutching to the trees. You are on a front porch, wrapped in a blanket, watching the sun make its dramatic descent. You revel in this moment, delighting in its calm and its beauty, wanting it to last forever. And you feel a stitch of sadness knowing that it will soon be gone and that you will someday look back at that time with longing.

It was the winter of 1991. My aquamarine bib snow pants were strapped onto my shoulders and bunched over my boots, my coat barely zipped up over my sweater. I was Ralphie’s brother from A Christmas Story. The snow was piled up higher than my head, and in the backyard, I kept getting stuck as I tried to cross the boreal terrain. My nose was cold and I was too warm under my layered winter gear, but it was a delight to partake in this, Minnesota’s famous Halloween Blizzard. Everybody has a story about it.

Two weeks before my maternity leave ended, five months before my 10-year anniversary, I was laid off from a company that I love.

It happened on Election Day during a pandemic while on my leave. This didn’t feel good at first.

But I now know that this IS good.

For the more than 10 years that I’ve been writing professionally, I have believed in writer’s block. I’ve believed in it until 30 minutes ago when Seth Godin changed everything I’ve ever thought about it.

In Marie Forleo’s podcast featuring Seth, she prompted him by saying there’s no such thing as being blocked because being creative is a choice — something he says in his new book, The Practice.

Dear Society —

Hello, it’s me, a girl in America. I’ve spent a few decades learning from you and I have a favor to ask of you. But first, I’d like to give you a refresher on some of the lessons you have taught me over the years:

Six months ago my daughter had a seizure in my arms. The experience shook me to a core so dark and fearful I didn’t even know I had it. All it took was one minute — one interminable minute — and I became a new parent. Suddenly, I was afraid of everything.