We don’t hate being seen. We hate being seen from the wrong angle.

That’s perfectionism and visibility in a nutshell. We aren’t afraid of being seen. We’re afraid of being seen before we’ve had a chance to turn on portrait mode on our iPhone.

I’ve been reading Katherine Morgan Schafler’s The Perfectionist’s Guide to Losing Control, and she names something in the Classic Perfectionist type that I recognized immediately. The self-discipline, the consistency, the structure we bring to everything. Those qualities can make us appear stable, unapproachable, or even haughty. Ouch.

But here’s what she says is actually happening: we aren’t trying to build a wall.

We aren’t withholding. We’re offering the best of what we have. We just don’t always realize how it lands on the other side, for the person wanting some feeling, a break from a routine, or a quick decision.

Then she talks about spontaneity. Schafler discusses how stressful it is for perfectionists, and I want to say: amen, sister. The need for structure isn’t a character flaw. It’s how we function well, and for me as a diabetic, in particular, it is a matter of life and death. But taken out of context, it can come across as emotional distance when distance is the last thing we want.

Because here’s what doesn’t show up in the perfectionist stereotype: many of us deeply want to connect. Schafler describes a type she calls the Parisian perfectionist, someone who desires meaningful connection and who is genuinely bothered when people don’t like them.

Unfortunately, that’s me, or an earlier version of me.

I’ve swung in both directions — the Teflon version of myself, where nothing visibly touched me, and the overcorrection, where everything did. Al-Anon principles helped. Mel Robbins’ Let Them helped. And now I try to moderate how much other people’s opinions affect me. But underneath it all, the desire was always the same: I want to connect meaningfully and authentically. The surface-level stuff is almost painful.

Which brings me back to the angle problem.

We want to be seen for all of our good — the competence, the follow-through, the grace under pressure. What we can’t tolerate is being seen in the places we already know we fall short.

Because we’ve already identified every crack. We know where we’ve been sloppy, where we’ve been afraid, where we showed up in a way we don’t care for. We are genuinely afraid that if someone else sees those same things, they’ll arrive at the same conclusion we already have.

That’s not fear of being seen. That’s fear of being seen for who she knows she really is.

I write a parallel newsletter — Dear Kate Notes — for the woman in midlife sitting on a story she hasn’t said out loud yet. And what keeps showing up in both spaces is this: the recovering perfectionist and the woman with the untold story are managing the same distance. Between who they know themselves to be and who they’re willing to let the world see.

The version of you that feels safe to show is real. It just isn’t complete. And the parts you’re guarding? They might be the most interesting ones. The ones that would make someone feel less alone at 11 pm on a Tuesday.

You don’t have to share them. But it’s worth asking what it costs you to keep holding them back.

Should I write a book? Not can I write one. I knew I could put words on a page. The question was more than that.

Was I the right person to tell this story?
Was it the right time?
How do you tell the truth responsibly when other people are part of it?
What if I write it… and no one cares?
What if I write it and people see me differently?

Perfectionists are very good at generating thoughtful questions. We’re not always as good at moving through them.

For a long time, I stayed in the thinking stage, and while I was “investigating”, I heard Jennie Nash on a podcast about book coaching and the work of Author Accelerator, and I filed it away as something I’d like to learn more about, after I figured out the book question.

But I also heard her talk about structure. The idea that writing a book wasn’t simply a leap of courage. There was a way to approach it thoughtfully. A way to think through the questions that matter before you ever start drafting.

Questions about story.
Questions about responsibility.
Questions about what the book is actually trying to do.

That mattered to me.

Eventually, I decided to write the book that had been circling in my mind for years.

Publishing it changed more than I expected. It helped me make sense of parts of my life that had felt chaotic for a long time. And it connected me with people who believe books can help others navigate difficult seasons.

Recently, that path reached another milestone. I completed my certification as a book coach through Author Accelerator. What I appreciate most about the experience is the rigor behind it. The standards. The shared understanding that helping someone shape a life story into a book is real work that deserves real training. But the part that feels most meaningful is simpler than that.

Five years ago, I was the woman asking those questions. Now I get to help other women work through them.

Over the past few years, I’ve also realized something else.

Many women reach midlife and quietly recognize that life didn’t unfold as they expected. Divorce. Health issues. Loss. Rebuilding. Identity shifts. The details are different, but the experience of standing in the middle of a life transition and asking “What now?” is far more common than we tend to admit.

The details are different, but the experience of standing in the middle of a life transition and asking
“What now?” is far more common than we tend to admit.

Stories help people find their way through those seasons. Sometimes the book you write becomes the book someone else needed when they were in the middle of their own uncertainty.

That idea is part of why I recently started another Substack called Dear Kate: Notes for women with a story to tell.

Dear Kate is for the woman who hasn’t started the book yet, but can’t stop thinking about it. She has notes somewhere. Journal entries. Maybe a few voice memos on her phone. She hasn’t said “I’m writing a book” out loud because the stakes feel real. The story matters. And she wants to approach it thoughtfully.

If that sounds familiar, you can explore that conversation here:

https://dearkatenotes.substack.com/subscribe

For now, though, I’m sitting with a quiet sense of gratitude.

Five years ago, I was circling questions. Today, I get to help other women find their way through them. And that feels like a good full-circle moment.

For a long time, I stayed in the “someday” stage.

Perfectionists are very good at generating thoughtful questions. We are not always as good at moving through them. Someday, when I had more time. Someday, when life was less stressful. Someday, when something in me or around me felt more settled. Then I would write a book.

What moved me from someday to today was a one-week writing challenge. It gave me the confidence that I could actually do this. Around the same time, I was listening to podcasts about writing craft, and what caught my attention was not inspiration. It was structure. The idea that writing a book was not simply a leap of courage or a test of whether I was brave enough to tell the truth. There was a way to approach it thoughtfully. A way to work through the questions that matter before you ever start writing.

My hesitation was never only about writing.

That mattered to me because my hesitation was never only about writing. It was about responsibility, timing, and what the book was actually trying to do. I did not need someone to tell me to just go for it. I needed a way to think clearly about what I was taking on.

Eventually, I made the decision to write the book that had been circling in my mind for years. Publishing it changed more than I expected. It helped me make sense of parts of my life that had felt chaotic for a long time, and it connected me with people who believe books can help others navigate difficult seasons of their own.

Recently, that path reached another milestone. I completed my certification as a book coach through Author Accelerator. What I appreciated most about the experience was the rigor behind it, the standards, and the shared understanding that helping someone shape a life story into a book is real work and deserves real training. But the part that means the most to me is simpler than that.

