47

happy birthday, I got you the perfect gift

I turned 47 this week and, as it turns out, life is pretty great actually. We had a snowstorm here in Ottawa and I gladly read, napped, and ate cake at each meal. For dinner my husband roasted a chicken with veggies, which we ate in front of a true crime show on BritBox. All in all, it was glorious.

A few weeks ago I met with my therapist, whom I hadn’t seen since last September. I had sessions booked in October, November and December but I cancelled those and decided to, as my sister gently nudged, put the things I was working on into practice outside of Kimberly’s office (my therapist is Kimberly, my sister, my free therapist, is Danielle).

When I walked in to see her this January I said, “It’s so nice to be back! I cancelled my Fall sessions because, well, I’m on an unpublished author’s budget.” To which Kimberly replied, “Oh, that’s good to know, I was wondering if it was something I said the last time I saw you.” I loved that she told me that - it humanized her for me because it’s exactly what I would have wondered in her shoes. Anyyyyyyway.

We were talking about this change in direction my life has taken - from business owner/operator with a big community to the smaller, quieter life of a writer I’ve happily adopted. As I stammered out a number of things that were on my mind that particular day, the one I was really there to work through was the fact that my days are spent writing something that may never have an audience (besides the aforementioned sister, my family, and dear friends).

I will have dedicated almost a year of my life on work that may or may not be appreciated, not to mention pay me a salary. At 47, that is terrifying, yet I can’t stop. There is something in my body that is begging to be birthed. Not just begging, this thing, this material, has been growing inside me for years, and by Jan/Feb 2024 it was either going to kill me or I was going to listen to it, write it down, and eventually share it with others. Only when I made a deal to spend these months letting everything come out through my fingertips did the bubbling energy settle and let me have some peace.

With each sentence my body relaxes. I send pieces to my mom and sis, snippets to my brother, a paragraph here and there to friends who wonder what I’m doing tucked away in my little office that juts out over my front porch. I’m working on it, I promise them all (but really myself).

I tell Kimberly that I’ve never felt so calm and grounded, though writing can easily be painful, challenging and frustrating. I write, re-write, re-write and re-write ten more times. I spend some days staring out my window, the hours ticking away while the cursor just blinks on my screen. But! But when a piece comes together it is pure magic! I am exuberant! There is no feeling quite like being able to say exactly what you want to say in the exact way that you want to say it. When that happens the urge to immediately send it out to everyone in my contact list is strong. But I don’t. I don’t even send it to my mom.

I am keeping all of these essays for myself until each of them tell me they’re ready. I gather them together and ask them to wait just a while longer. A few more months until we can send out queries.

Kimberly encouraged me to envision a world in which I have a book deal and I’m working as a published author. “What will you want to do with your days when that happens?”, she asks. I take a moment and really give this thought.

“This.” I replied.

“I’d be doing exactly what I’m doing right now.”

Then I gathered my things and thanked her for the reminder that I’ve already given myself the best gift of my lifetime. I am doing exactly what I want with my days. I still worry, that’s why I’ll land back on her couch someday, but I can’t shake the feeling that I am on the right track.

I wish this feeling for all of you.

nh x