About ten years ago, I stopped arguing with people when they complimented me.

This has happened before — but usually, once I really lock in, I find something. I unearth inspiration in an event that happened over the past week or two. I discover some way to weave it into a narrative or a lesson. But…not today.

A few weeks ago, I opened my laptop, leg bouncing in anticipation. The feedback from my most recent short story competition had just been posted; and while I already knew I didn’t place, this was the first time I’d be seeing the judge’s comments.

You ever notice how, when you ask people their values, just about everyone says “honesty”?

That night, I lay in bed, grieving the loss of something that mattered to me. I cried the sort of tears that fall slowly, one by one, like the beautiful women do in the movies.

I was sad, but more than that, I was grateful. I had this vision of myself in the future, looking back on this specific moment thinking, “What a beautiful thing: to care about something enough to mourn its absence.”

Is wanting a symptom of unhappiness?

I’ve been asking myself this question since I finished my latest binge-read, The Midnight Library.

(That’s a lie. This question has lived rent-free in my consciousness for years. The book simply brought this question once again to the surface.)

“I don’t know how to capture why,” one subscriber wrote, “but it still feels like you hold back.”

I bit my cheek reading this comment. This simple sentence touches on one of my favorite topics: my lifetime sparring partner, Vulnerability.

Last week, inspired by a conversation with a friend, I asked my subscribers their thoughts on the “purpose” of my newsletter. (To my delight, many of you replied!)

Every year, on September 9th, I look around and take stock of my life.

Mammoth, California. Sierra Nevada Mountains.

It was our first night out on the trail. We’d had an early start to the day, meaning we reached our campsite with plenty of daylight left.

This morning started like most of my mornings do: walking to the local coffee shop. 

And so I did what any delightfully curious (and maybe slightly shameless) person would do — I approached them.

This week, my job wasn’t to be a data cruncher or strategist: this week, my job was to be a community facilitator. A builder of connections. The bridge between what we’re doing, and why we’re doing it.

I had a moment this week.

There were several moments, actually, but the one that comes to mind is the moment in which I lay at the bottom of the shower, the pelting water the only thing capable of quieting my racing mind.

It was a good moment. A healing moment. And I’d like to tell you about it.

But first, you’ll need a little bit of context.

A few weeks ago, I was lying in bed, speaking aloud my latest musings on the way my brain works.

Yes, this is something I do frequently.

My partner was listening intently, as he always does. I was detailing some recent moments of insecurity.

This past week, I was sitting on a work call with my boss, getting my midyear review. It was, I’m proud to say, nothing short of glowing…

I sat down today with the intention of posting a different story — but something was bubbling in my chest, and it only felt right to see where it took me.

I sit here, at this very moment, deeply aware of the secrets I keep for myself. There aren’t that many, truly, and fewer than there used to be…

I caught myself in a very silly logical fallacy this morning. 

You see, I have a lot of baggage around thinking I’m safe, then being proven wrong. I have a deeply rooted fear of being unable to trust my assessment of reality. When I think of the worst times in my life, they were always born of this scenario: “I thought I was safe, I thought I was loved, I thought I was valued…and I wasn’t.” 

“My journey of sexuality was a clear one: after a lifetime of accumulating evidence, there was a singular moment of validation. I went from crushing on girls, to kissing girls, to that life-affirming night with the woman from the music show. The next morning, after she left, I thought, “Yep, I am absolutely, 100% not straight.” And anyone else would be hard-pressed to deny me that. I’d proven my queerness, as silly as that sounds…”

“I was in elementary school the first time I had a crush on a girl. I won’t share her name here, though I do remember it. She was Latina, with beautiful long curly brown hair and dark eyes. I always wanted to hold her hand…”

In her book We Need Your Art, Amie McNee talks about the practice of “coronating yourself as an artist.” She details the hesitation people feel claiming that title: the fear of presumption, of being judged, of not being legitimate enough…