Your Story Matters

Years ago, an old friend of mine said to me in her inimitable Southern drawl: "I needed to be hit over the head with a 2x4 to get the message." 

As a native New Yorker and someone who barely knew what a 2x4 was, those weren't words I would have used, but I knew what she meant.

I've been known to ignore signs from the universe for umm ... decades?!

Signs that I was gay (really, oh so gay).

That I was a writer. 

That I could use my natural gifts as an editor to work with other writers.

I spent much of my early and middle adulthood ignoring the signs from the universe calling me to something bigger, deeper, and more true to myself.

Instead, I typically chose the safer, easier-in-the-moment path.

In my 50s, I finally listened to the signs from the universe, which led me to the very different life I am leading today—as a member of the LGBTQ+ community, a first-time dog parent (!), the wife of Wendy, and a book coach dedicated to helping queer folx raise their voices,...

I had two polar opposite experiences last week that convinced me that queer people need safe spaces to raise their voices and write their stories more than ever.

First, I read in the newspaper that the Pope declared that being gay isn’t a crime—sure, it’s a “sin,” but not a crime. So comforting.

I haven’t had time to unpack all the feelings that exploded through my body when I read that headline, but here are a few:

• I spent 50+ years of my life with the privilege of not worrying whether people thought my identity was sinful, let alone a crime.
• My heart aches for my queer siblings who haven’t experienced that privilege—whose lives have been traumatized in the name of the church.
• I fear for queer people who live in countries where their very identity is considered a crime—and I fear for the path our country is on where sodomy laws are being reconsidered and where people can’t say "gay” in public schools.

I am more...

Writers, have you ever had an identity crisis?

I had a long professional identity crisis in my thirties and forties. After practicing law for a brief period, then caring for young children, the wandering and searching for the "thing I was meant to do" ensued.

For years, I felt frozen—and shame—every time someone asked me "What do you do?"

You know that question everyone inevitably asks when they first meet you.

I stammered and made apologies when I didn't have a simple—or satisfactory-to-me—answer, and pretty much wanted to dig a hole and bury myself in it in those moments.

During those years of wandering, I often forgot my gifts and what I loved to do.

I forgot that I had been a teenager who published my first article when I was a high school senior, a personal essay in my local newspaper about a study abroad experience in England. 

My father, back in New York with the rest of my family, had mailed me a copy of the newspaper clipping with this note:

...