A few years ago, I was the woman asking those questions.

Now I get to help other women work through them.

Over time, I have also come to understand something else. Many women reach midlife and realize life did not unfold the way they expected. Divorce. Health issues. Loss. Rebuilding. Identity shifts. The details vary, but the experience of standing in the middle of a life transition and asking, What now? is far more common than we tend to admit.

Sometimes the book you write becomes the book someone else needed.

Stories can help people find their way through those seasons. Sometimes the book you write becomes the book someone else needed when she was in the middle of her own uncertainty. That idea is part of why I recently started another Substack called Dear Kate: Notes for women with a story to tell.

Dear Kate is for the woman who has not started the book yet, but cannot stop thinking about it.

It still makes a cameo in her thoughts once in a while. Or she has notes, journal entries, maybe a few voice memos on her phone. She has not said “I’m writing a book” out loud because the stakes feel real. The story matters, and she wants to approach it thoughtfully.

If that sounds familiar, you can explore that conversation here:
https://dearkatenotes.substack.com/subscribe

For now, I am sitting with a real sense of gratitude. Six years ago, I was circling the questions. Today, I get to help other women find their way through them. That feels meaningful to me in a way I do not want to rush past.

Now that I’m out of public service and have more room to let things percolate, I can see how quickly revision turns into over-revision. Overthinking. Over-editing. Going back again isn’t always about improvement. It’s about listening to that overly loud voice in my head insisting it could be better.

It starts innocently: tighten a sentence, swap a verb, change a color, smooth an edge. But somewhere between “one more pass” and “let me just check this one thing,” I stop editing for clarity and start editing to feel safe. And “safe” looks productive. It sounds responsible. It even comes with proof: Look how much better this is than the last version.

Except sometimes it’s not better. Sometimes it’s just different.

Lately, I’ve been trying to get honest about what “done” is. What “enough” is. The first pass is the SFD, as Anne Lamott would say. The second is craft. The third, fourth, or fifth? That’s usually fear, dressed up like a boss with a disapproving face that says, “You can’t possibly send this yet.”

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been playing with Daniel Pink’s Brutally Honest Prompts, and more often than I expected, it surfaced patterns that felt uncomfortably accurate. It made me notice how easily revision becomes a delay tactic. I’m not hunting for a stronger sentence. I’m looking for reasons to second-guess myself, and ways for the fear of being seen to take over.

That’s what I’m working on this month: a process where I revise from clarity, not fear. Where “good enough” is a real finish line, not an insult.

So now, when I feel the itch for another revision, I ask:
“Am I improving this, or am I hiding?”

Because the real work, for me, isn’t becoming more. It’s trusting myself and being willing to be seen.

Behind on the timeline.

Behind on what life is “supposed” to look like by now.

The Script I Was Following

For years, I tried to do everything in the “right order.” College. Career. Marriage. Family. PTA. School Board. The whole nine yards. From the outside, it looked like I was doing pretty well.

But behind the scenes, things were melting down. And when I finally got honest with myself about what was really going on, I felt painfully behind.

At 45, I had the great job. I had the house, the two kids, and a dog. But my personal life was in pieces.

I was starting over in ways I never planned, and I felt shame about it. I “should” have known better, and I carried that alone for a long time.

And I’m not unique in this.

Capable women carry things in silence.

We don’t want anyone to notice, but we also hope someone safe will. Someone who can crack the door open to a real conversation so we feel seen.

What I Know Now

Going off-script isn’t failure. It’s life.

The problem is that people rarely share the messy middle, so we assume we’re the only ones. We see polished outcomes and fill in the blanks with ‘everyone else has it together’ and wonder what’s wrong with us.

And a plot twist isn’t proof you did life wrong.

Three Mindset Shifts That Helped Me

If “behind” is a story you’ve been living with, these three mindset shifts helped me:

1. Replace “I’m behind” with “I’m in a transition.”
Behind turns your life into a deadline you missed. Transition makes room for movement, rebuilding, and growth.

2. Ask: behind who?
Who are you measuring yourself against? What’s the metric? And why are you using that measuring stick in the first place?

3. Shrink the question.
Instead of “What am I doing with my life?” try: “What am I doing this week to build a life I actually like?” A smaller question makes it manageable.

Making those shifts lowers the panic and improves the decision-making.

Why Telling The Story Matters

A turning point for me came when I started telling my story. First in one-on-one conversations, then in blog posts, and eventually in my book. There’s something powerful about being able to tell the story without using your life as evidence against you. You start to see the growth and the humanity in it.

That’s part of the full-circle moment for me now: helping other women tell their stories, and watching what shifts when they do.

So if you feel behind, remember this: going off-script doesn’t mean you failed. It means your life got real.

My hair is gray and curly. My eyes need correction, and my wrinkles are becoming more prominent. I know who I am, what I need to do most days, and—just as importantly—what I don’t know yet.

I try not to imply expertise where I don’t have it. I speak in the same voice whether I’m talking with writers, clients, friends, or strangers on the internet. The tone is consistent because it’s mine.

I am, however, a quick learner.
Maybe that’s where the confusion comes in.
Maybe that’s our similarity.

Recently, my curiosity about using AI as a research assistant—nothing more, nothing less—became the source of criticism.

The question behind it was genuine: How can we use this tool to handle some of the research work more efficiently, so our attention stays where it belongs—on the writing?

I didn’t expect the criticism—but maybe I should have.

What began as that honest question was quickly reframed as something else entirely. I was criticized for wanting to teach writers how to use AI. Criticized for using it myself. Even criticized for the broader climate implications of AI, as if exploring a tool made me personally responsible for the entire system behind it.

The questions themselves weren’t the problem. Those conversations matter.

What caught me off guard was how fast curiosity turned into certainty.

The tone wasn’t tell me more.
It was you’re wrong.

That’s when it became clear: these are not my people.

My people are curious. They pause before judging. They ask questions before drawing conclusions. They’re open to conversation, nuance, and the possibility that two things can be true at the same time. They don’t assume intent—they want to understand it.

In an unexpected way, I almost took the criticism as a compliment. Someone assumed I was an AI-generated person based on my picture and writing. If my work reads as clear, cohesive, and thoughtful enough to spark that assumption, I’ll take it.

My interest in AI didn’t come from a desire to replace creativity or outsource thinking. It came the way most meaningful shifts do—through conversation and exploration—and my pursuit of How Can This Be Easy?

As I discovered different tasks it could perform, it lit up a different part of my brain.

The real turning point came when a writer asked me a practical question: How do I find comp titles?

