Tag: writing life

Hello again!

It’s been a while. I thought I’d share an update since you are an important part of my life. 

Over the past few years, especially while living abroad, I’ve done a lot of soul-searching to figure out the next steps in my professional life. I finally found a path that aligns with my purpose—writing the story of the ten pivotal years that inspired me to start a nonprofit and co-author La Mariposa. In the spring of 2023, as I was finishing the first draft of my coming-of-age memoir, I hit an unexpected standstill. For months, I stared at the same scene, looped in a mental block, unable to move forward. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to skip it and return later. It felt like I was stuck in quicksand, my nose barely above the surface. Every effort to pull free only sank me deeper, the weight of my unfinished story pressing down on me.

Looking back—and I suppose I knew it as I struggled to write—it wasn’t the scene that shook me, but the realization that I was close to taking the next step in revealing my truest recollection of the events I experienced, even though I consulted with those involved and was careful to be fair and respectful and stay within the boundaries of what was appropriate and mine to share. 

Alongside this realization, I faced a harsh truth: despite the debate surrounding it, a recent court case involving a major publishing house led to the revealing of an unsettling truth—most authors don’t reach the masses. If they’re lucky, they might sell a few hundred or maybe a thousand books, enjoying only a brief moment of publicity.

Is it worth putting my story out there if it means upsetting or disappointing the people in my life? 

I tried to move past this, but I feared judgment. The ¿Que Dirán? imposter, that nagging worry of what others would think, that I worked my entire adult life to manage, especially when my values and integrity aligned with my goals, wouldn’t stop chattering. I could hear the imagined criticisms about my story or my book’s (lack of) success: “That’s not true! I don’t remember things happening that way!” “Aren’t you disappointed your book didn’t do well?”

I’ve often heard memoirists struggle with this issue. Some courageous writers press on, fully aware of the potential consequences but certain that the story’s message outweighs any fallout. Others forge ahead with the belief that those who might be offended should have acted in a way they’d be comfortable seeing in print.

Like me, the more apprehensive writer gets to a certain point in their first draft and then freaks out just as the glowy light at the tunnel’s end nears. They place their pen down, promising to pick it up again after those who may be hurt or offended die. 

Is it really worth it?

I have contemplated this question considerably. I journaled, meditated, took long walks with Values and Intentions. I talked to people about my hesitancy, many of whom shared how memoirs impacted their lives and made them feel less alone or a relative’s story filled in the missing gaps and made them feel more connected to their ancestors and heritage. 

I decided it is worth continuing. 

I picked up the pen and hoped my writing would return as suddenly as it had stopped, but it didn’t. So, I shifted my focus to less paralyzing projects. Then, in late May of 2023, I faced the heartbreaking loss of my father-in-law—a man I deeply loved, whose moral compass always pointed true North. He was an exemplary human unlike any other, and I was honored to have known him. Just two days after his passing, I was asked to step into a temporary leadership role at the nonprofit where I served as a board director. Although I knew this role would pull me further into the quicksand, something, an overwhelming instinct, nudged me to accept. 

Those eight months turned out to be some of the most fulfilling of my life. I had the privilege of working with a phenomenal team to advance a mission supporting youth development. Drawing on my experience in budgeting and operations, I helped streamline systems, implement policies, and establish a sustainable foundation for the organization to thrive. The experience rekindled my passion for helping others reach their highest aspirations.

Since then, I’ve trained to become a professional coach, started my own coaching business, and am starting a certification program to deepen my skills.

And, slowly, I’m working on my story. It will take time, but when I think about what I want to leave behind in this world, long after I’m gone, I realize that the words I’ve written will live on.

I’m curious, when you think about your own journey, how have life’s unexpected detours shaped the legacy you hope to leave behind?

Thank you for reading and being part of my journey. xoxo

Lost in Repatriation: Where Have the Writers Gone?

It’s been three months since my husband, C, and I settled in Manhattan. While I understood it would be a challenge and take time to make meaningful connections here – everyone seems to scurry from one place to the next in hurried determination – I didn’t expect it to be this harrowing.

After all, I had no trouble making friends when living abroad in two foreign countries. I had built-in opportunities through the boys’ schools and sports clubs, my workout groups, and neighbors. It’s true that we are new empty nesters, and our sons are now grown and live in different cities; we can no longer count on the ease of meeting other parents through them. But why am I surprised that I haven’t made a single connection on an island of 23 square miles and 1.63 million residents?

I partially blame myself. 

Since our return from Europe, living in Stockholm and London for over eight years, we have been focused on work and reconnecting with friends and family in neighboring states, gathering for celebrations we would otherwise miss if we still lived across an ocean and a six-hour time difference.

I’ve also been spending too much time inside our apartment. I didn’t set out to pass my days sitting at a small desk in the guest room, but I needed a private space, a room of my own if you will allow, to establish a routine as a new writer. Writing a memoir is a soul-searching endeavor that requires you to revisit and examine significant moments in the past, some of which can shake and bring you to tears. Until I was more comfortable with the process, I wouldn’t consider venturing out, although I fantasized about living a writer’s life in the city. (There’s also the fact that I often talk aloud. Something about speaking the words makes them real and helps with editing. Not sure the public would appreciate my practice, but then again, this is New York City 🤓.)

My online writing community and work as a property manager and board Co-Chair for a national nonprofit kept me from noticing that I hadn’t yet made a friend IRL. I had grown accustomed to my routine and wondered if I had unknowingly become an introvert. (The answer is brilliantly clear for those who know me well.) I even retook the 16 personalities test to see if my source of inspiration and energy has shifted these past years, especially as I spend a good portion of my days in isolation. But, I am a person who needs the energy of others to be at my best.

So, I searched earnestly for fellow writers and ponderers in local cafés. Many coffee shops I visited did not invite lingering, as evidenced by the limited seating and lines of nomophobics edging toward pick-up counters. Admittedly more of a fan of their community outreach than coffee, I imagined spending mornings in the creative buzz of a Starbucks, fueling on their milder Veranda coffee blend and tapping away on my laptop. I wandered to several of their renovated stores near my apartment and saw similar changes where they notably traded their inviting nooks and tables for the digital convenience of preordering and take-out.

I’m wondering what is left now that this beloved Third Place for writers and creatives doesn’t seem to exist in brick-and-mortar. Surely there is something I’m not considering. If London has local pubs, Stockholm cozy cafés and Fika, undoubtedly something similar exists here.

In the meantime, I want to be intentional about making friends I can give my energy to while discerning the kinds of people I want to surround myself with. I’ve thought about this for some time: how we are the average of the five people with whom we spend the most time. In an exciting city like this one, I’ll need to think differently about ways to make connections outside of writing and step out of my comfort zone.

I am deeply grateful for my community beyond state and country lines and virtually, including you. Thanks for taking the time to read and share.

In the spirit of friendship, I am curious if there is a facet of your life that can benefit from contemplating or thinking differently. What would stepping out of your comfort zone look like?

With love,

xx

Nancy

Morning bite at a London cafe before writing