The Book of Ruth Chapter 20: Every mind's a stage.

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. Ever heard of her? That sassy friend who tears you down from the inside out for your own good…?

As a former actor and singer, the further I get from performance the closer I get to my critic. I’m not sure it’s better but it is where I'm at these days. And if I've learned anything it's the more you ignore a problem the bigger it gets.

I did the whole self-discovery thing in reverse. I found an outlet early on in life though acting and singing and unwittingly shaped my worth around it. An identity based on output. On applause and an audience that cannot and will not love you back because they do not know you, and that would be…well…weird. I needed approval from strangers instead of realizing a performer’s job is to be the loving one. The job isn't to sing beautifully or recite Shakespeare verbatim, it is partially that, but more importantly it is to be the confident presence drawing audiences in and providing a safe place to reflect on life. Not the other way around.

It makes sense that things didn’t work out the way I’d hoped back then, since I was never truly at the center of my creative expression; my need for approval was. And so, I let the performer part of me shed away slowly like a snake skin as I writhed further into adulthood and then motherhood.

And yet, we all need an outlet for our creativity. Be it baking, pottery, cooking, bird watching, something to channel the beauty of our existence. So i took up pottery and tried not to focus on my output. But let's be real, I am very connected to the output.

So, I found myself between a rock and a hard place. Not feeling compelled to write but keeping all my innane thoughts inside was not much fun, either. So, I let the routine of daily life take over. I wanted simplicity, so why not live it?

As I experimented with hashing things out on my own in my loud, somewhat aggressive mind, that bold critical voice swooped in to run the show. An out of touch director who carves performances out of humans like stone. The voice tells me tons of wild stuff. Some fact. Some fiction. Some gossip rag. She is tireless and pretty creative with digs.

Sometimes in the morning I awake and have to crack my jaw open. All thanks to this voice who never stops chattering. Tireless.

Who isn’t grinding their teeth? Whose pearly whites are teeming with grooves and ridges? Natural enamel thickness and sharp indents on their incisors, anyone?

My prairie teeth provide a barrier-free environment for the tumble weed thoughts of my subconscious mind to blow right on through. No topography to slow them down. They bounce about aimlessly.

I shell out $500 for a new night guard after Brisket decides to eat the old one. The dentist tells me this happens all the time. Dogs.

The tension from my new night guard radiates a headache across my temples that throbs as I’m thwacked awake by a four-year-old elbow. The little one has taken to sleeping curled up beside me around 3 am every morning. I’d be lying if I didn’t love it 75% of the time. But the other 25% is full of face smacking, hair entrapment, and a little tyrannical voice screaming “NO, look at me, mommy!” whenever I roll away from her snack-laden breath. I look at the ceiling and wonder about attachment, anxiety, and the helix she and I dance around.

She wakes happy. Thrilled to be in big kid school and learning her numbers and letters. We cannot get out the door quickly. How does time slip away so fast between 7-8:30 am? We race all the way there. Brisket brings up the rear. Happy to have all of us in view.

I sit down to write. Nothing. There’s no universal experience here. Everyone else seems to be doing okay. Do they need another thing to read? Especially something with no real direction? Ah, that critic chimes in again.

A Hamlet line echoes in my mind: there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so. And I'm reminded thinking cannot correct itself. Only movement can. I read somewhere that when you feel like bed rotting it helps to do the opposite. Walk. Get on the yoga mat. Run. Something. And when you feel like you need to outrun yourself you probably need a rest. What you think and what you need are often missing each other's mark.

As I wrestle with a critic that’s far harsher than any of the ones that reviewed my acting work, I remind myself there is no way out but through. You cannot outrun your own mind. So maybe it’s time to sit with myself. Even if there’s no end goal. Even if there’s conflict. Because after all, that critic wants you to be better. Even if she’s a bit harsh. And maybe, just maybe she needs to be the audience, while you make her feel safe from centre stage.