As I walked her through my process—what to look for, where to search, how to evaluate—I realized AI could help with the filtering. The organizing. The first pass. And we would still do the vetting, verifying, and contextualizing.

That’s when the possibilities opened up.

I don’t believe AI is the be-all, end-all. I never have. But I do believe it’s here, and pretending otherwise feels a bit like insisting on writing everything by hand when typing exists. Pen and paper are beautiful. Libraries and encyclopedias matter. But efficiency with the small things creates more room for depth where it counts.

For me, AI is just another tool. It also requires discernment, skepticism, and responsibility. I love it for brainstorming. It’s like having a thoughtful friend available 24/7. It helps me refine my thinking and then explore different perspectives with humans.

That’s the key: it helps me spark new thoughts and threads.
It does not replace me.

Some tasks will change. Some roles will evolve. But human connection, judgment, lived experience, and context? Those still belong to us.

And if that makes some people uncomfortable, that’s okay.

Same leash. Same gate. Same loop around the dirt path while she sniffs, wanders, and does her very important dog business.

When we were up at this beautiful stretch of green lawn overlooking the ocean, a spot she knew well, she was playing with another dog she sees all the time. A familiar dog. A normal morning.

The other dog’s owner and I walked around a small hill, chatting the way you do. I assumed she was near us. But when we came back around, she was gone. Not wandering. Not distracted.

Gone, gone

At first, I wasn’t worried because she’s never wandered out of eyesight before. I called her name. Went to the water station. Called her name some more. Other people started helping me.

Nothing.

That’s when the panic kicked in.

This area is on a college campus surrounded by busy streets. Morning traffic. Commuters. Delivery trucks. The kind of roads you do not want a confused, panicked puppy trying to navigate alone.

I called my husband to come help and started jogging toward home. Calling louder. Asking students if they’d seen her.

My mind raced ahead to worst-case scenarios, as minds tend to do. And then, about the time my husband was walking out our front door to come help me search, she appeared at our gate.

Panting. Shaking. Clearly traumatized.

But alive. Unhurt. Home.

She had run the entire way back—about a fifteen-minute walk—crossing multiple major streets, somehow not getting hit, somehow finding her way through all that noise and chaos.

She was scared. But she knew the route.

Later, once my nervous system calmed down and hers did too, I kept thinking about that part.

She didn’t know where I was. She panicked. She got off course. But she knew the way home because she’d walked it dozens of times before.

That path—boring, repetitive, familiar—was what saved her.

Which brings me to January. This season of new year, new you.
New habits. New systems. New identities.
Reshaping. Refining. Re-doing.

I love a fresh start as much as the next recovering perfectionist. But I also notice how quickly “new” turns into pressure. How easily it becomes a quiet belief that whatever we were doing before must have been wrong—or not enough.

And I want to offer a counterpoint.

Doing the same thing every day isn’t always a problem.
Sometimes it’s a gift and an atomic habit, as James Clear would say.

Sometimes those familiar routines—the morning walk, the journal you keep abandoning and returning to, the way you think on the page—are the very things that help you find your way back when you get lost.

Because we do get lost. We get pulled off course by other people’s expectations. By shiny new tools. By the belief that the next system will finally fix us. And then one day we look up and think, Wait—where did I go? That’s not a failure.

That’s a moment to stop running in new directions and ask a gentler question: What’s the way back?

For me, that question is wrapped up in my word for the year: How can this be easy?

And that’s the heart of the How Can This Be Easy? workshop I’m offering for aspiring writers.

It’s not about becoming a different kind of writer. It’s about finding your way back to the writing you loved before it got tangled up with shoulds and strategies and self-doubt. Back to the part of you that knows the route—even if you’ve been off-leash, off-course, or off-confidence for a while.

You don’t need a brand-new path. You may just need to return to the one that’s already carried you home before.

If that resonates, I’d love to have you join me. It’s January 24, so don’t wait to register. Information and details here.

And if not—let this be your permission slip anyway:

Everything doesn’t have to be new.
Sometimes the bravest thing is finding your way back

P.S. The workshop will be recorded. If you register, you’ll receive the link afterward, even if you can’t attend in person.

P.S.S. Enjoy my other Substack about the dog park (and the great Geico commercial) here.

Because if you’re anything like me, you don’t mind doing hard things. You just don’t want to make it harder than it needs to be.

Here’s what I learned: AI can be a calm, practical support system for writers without taking over your voice or turning your work into generic mush. Used well, it acts like an executive assistant—helping you sort, summarize, organize, and decide what matters—so you spend less time spinning and more time writing.

So I’m hosting a free workshop to show you exactly how I’m using it.

If you’re AI-skeptical but curious—same. Consider this my anti-resolution offering: no tech overhaul, no complicated system, no pressure to become a “power user.” Just one hour to learn how to use AI as support (not a substitute) so you spend less time spinning and more time writing. Remember, we didn’t grow up on tech. The most tech-y thing in our house was… honestly, probably an Atari—and I’m not even sure we had one.

How Can This Be Easy? (Free Workshop)

Saturday, January 24 | 9–10 a.m. PST | Zoom
45 minutes teaching + 15 minutes Q&A
Bonus: you’ll get a downloadable cheat sheet afterward.

We’ll cover:

• what AI is (and what it isn’t), in plain English

• a support-not-substitute approach that protects your voice

• how to get helpful output (and avoid the generic stuff)

• simple ways to use AI to research, organize your ideas, and figure out your next step

Learn more.

Or, if you already know you want to grab your spot? Register here.

And if you’re choosing a word or question for the year, I’d still love to hear it. (Seriously—tell me in the comments.)

This year, I’ve chosen: How can this be easy?

And before my inner overachiever has a chance to file an objection (because yes, she is still alive and occasionally very loud), I want to be clear about what I mean.

“Easy” doesn’t mean lazy.
It doesn’t mean I don’t care.
It doesn’t mean I’m lowering my standards.

It means I’m done making things more complicated than they need to be.
It means I’m leaning into the truth that good enough isn’t just good enough… it’s often the best path forward.

Over the years, my words have been like breadcrumbs—little signposts leading me out of old patterns.

I’ve had words for the hard years, when I was trying to stay steady and hopeful.

And I think of that gingerbread house metaphor I wrote about several years ago—the way we keep piling on frosting and decorations to make something crumbling look “fine.” That image was really about the same lesson: authenticity is better than perfection.

There was the year I leaned into delight, because life needed to be more than checklists and production mode.

