The Storyteller's Stories

November 12th, 2025 As I mentioned in my last post, the voice that urges me to write has been quiet. I haven’t felt full of insight or perspective worth sharing despite the seismic shifts happening in our lives. Ruth has started school. She’s in the extended day program. She’s starting to write. She’s learning French. Her brain is morphing and organising itself in so many new ways. The part of me that urges me to type is MIA. Replaced by its really loud mind-mate, The Critic.

Leaving, unlike waiting, isn’t the hardest part. I’m siding with Tom Petty on this one. I like leaving. I like finality. I like knowing a...

Honesty. The ability to lay yourself bare in an appealing way that doesn’t get too cringey— is an art. The skill of translating emotion...

I feel so far away from my creativity these days. It used to scare me. Keep me up at night. What am I if not making, tinkering,...

Ruth sits at my vanity. She sprays glass cleaner on the mirror. She knocks it over. Gentle, sweetheart. More gentle, please. Okay mommy!...

We need to talk about Adam. No, not that Adam, I’ve embarrassed that Adam enough. It’s time to embarrass my new Adam and hopefully it...

My fingernail has gotten…weird. I Googled it. It’s probably cancer. Or nothing. Maybe a hangnail that decided to do something with its...

I am a blanket. Not a sweater. I’ve spent my life wishing to be something more functional. More take-along-ish. More of a sweater. For...

These words are not for everyone. They’re for those of us who have felt a twinge or a tidal wave of rage. Or anywhere in between. Maybe...

I’m at the end of my rope. And I think my rope’s pretty long. I’m good at keeping my cool. It’s been three hours of screaming after weeks...