After reading a piece in the Atlantic the other day, I’m spending the day diving into a new form of writing: non-fiction essays.

It’s a shift away from the story-based writing I normally do and I’m realizing how much I’ve missed flexing this muscle.

Yesterday I did an interview and the host had me thinking long after the interview ended about the difference between fitting in and belonging.

I shared a chapter from my book, a story about inviting myself on a trip to Ireland. I wrote that belonging was something you had to reach out and claim.

But now, I think it’s more than that. I think to belong means you have to believe you deserve to be there.

A rejection. It hurts. But I am noticing that my rejections are getting better and better:

No response. —>

Thank you for submitting but we are going to pass. —>

We found this piece engaging, especially the striking imagery…

Now, we are getting somewhere.

This morning, I read through the first 142 items on my feed.

The results:

14 Articles 

36 Notes

92 Grow your Substack Notes (tips for getting more followers, engagement strategies, monetization advice)

And it’s not even 8 am.

A year of connection

Or maybe just a year talking about connection.

I just finished working on a piece and I’m wrestling with two versions of my voice.

When I read them side by side, they don’t feel like the same writer. I’m curious which one you prefer.

A: Yet this time, I was taken back to Christmas; I stopped midsentence and sucked in my breath. The silence felt near complete.

B: But midsentence, the internal grid shifted. I was pulled instantly back to the couch in Chicago. I stopped talking and sucked in my breath. The silence in my headphones felt near complete.

The realization that the people you thought knew you really don’t.

Or maybe they do.

My daughter graduated last weekend, and the tension between me and the other side of the family felt thick.

When I got home, I couldn’t stop replaying the events.

So I opened my computer and went down a rabbit hole — building the tracking tools for the place-based inquiry I’ve been designing. A packing list. A budget tracker. A dashboard to monitor it all.

I’ve flown more than 300,000 miles in just a few years. Last weekend, I boarded a small airplane and my bag didn’t fit overhead.

The boarding line stalled. I wanted to disappear.

Seems to me, all those miles don’t matter when you’re still not sure if you belong.

I’m a purist. Following the rules even when the rules don’t make sense.

Not inviting myself if I haven’t been invited.

Waiting to be sure before I reach out.

Maybe I am the reason people don’t connect with me.

I met some people on Friday night.

They invited me out on Saturday.

They bought my book.

Practice: Same Outcome, Different Environment

I carried my lunch tray with one hand, my other holding my backpack on my shoulder. My eyes scanned the crowd for a seat.

No one waved me over.

~~~

I opened the app.

I scanned its feed, looking beyond the posts for friends’ updates. A silly twenty question post.

No one tagged me.

As I prepare for my Africa place-based inquiry, I’ve had a lot running through my head — logistics, research, confidence.

I’ve been deliberate about not leading with my academic background but I keep finding myself returning to Google Scholar.

Today, I read an article by Kuurne and Vieno that affirmed the research is there, so rather than resist it, I am going to follow it.

Practice: Two endings

I brought her with me.

Now her voice is louder. Her presence is bigger.

I let it happen.

~~~

Vietnam used to feel like mine.

Now someone else has the same stories.

I gave it away.

The dark half-moons under my eyes have disappeared.

I remembered my dream last night and the night before.

I’m sleeping.

In Vietnam.

Goodbye Africa for now…

After three weeks of solo traveling in West and North Africa, not once did I feel lonely.

I spent evenings eating dinner alone and savoring the quiet time. I rode piggyback hour after hour, mile after mile on a motorbike, not saying a word, just watching the scenery unfurl around me. In French-speaking Senegal, where English is almost absent, I fumbled through hand signals and Google Translate. And despite all of that, no loneliness.

And now I’m wondering how to go back to my life.

I signed the title of my car.

I’ve spent twenty-five years building up to owning that car. I loved it — maybe I loved what it meant.

I don’t know if I’ll ever have the money to buy another one. And that has me thinking too.

More soon.

She held her spot. Her fingers grasped the silver bar. Her oversized purse blocked other passengers from moving into the empty space behind her.

A second passenger passed, a third, a fourth passenger squeezed past her. Her gray gym shoes remained planted as her gloved hands twisted around the bar.

When she exited the train, her large bag once again pushed up against other standing passengers. Her eyes barely visible under the bowler hat perched on her head, she mumbled sorry.

Packing for:

— Vietnam for a wedding

— Seattle for a funeral

— Alaska for family

One suitcase.

Until One Day She Doesn’t

I see this woman everywhere.

She remember her dreams and wants to take the leap, but she is afraid. There are responsibilities that she can’t walk away from, and she probably doesn’t know who she is outside of being a mother, wife, employee. Her family may make her feel guilty for choosing her. She recants and puts those dreams on the back burner.

Until one day she doesn’t.

I got on the down elevator.

Pushed 10. Ping. The door opened.

Again.

Again.

I was already on 10.

I needed 2.