There was the year I chose consciously intentional, a phrase that helped me pause before I said yes—and ask whether I was choosing something out of joy… or out of obligation.

And there were the earlier words that held whole chapters of life: hope, opportunity, be, trust, adventure.

If you’re noticing a theme, you’re not alone. My words have been leading me—year by year—out of perfectionism and into something gentler and (ironically) far more effective.

Why “easy” now?

Because I’ve lived long enough to know this: life is precious, and the time we get is not unlimited.

And at this age—at this season of life—I’m not interested in spending my energy on things that exist only to impress someone, prove something, or meet an invisible standard I’ve made up in my head.

I want to be intentional about how I spend my hours.

“How can this be easy?” is my permission slip to stop making everything more complicated than it has to be—especially the things I care about.

Because here’s the tricky thing about perfectionism: it doesn’t always look like Martha Stewart or Miranda Priestly. Sometimes it shows up dressed as virtue:

• being “thorough”

• being “responsible”

• being “the one who always shows up”

• doing it “the right way”

But… at what cost?

When I ask, “How can this be easy?” what I’m really asking is:

• What is the simplest next step?

• What would “good enough” look like here?

• What am I doing out of habit—not purpose?

My hope for this year

I hope this phrase brings more joy and energy to the everyday—and less overthinking —into the mix about people, processes, and plans. (My 2025 phrase was Let Them, and wow… that one has helped on the people side.)

Delight taught me to ask, “How can this be fun?”
Intentionality taught me to pause before saying yes.
And this year, I’m leaning into easier.

So that’s my phrase: How can this be easy?

If you’re choosing a word or phrase for the year, tell me—what is it?

It turns out they’re not alone. We hear that a large majority of people carry “write a book” somewhere on their mental bucket list. What fascinates me isn’t the statistic—it’s the gap between wanting to write a book and actually beginning one.

As we reflect on the year that has gone by and move into a new year—and the inevitable flood of new year, new you posts—consider this an anti-resolution post. I’m not here to tell you this is the year you must write your book. I’m genuinely curious about the stories that are waiting to emerge, in their own time.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that space between wanting and beginning—the place where so many thoughtful people linger. It’s rarely laziness. More often, it’s care. Responsibility. Lack of time. Lack of direction. Perfectionism. The sense that if you’re going to do this, you want to do it well.

That curiosity is what led me to create a short survey called Why This Book Hasn’t Been Written (Yet).

It’s designed to listen—to better understand what actually gets in the way for people who feel drawn to write a book.

Your responses will help shape future conversations, content, and resources meant to support writers—and writers still waiting to emerge—right where they are.

📌 As a thank-you:
Anyone who responds will be entered to win a copy of my memoir, Off-Script: A Mom’s Journey Through Adoption, a Husband’s Alcoholism, and Special-Needs Parenting, or a $15 Amazon gift card.

If there’s a book you keep thinking about—the one that hasn’t quite begun yet—I’d love to hear your perspective.

Take The Survey

They may sound like strange gifts, but together they reflect how far I’ve come.

A Revision Request and a Different Reaction

This morning, I learned I need to revise one section of my practicum work. The feedback was kind and clear, but as a recovering perfectionist, it’s always hard not to get the gold star.

What surprised me was what didn’t happen.

I didn’t spiral.
I didn’t rewrite the story about my abilities.
I didn’t let it take over my day.

I felt the pang… and then I realized I’m becoming the kind of coach I want to be. The revision wasn’t a setback. It is an opportunity to learn more from experienced coaches. And I’m grateful for their wisdom.

Then a Pro Skateboarder Made It Make Sense

A few hours later, at a housing policy conference (another side of my professional life), I heard Mikey Taylor — pro skateboarder turned investor and now the mayor of Thousand Oaks — talk about practicing skate tricks on a stair rail hundreds of times until he could land them cleanly, and having a strategy to manage risk.

He described the thought process behind every attempt: Could he make that first jump to the rail? Could he stay balanced down 21 steps? If he didn’t land it, how would he roll so he didn’t get hurt?

And as I listened, something clicked.

I’ve recently taken my own kind of jump — adding book coaching as a new line of business. It’s exciting, yes, but also full of unknowns. It requires a steady mix of courage and humility. And here I was, expecting myself to be flawless on attempt one, instead of honoring the fact that I’m still learning the moves.

Mastery comes from reps, not internal pressure.

And risk is part of the process — not a sign you’re doing it wrong, but a sign you’re growing.

James Clear Seals the Theme

Then James Clear’s email showed up. He wrote about mental toughness and shared this:

“My favorite type of mental toughness is not forcing one path, but being open to many paths: Whatever comes my way, I can handle it. Whatever resources I have, I can make it work. Whatever the day brings, I can thrive.” (*emphasis my own)

He went on to describe how, as we mature, the gap between disappointment and recovery should get shorter. Kids can be upset for hours; adults learn to return to center more quickly.

And that’s exactly what today was:

Proof that I can feel the sting and recover quickly.
Proof that feedback doesn’t undo me anymore.
Proof that I’m building resilience alongside skill.

A Quiet Realization I Almost Missed

But it also reminded me of something else—the practicum email recognized many good qualities… qualities I want to embody as a coach.

They described my work as warm, curious, clear, and balanced.
They said my feedback helps writers move the needle.
That I create actionable steps.
That I understand the ideal reader, the genre, and the marketplace.
That I’m thoughtful, professional, and committed to deepening my mastery.

Today helped me see these for what they are:
Strong signs that I’m becoming the coach I want to be.

Not perfectly.
Not instantly.
But steadily — and with far more grace than I used to give myself.

And honestly?
I’m proud of that.

This is what we came up with:

On the first day of Christmas, my memoir book coach gave to me: One compassionate cheerleader to guide me along the way.

On the second day of Christmas, my memoir book coach gave to me: Two tidy timelines, And one compassionate cheerleader to guide me along the way.

On the third day of Christmas, my memoir book coach gave to me: Three title suggestions, Two tidy timelines, And one compassionate cheerleader to guide me along the way.

So I won’t go all the way through it, but here’s the haul for memoir writers from their book coaches:

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my memoir book coach gave to me:
Twelve months of clarity and courage
Eleven brave revisions
Ten moments mapped
Nine kind reminders
Eight editing insights
Seven small assignments
Six specific scene adjustments
Five golden A-HAs
Four points of my character arc
Three title suggestions
Two tidy timelines
And one compassionate cheerleader to guide me along the way.

