Many of you know that sometime in the last few years, I began shaping a long-held writing project into something more intentional: a memoir drawn from my early years of grief after my husband’s death. What began as scattered notes—journal entries, medical records, doctors’ visit summaries, and old blog posts—slowly found structure through writing classes, weekly assignments, and thoughtful feedback from others.
The work asked for patience. Progress didn’t come from rushing toward an ending, but from staying present with the pages—listening for what wanted to be said and giving it time to unfold. Writing reminded me that clarity often arrives quietly, after we’ve shown up enough times to make room for it.
One of the biggest shifts in the process has been learning to show the moments rather than simply tell the story of them. Letting the reader step into the room, hear the sounds, feel the confusion or fear as it unfolded. Writing this way required me to revisit experiences I had long kept at a distance. At times it opened wounds I thought had already healed. But it has also allowed for a deeper kind of healing—one that comes from meeting those memories again with steadiness and compassion.
Revisiting those years has stirred things I thought had long settled. At times, a quiet yoga practice or meditation hasn’t been enough to move what surfaces. Running has found its way back in—not as escape, but as a steady rhythm that helps me meet what rises and move with it. It asks for patience and persistence in much the same way writing this book has.
These days, I’m training for a half marathon. Ms. Garminia is back on my wrist, faithfully recording the miles as I navigate the familiar dance of effort and discomfort. Some runs feel smooth. Others require a quiet negotiation with the voice that asks whether I really need to keep going.
The work is not so different from writing. Both ask the same thing: keep showing up, even when the path forward isn’t perfectly clear.
The story is now written, and I’m moving through edits and final revisions with care. I still don’t know when it will finally be published—but it feels closer than it once did.
And for now, the miles continue.
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