A year ago, my coach,
who was like my therapist but not
because we were only allowed 10 sessions together
told me to quit my job.
To leave my clients behind, let their contracts end.
She told me to go ahead and write. To be a writer.
I cried fat tears for all the things missing from my life.
Writing. I so desperately wanted to write.
That's all I wanted after a global pandemic
and a touch of cancer.
There was a deep and visceral fear that I would die before I told the stories that I had to tell.
This feeling is familiar. The desperation was new.
And still, nothing else has changed.
I took the summer off.
I let my largest contract end. I played pickleball.
I drank beers with ABVs of less than 6% with my friends.
I went to my annual family reunion with the only family who likes to reunion.
And as I was checking into our hotel in Old Vegas, a character introduced herself.
I met some other characters. I feel like I might know them.
Friends got sick. Friends go better. Friends died.
And still, nothing else has changed.
I joined a playwriting group.
I started reading more and joined the digital worlds of Kindle and Libby where I could get books instantly and never be bored.
I started physical therapy appropriately as summer came to an end.
My back hurt. My knees felt unstable.
Swirling MRIs and second options just told me I had "terrible arthritis" in one knee and "just arthritis" in the other.
My zombie ACL was almost gone. I am a zombie eater. You'll want me on your apocalypse team.
And still, nothing else has changed.
I learned that FOMO was really just anxiety in a pink party wig holding a chocolatini or lemon drop, depending on the event.
I went to West Africa for the first time in 20 years - I was more nervous than I wanted to admit as a member of the alpha mafia.
Is this why we always travel in groups?
And I took on more clients. Sometimes it was exhausting.
I bought a fancy computer bag to make myself feel better about it.
I baked more challenging cakes.
I bought cookbooks.
And still, nothing else has changed.
I went to a writing conference and my heart was filled with joy, longing and belonging.
I joined The Dramatist Guild because
I was a playwright. I said it out loud. I checked a box. I gave them money. I am produced after all.
I pined for graduate school - for an excuse to read and write every day.
I signed up for a co-working space.
Now we have kittens who are mischievous.
I hear them climbing on the counters, chasing the flies we call co-workers.
Now I am bike training for the 50th Anniversary of RABGRAI this summer.
Now I have arthritis in my jaw. I cried eating holy basil tofu at Pink Bee with a friend.
And still, nothing else had changed.