If you’re feeling the spark, download the 12 Days of Christmas Writing Prompts - my holiday gift to you, and blissfully free of drummers, birds, and other questionable 12-day surprises.
If you’re ready to make your writing journey merry and bright, join Dear Kate, my short note newsletter to women with a story to tell — it’s free. My gift to you — because let’s be honest, the 12 Days went off the rails after day five.

For almost 25 years, I’ve been writing about the girl who would become my daughter—trying to make sense of a parenting journey that has looked nothing like the one I once imagined. From the posts I sent to listservs during our Russian adoption process (back when the internet was barely finding its legs), to my WordPress blog, to my book, writing has always been the place I’ve gone to process and unravel life’s mysteries.

That need hasn’t gone anywhere.

My daughter, now 26 and living in a group home several hours away, has been here for the past few days. Each visit feels like a blini from her homeland—thin, delicate layers of personality, energy, and the complexity of her many diagnoses. Sometimes I get fifteen minutes of her energy and focus; sometimes an hour. The medications that keep her mental health stable and her other challenges at bay also drain her. Our visits typically start with hyperactive excitement, then taper into short moments of energy, followed by long stretches of rest.

This morning, I encouraged her to get up at 10 a.m. so we could walk to the beach, something she’d asked to do before the visit. But by the time we arrived—twelve minutes later—she was already tired. I gently tried to explain the importance of movement for her physical and emotional well-being, but she countered with all the reasons she couldn’t exercise. It didn’t take long to realize the conversation wasn’t going anywhere. She’s 26 chronologically, but depending on the day, she lives somewhere closer to 8–12.

Back home, she ate some cheese—her forever favorite, the reason we used to call her our “dairy mouse”—and then curled up for another two hours. She would have stayed there, too, if she didn’t want to see my parents again and paint with watercolors. While we created together, I was reminded of the many vocalizations that spill out of her naturally and the familiar stims that still flutter through her body.

After returning home and eating leftover sandwiches for dinner, she retreated to the guest room with her squish toy, her constant companion, and began processing the day in the only way she can.

And here I am, processing mine in the only way I’ve ever known: by writing. Grateful, still, for the outlet that has carried me through every version of this journey.

Parenting her has taught me more about surrender, resilience, and myself than any book ever could — and writing has been the thread that’s kept me stitched together through every season. I don’t always know how to hold the fullness of who she is or who I hoped she’d be, but when I sit down with a blank page, something inside me settles.

Maybe that’s why I feel so strongly about helping memoir writers bring their stories of transformation into the world. I understand the value of writing these stories — and the value of reading them. I’ve lived it, and try to use my experiences to help others.

Perhaps that’s the quiet gift in all of this: the invitation to notice what’s here, to honor it as it is, and to remain grateful for the story we’re still writing together — even when the chapters look nothing like the script I once imagined.

I’ve been holding that line close.

I spent last Saturday in three completely different rooms with three completely different groups of people—and somehow, every one of them was teaching me the same thing.

We are starving for connection.

Not the digital kind, not the “hope you’re doing well” kind—the real, in-the-room, eye-contact, shoulder-to-shoulder kind we forgot how much we needed during the COVID years and haven’t quite rebuilt since.

Over 125 women gathered on a cold, rainy morning to learn, share, grow, and reconnect. The Gathering 2025 brought together growth-minded women—many of them business owners—to swap stories and solutions to the challenges we all face.

The breakout sessions covered everything from legal foundations and recognizing childhood wounds to wellness as we age and using your voice with confidence. Over lunch, small groups dove into conversations about conquering your closet, boosting productivity, growing your business, and healing from pain. Truly—there was something for every corner of our full, complicated lives.

I left feeling lit up. There’s nothing like being around women who are energized by their work, curious about new ideas, and generous with their wisdom. That kind of energy stays with you.

Later that day, my husband and I attended a graduation ceremony for a friend who completed the Santa Barbara Rescue Mission’s 12-month residential program for alcoholism and addiction treatment. It was powerful to witness not just stories of recovery, but the deep sense of family these men have formed with one another—and with those who guided them through the most challenging parts.

Photo borrowed from SB_RescueMission on Instagram.

Every speaker talked about the brotherhood (and sisterhood) that carried them. I’ve seen the same truth in my husband’s recovery journey, and I know how essential those bonds are.

The ceremony took place at my parents’ church—another place where people find connection, encouragement, faith, and community. A place where people show up for each other because they believe that’s what Jesus did.

All of it—The Gathering, the graduation, the church—reminded me that connection isn’t a luxury. It’s a lifeline. As a self-employed, work-from-home consultant, I feel this daily. I intentionally build in-person touchpoints throughout my week because I know I need people. Most of us do.

Even nature reflects this truth.
One aspen tree is only a small part of a much larger organism. A stand of aspens is actually a single living system, connected through an enormous underground root network. Those roots can lie dormant for years until the right conditions—especially sunlight—invite new life to rise and flourish.

Can we be the sunshine?

For our communities, our friends, our families—lifting one another into growth through connection?

If you’re feeling lonely or disconnected, consider what you love or what you’re curious to learn. There’s a group for absolutely everything.

I’m part of a vibrant group of women serving Santa Barbara through a local nonprofit. (We’re hosting a cookie-exchange gathering soon if you’re interested in learning more.)

And if you’re a writer craving inspiration or community, reach out. I’ll be launching a new accountability group for writers this spring—meeting regularly to share progress, build momentum, and encourage each other as we bring our work into the world.

Let’s stay connected.

As a book coach, I’m trained to ask my authors why a lot—leading (and sometimes pushing) them to elaborate on details they know but the reader wouldn’t without more explanation—either explicitly or through a trail of breadcrumbs in the story.

Recently, my “why” questions have been centered around different aspects of grief.

A friend passed away at the end of October, and as I write that, I feel the need to clarify the “level” of friend. She was really more a friend of my husband’s. While she and I had spent time together alone a few times and exchanged texts a few times a year, we weren’t close. We cared and wanted the best for each other, but neither of us was on the other’s top ten people to call.

Reflecting on her passing, a mutual friend commented, “I don’t want to be all dramatically woe-is-me because I know others had more of a profound loss. I was just a side friend.”

That phrase—a side friend—niggled at me.

That and the question of why grief is sometimes so intense with “side” friends? Why do we feel the need to define our friendship level or the depth of our loss based on how often we communicated or hung out? Why do we feel like we don’t get to experience loss simply because others were closer?

Where did we learn to compete for grief space, as if there’s a limited amount to go around?

