Write More

I spent some time with the blank page over the holiday break. In that quiet, I found myself thinking about perfection, where it comes from, who it’s serving, and how often it’s been holding me back.

Eventually, I took out the colours and marked up my new daytimer. I mapped out my goals and intentions for the year. “WRITE MORE,” circled in purple at the top.

Ten minutes a day. No polish required.

Seems so easy, doesn’t it?

Perfection has woven itself in and out of my life for as long as I can remember. As a small child, “perfect” was rewarded, a box of Smarties from my father, a shiny loonie from my mother, a tiny hit of approval that taught me the standard early.

Nothing else would suffice. Ninety-nine percent didn’t count.

For most of my life, my writing escaped that standard. I embraced the mess. I wrote feverishly just to get the thoughts out. I would hold the messy first draft with such pride.

But somewhere along the way, perfectionism crept in. If it couldn’t be perfect, it felt safer not to begin. Safer not to share. So, I stare at the blank page.

And yet writing, for me, has never really been about other people. It’s always been about my lens, my experiences, the way I make meaning of the world. It’s about letting the words exit me, and capturing life while it’s still happening.

So this year is about practice over performance. I’m letting the messy version count too. My writing doesn’t need to be perfect, it just needs to exist outside of me. The words don’t need to impress anyone, they just need to land on the page.

What are you giving yourself permission to do imperfectly this year, so you actually begin?

Feedback

“How do you like to receive feedback?”
I have been sitting with that sentence.
Recently, in a social setting outside of work, someone learned that I am in a lesbian relationship and responded with a sexualized comment about his own preferences.
In the moment, I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
I laughed because my body reached for the response I have been trained to offer in uncomfortable moments: soften it, smooth it over, make it less awkward for everyone else.
That giggle was not for me. It was for him.
And almost immediately, I was angry with myself.
I replayed the moment later and found the sentence I wish I had reached for instead:
“How do you like to receive feedback?”
Not “Can I give you some feedback?”
Not “I’m sorry, but…”
Not a nervous laugh.
A pause. A breath. Eye contact.
“How do you like to receive feedback?”
It is curious. It is direct. It does not attack. It does not over-function. It does not require me to educate, rescue, or make the moment more comfortable than it was.
It simply creates a doorway.
Because there was feedback to offer.
The comment reduced me to who I love. It turned my identity into an opening for sexual commentary. It placed me in the position of deciding, in real time, whether to absorb it, confront it, laugh it off, or risk being seen as too sensitive.
Many women know this moment.
Many LGBTQ+ people know this moment.
Many people from underrepresented communities know the moment when something lands sideways, and your body responds before your voice catches up.
I am not sharing this because I handled it perfectly.
I did not.
I am sharing it because I want that sentence in my toolbox for next time.
And maybe it belongs in yours too.
“How do you like to receive feedback?”
A sentence for the moment before self-abandonment.
A sentence that gives us time to come back to ourselves.
A sentence that reminds us we can be calm, grounded, and clear without making ourselves smaller.

One-Woman Show

There exists no one-woman show.  

A collection of women emerge from behind the curtain to arrive on our doorstep. Uninvited, they have come to share a feeling with us.  Their desire to reach out to us, to have us share in their internal wince, is palpable.  So naturally, we join them.  Instinctively our bodies recoil at the sight of your show, but our eyes are fixed. This beautiful collection of women, with whom I now join, are fixed upon your solo endeavours.  That is until we eventually laugh the cringe off and the spell is broken.    

I’ve collected women all of my life.  It’s with these new additions that I feel especially at home.  They are strong and assertive, yet kind and compassionate. Your exit opened the seat for me at this table.  I’m told I belong here and I feel it too. We discuss a variety of topics but one thing we all agree upon is the fact that there exists no one-woman show.  

I am a collection of women: those who paved the way, those with whom I open myself, and the young who are watching your silly show.

Witchy Like That

“I’m just witchy like that,” I tell you.  

It’s an indescribable feeling.  In only a moment, a wash rolls over my body and I am infused with a knowing.  Most wouldn’t even notice that it happened to me.  Often escaping my body as a sigh or a shiver, I just know that something has washed over me.  

We are sitting at the kitchen table, the cribbage board between us.  We are at ease together, you and I.  It’s the most comfortable either of us has been with another.  Facing you, my guard is down and my leg is up, toes tucked slightly under your thigh.  We are connected and laughing, one hundred percent present on this beautiful Saturday evening.  

My guard is down, I’m an easy target.

You see the shift in that one instant.  In the time it took for me to sigh, you could see that something was exploding behind my eyes.  They are, after all, the gateway to my soul.   

In that moment, a knowing washed over me and my sadness was comforted.  In that one sigh, a knowing washed over me and I accepted fate.  In that one moment, I was reassured that I can handle it.  

I know that I will be okay.  

In that one moment, a message was placed inside my heart: spend time and make memories. 

You asked what I was thinking about.I imagine you didn't expect that response!  I’m witchy like that.  I tell you that this happens sometimes, always has.   We talk about it and carry on with our game.

We play out the next hand; the final hand of the game.  We lay our cards down, realizing that our cards are identical.  We each have two kings and two fives.  A secondary wash confirms the existence of the first. 

I tear up a little.  

Hello, my tiny love.