I wrote about this friend in early 2024 in a phase of collective grief for her ongoing battle and two others who had passed. While this particular friend was still alive, cancer was kicking her butt, and she was in the hospital again. We had gone to visit her and walked away thinking it was probably the last time we’d see her. Somehow, she fought back from that hurdle and other mountains and valleys over the next 18 months. But each time something came up, it felt like it may well be her last.

We went through this when my father-in-law was dying from glioblastoma, one of the most aggressive and lethal forms of brain cancer. He was diagnosed in April of 2018 and declined rapidly over the next several months. It was a miracle he made it to our wedding that September. We said our goodbyes, thinking each visit might be the last, but he held on for another two months. Living in the in-between space, knowing that nothing had been unsaid and yet wanting to be there for the end, was hard.

When I asked ChatGPT for some insight, this is what it said: “When you repeatedly visit someone with the mindset of ‘goodbye,’ you’re living in a time-space of in-between: between presence and absence. Recognizing that the process is messy, cyclical, and unpredictable can be a bit of a relief (and a freeing permission).”

There is no perfect goodbye.

Sometimes we have time to prepare, and at other times, life ends dramatically without warning. The only thing we can really control is how we live—openly, honestly, and with enough generosity of spirit that if today were someone’s last day, we could feel at peace with our actions.

I’ve always believed our days are numbered—that there’s a larger plan at work, and we don’t leave this world a moment sooner or later than we’re meant to. Still, I find myself wondering why God chose to take our friend on October 28. Was there something that needed to unfold first—in her, in her boys, or in the people who loved her? Or was that simply the last day written for her life?

The tapestry poem by Corrie ten Boom, a Holocaust survivor and author, comes to mind.

Imagine a tapestry where you see only the uneven and ugly threads, seemingly random and messy, without pattern or purpose. But when you turn it over, you discover a weaving of a beautiful picture—something you would have never guessed could come from that messy underside.

One of the things I look forward to in the eternal realm is gaining a deeper understanding of some of life’s whys. Many times, I only see the messy, mismatched, or incomplete threads and would love to understand the whole picture. Why did this happen this way or not happen that way? Was there a purpose related to me, or was I a supporting actor in that drama?

My morning walk further reinforced the tapestry analogy. When I left my house, it was foggy and overcast, but as I headed toward the hill, I could catch glimpses of the sun. By the time I reached the road above, the sun was shining brightly, and I could see my house below, visible through the fog, with the sun above. It was a reminder to trust that I don’t always get to know the answers to the whys of life. I can trust that, although I can’t always see all the elements, I know that something greater is weaving a beautiful picture behind the scenes.

Life is but a Weaving
by Corrie ten Boom

My life is but a weaving
Between my God and me.
I cannot choose the colors
He weaveth steadily.
Oft’ times He weaveth sorrow
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I the underside.
Not ‘til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas
And reveal the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
In the weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned
He knows, He loves, He cares;
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives the very best to those
Who leave the choice to Him.

In recent years, I have made an effort to be kinder to myself, regardless of the number on the scale. Instead, I have chosen to focus on managing my Type 1 diabetes well. I’ve refined my approach to managing it, and now I feel healthier and stronger.

But when I decided to update my headshots for my professional and passion projects, I knew I would have to work hard to combat the negative undercurrent and messaging that has been so pervasive in my mind.

Then I found local photographer Lucia Kiel.

I connected with her through an Instagram friend and knew she was the right person when I read her website. It wasn’t just about getting a good picture; it was more than that. It was about me feeling positive about myself and being comfortable in my skin so that the photographs reflected the real, authentic me.

Her website promised “More than just a photoshoot.”

Great. I need more than pictures. I need a therapeutic experience to help me to continue to accept myself just as I am.

“My name is Lucia and I want to photograph every woman who has ever looked into a mirror and felt that she isn’t good enough.

As a woman, I understand how it feels to see yourself as not enough. I know how it feels to feel not thin enough, not young enough, not good enough. But I also know what beauty looks like and I know how to make it shine out of you, and how to help you discover what was already there to begin with.

For ten years, I have shown women just like you their beauty through portraits. But this is more than just pretty photos -- it’s an empowering photoshoot experience you will never forget. Because you are worth it.”

Amen, sister. This is exactly what I need.

Everything leading up to the photo shoot reinforced those words. She guided me through her process step by step and provided an amazing, comprehensive guide to preparing. I felt ready to shine and confident in my outfit choices.

Once the hair and makeup are done, Lucia is skilled at positioning your body and helping relax you so she can capture fantastic photos. Although some of the positions felt awkward, I trusted her experience. After several hours, I felt exhausted, but I was also confident she’d gotten at least one good photo.

When we reviewed the finished images a week later, I couldn’t help but cry. I felt beautiful and relieved. It was amazing to genuinely like the pictures without any negative thoughts running through my head.

It was a truly emotional experience that is difficult to put into words.

Since I was diagnosed with diabetes at age 10, I’ve felt the weight of having a broken body that wasn’t good enough. Add to that the challenge of being heavier than I thought was acceptable, and the societal pressure to be thin. I vividly recall an advertisement from my teenage years that stated, “You can never be too rich or too thin.” If you have ever struggled with negative body image, you might understand.

I am sharing this post to be authentic about the real struggle and also to thank and acknowledge Lucia Kiel’s approach. Through her work, she meets women where they are at and encourages us to change the narrative about ourselves and our bodies.

If you relate to any of this, these are some of the Instagram accounts that have been helpful in my journey.

Jenny Schatzle

Mindful Eating Institute

Jamie Kern Lima

Kristin Neff

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During the following week, my parents and I learned the life-threatening aspects of the illness and the crucial need to manage food and sugar levels for my health. I collected urine in a cup twice daily, so I could dip a test strip into it. The results appeared after a minute, and I discovered the approximate range of my sugar levels.

A nurse taught me to administer insulin shots, first on an orange, and then on my thigh, stomach, and arms. A rail-thin dietician gave me a booklet that listed the equivalent of one fruit in the diabetic meal exchange as an apple, half of a banana, or ten grapes. She wrote a food plan describing what to eat each day—one protein, one starch, and one fat for breakfast. She wrote a similar prescription for lunch and dinner. It didn’t matter if I was hungry or what I craved—I was simply to follow the plan.

A good day had no “reactions” or low blood sugars—and no high ones. Foods became “good” or “bad,” which led me to believe I was a good or bad person based on whether I ate them.

Before being diagnosed, I was a content little girl who enjoyed reading, arranging my book collection and toys, and playing teacher with my teddy bears. But after the diagnosis, the lightness of childhood evaporated.

LEARNING TO LIVE WITH TYPE 1

My life became very black and white, and whatever seeds of perfection I had before that summer blossomed with the threat of dying from this disease. I believed I had to keep all my numbers within the prescribed range 100% of the time, and if I didn’t, I was a bad diabetic, which also meant I was a bad person.

For the next 20 years, I struggled to be a “perfect” diabetic. I rigorously tracked every detail, from carbs and protein to sleep, steps, heart rate, and beyond. To manage my condition, I would rotate my insulin pump sites, pre-bolus my meals, and eliminate certain food groups based on the latest trend. After months of micromanaging my life, I’d get discouraged and rip up the detailed charts, frustrated with the lack of discernible patterns and results.

Then something would trigger a pang of guilt—an increase on the scale, a tough day, or a visit to the doctor—and I’d gather my motivation to start the obsessive tracking again, my version of diabetic boot camp.

During that time, no one ever talked to me about the physical and mental health consequences of the pressure I put on myself. No one shared about the variability of the disease—how it was more of an art than a science. So, I thought it was just me, that something was wrong with me.
A few years ago, I reached a breaking point and decided I wouldn’t be a slave to this disease any longer. I acknowledged that my average blood sugar might rise, but it was worth the risk for my own peace of mind. I quit keeping track of everything, listened to my body, and got in touch with my feelings about food.

I also put away the scale that held so much control over my self-esteem. Instead of looking to this inanimate object as a measure of my worth, I started journaling about my gratitude for the body that had served me through the years—giving birth to a healthy baby boy, running a half-marathon, traveling, work accomplishments, and more.

THE GIFT OF GOOD ENOUGH

After years of struggling to meet what I thought was the standard of diabetes perfection, I gave myself permission to be good enough. The most significant gift was that my doctor was in total agreement when I finally said those words to her. She could see that the time, energy, and stress of managing diabetes added to my challenging life with a special needs daughter. She recognized I was tougher on myself than on anyone else. By also embracing the new mindset, she validated my decision to change, and I was astonished to learn that my average blood sugar level remained the same.

There were other benefits as well. By not obsessing over numbers like my total daily units of insulin or carbs in my apple, I gained immeasurable mental and emotional capacity. I felt like I had time to thrive—writing a book, taking walks at the beach for pure enjoyment instead of as a weight and diabetes management tool, and doing watercolor painting, just for fun. And the peace I’ve experienced in becoming the best version of myself is extraordinarily fulfilling.

This leads me back to the health scare.

A few years ago, I had a few severe low blood sugars overnight that left me debating whether to wake up my husband or call the paramedics. While lying there, impaired and sweating profusely, I ate all the glucose supplies on my nightstand and prayed to God to awaken my husband or raise my blood sugar. I was in no condition to evaluate these options, but thankfully, my desire not to be a burden didn’t have an irreversible result.

The first time it occurred, I thought it was just a fluke caused by consuming holiday foods that were not part of my usual diet.

But then it kept happening, and I couldn’t find any reason for these sticky lows—or blood sugars that were hard to raise. I was afraid to go to sleep, wondering if I would wake up. I discovered that more than 60% of Type 1 diabetics have required medical assistance for low blood sugar, and I’m thankful that this hasn’t been my experience.

This led me to reluctantly accept that I had to ask for help, something I generally try to avoid. In my brain, asking for help is akin to admitting I’m not good enough or intelligent enough to figure it out myself. It’s one of those “perfectionist” narratives that clouds my thinking.

Because of previous experiences without clear solutions, I can give into the fear that there won’t be an answer. But this time, my life depended on it.

ASKING FOR HELP

Although my husband is supportive and willing to help me in any way, it was difficult for me to ask him to prioritize MY health. I felt vulnerable and fragile. I described the situation and provided guidelines on what to look for, when to call 9-1-1, and how to use an emergency nasal spray used for treating very low blood sugar.

Then, I began searching for more specialized diabetes assistance. I couldn’t depend on the usual healthcare system, where doctors review data days after it’s collected, make minor changes, and then don’t see you for months. I needed someone to analyze my numbers and offer prompt feedback.

And I found it in Diaverge, a boutique diabetes coaching program. It was fortuitous that they were starting another coaching session precisely when I needed help. All my data was available to them, and they helped me make adjustments as needed in real-time. They also provided PhD-level management lessons on the tools and skills needed to prevent highs and lows—information I would never receive in a doctor’s office.

Moreover, my coaches, who had lived with the disease for nearly as many years as I have, were both Type 1s and had an informative and accepting approach. I’m no longer experiencing extreme lows, and the fear of dying in the middle of the night is gone. Today, my blood sugar levels are incredibly consistent and in non-diabetic ranges, and I’m so glad I asked for help.

LESSONS LEARNED

I learned two significant lessons through this experience:

Asking for help shows courage. People want to help, and when I allow someone else to walk alongside me, they share their experience, which almost always produces better results. It also eases the pressure of my having to know or be everything.

I need to accept what’s happening. Fear of asking for help isn’t always the root of my issue. As I reflected, I realized that I’m quick to find solutions after acknowledging the problem, but my willful ignorance of what’s right in front of me keeps me stuck in a bad place.

I continue to work on acceptance and asking. It’s just not easy for a recovering perfectionist and aspiring good enough-ist.

If you’ve come this far, thank you for staying with me.

Is there something you need to ask for help with today?

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Have you seen Progressive’s latest ad with Mara at the dog park—the one where she sings in that perfectly flat tone:

“It’s the dog park…
With all the dogs there…
And the people you see, but don’t really know…
’Cause it’s the dog park.”

I love it—and I’d love to introduce her to our dog park.

Sure, we have the usual suspects: women in yoga pants (guilty), people scrolling their phones, and dogs running wild through what can only be described as canine heaven. But we’ve also met some genuinely wonderful humans.

Since moving downtown six months ago, we’ve been taking our pup to the community college lawn during off-hours—an open stretch of green overlooking the ocean. Over time, the familiar faces have turned into friends.

There are Odie’s parents—a couple about our age with a tiny dog that our dog, Coco, loves to roughhouse with. They look like cousins: same coloring, but Odie’s forty pounds lighter and decidedly less fluffy. We talk about travel, kids, authenticity, and the quirks of remodeling a house with an ocean view and a stripper pole that’s for sale. Now we text about doggie playdates and miss them when they’re away.

Then there’s Birdie’s family, who spent the summer here escaping the desert heat. We hit it off instantly. Our conversations wander from the Enneagram to sobriety to self-employment, the rise of AI, and the hockey season. If they lived closer, she’d be one of my besties. They even invited us to visit next year.

And then the younger ones—the professionals who remind us that the next generation might actually have it figured out. They care about purpose and giving back. They rescue dogs with baggage, run charity races, and talk honestly about family pressure and burnout. They make me hopeful.

There are also the retirees—people who volunteer with hospice, train therapy dogs, or spend their time connecting conservation leaders across South America. Their stories make you want to do better, be better.

At the dog park, we trade podcast recs, book suggestions, travel tips, and advice on avoiding bad groomers and foxtails. It’s a networking community, but better—no name tags, no awkward intros, no forced networking. If you don’t vibe with someone, the dogs will figure it out for you.

They always know who the cool people are.

’Cause it’s the dog park.

Here’s to loosening the leash.

Angry storm clouds, pregnant with rain, screamed with lightning as I gripped the seat handles and stared out the window of the plane, willing this trip to Montana to be over. The dark, tumultuous sky seemed to mirror our family’s last two and a half months. I gazed at my thirteen-year-old daughter, Katie, as she clutched her pillow pet, Steve, her fingers white from the pressure. She shifted in her seat and chewed a fingernail, already red and irritated, gnawed to the bone. I gently pushed her fingers from her mouth, so she tugged on her hair instead. I cringed at the bald patch on her scalp and decided to let her be for the moment. This wasn’t a battle worth fighting this evening.

A flash of lightning caused her to yelp, so I slammed the window shade shut, wishing it would seal us off from life, and resisted pulling her to me. When I tentatively put my hand on her shoulder, she shrugged it away, a mixture of anger and fear in her eyes. She hugged Steve’s colorless body, worn with love and age, tighter and buried her head in him.

Katie couldn’t be comforted. As an adopted child with reactive attachment disorder, she didn’t like to be touched. She wasn’t like her brother, Nick, older by eighteen months and our only biological child. As a toddler, he loved to snuggle while I read to him, and at fourteen, he still occasionally asked me to rub his back. But she never asked for anything, and it seemed nothing made her comfortable. Katie was suffering, and we were out of options.

The perky flight attendant, in her crisp navy uniform, strapped in across from us, mouthed, “Is there anything you need?”

I automatically smiled and shook my head, then rested my head against the side of the plane. There was so much I needed, but nothing a polished stranger could help with. It was nearly one a.m., and I knew the day ahead would suck every ounce of energy from me. Between the turbulence of the summer sky and Katie’s emotional roller􏰇 coaster, a few hours of sleep were the best we could hope for.

The last twenty-four hours at our home in Santa Barbara had been excruciating. Katie halfheartedly threw things and cried, “I want to die􏰆 and “Can you please just kill me?” She moaned and snarled like an animal ready to pounce, then fell to the floor, sobbing. Nick watched, then frowned and pushed his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes, grabbed his skateboard, and left to be with his friends. I wished I could do that, too, but as the mom, I had to keep it together.

Shortly after that, my husband joined Katie and me as we left for the airport. Because it was a last-minute trip scheduled in desperation, we’d gotten the seats from Los Angeles, California, to Billings, Montana, but they weren’t together. With the turbulence, I wished my husband was sitting with us. He thought he was generous by giving the first-class seats to Katie and me. But it was more likely because of our respective roles. As the mom, I was the primary caregiver and “keeper-together” of the household. Like many moms, I took the kids to school, kept track of the permission slips and grades, provided homemade treats for class parties, helped with homework, grocery shopped and cleaned, managed doctor and dentist appointments, and comforted them when they were sad or sick. Dad, well, he went to work, and when he was at home, he was just there, often passed out on the couch after dinner and a few martinis.

We finally landed at two a.m. and, uncharacteristically, Katie fell asleep almost immediately. Later that morning, we visited a local bakery for a giant, world-famous cinnamon roll before taking Katie to her new home, a residential treatment center where she would live for an unknown amount of time.

Paul and I tried to make small talk with her, but it felt like conversing with a death-row inmate before their execution. What was there to say?

We arrived early for the check-in and wandered around the lush green campus under an expansive blue sky with fluffy clouds. A sense of peace and serenity filled the air that smelled of fresh-cut grass. We encountered a pile of rocks and a sign describing a school tradition in which graduating students picked a stone to commemorate their journey and remember the lessons learned. It gave us hope Katie could recover.

A staff member greeted us warmly and invited us into a conference room with an old wooden table surrounded by dated blue upholstered chairs with rounded edges. The treatment team included a case manager, dietician, nurse, therapist, doctor, psychiatrist, and admissions manager. They were all gathered to meet our family and admit Katie to the facility.

After giving a brief introduction of each team member and an overview of the program, the case manager started asking his list of questions, including Katie’s name, date of birth, address, parents, siblings, emergency contact information, primary language, household size, and marital status. The warm air felt stifling, and I thought I might be sick.

I exhaled loudly. “Is this really necessary? I sent all the documents over last week.”

The case manager explained they wanted to hear the information from us. Paul and I slumped in our chairs as seven pairs of eyes waited expectantly for our responses.

“Religious affiliation?” “Christian,” I replied. “Current legal status?”

I paused. “I’m not sure what you mean. We legally adopted her from Russia, and she is a U.S. citizen. Here are her U.S. and Russian passports,” I said as I slid them across the table.

“Great,” the case manager said. “But we’re really looking for whether she’s been involved with law enforcement or the courts.”

“Oh, no,” I replied, embarrassed I misunderstood the question.

“Approved contacts?”

“Approved contacts?” I asked, not wanting to misunderstand the question again.

“It’s a list of people who are allowed to call, write, or visit Catherine.”

My face tightened, annoyed they called her by her formal name when I told them she went by Katie.

“Oh,” I replied and looked at Paul. “Us, her brother, her grandparents, her aunt, and uncle…”

Then the psychiatrist inquired about the problems which brought us to the school.

“Most of it’s in the fifty pages of documents,” I said sharply.

“It would be good for us to hear directly from you,” he replied gently.

My stomach clenched, and I took a breath. Katie was sitting next to me. It felt so impersonal and awkward to be answering these questions in front of her. But she wasn’t going to respond, so I started listing things off. “She ran away and is anxious and depressed. She’s having suicidal ideations and allegedly tried once.”

The therapist nodded. “Self-injurious behaviors?”

“She’s been pulling out her hair, if that’s what you mean, and I think done some cutting,” I replied as I glanced at her medium-length, mushroom brown hair and the spot where there was none. Her tattered burgundy sweatshirt and faded jeans covered any indication she’d been cutting recently.

His list of questions continued—physical or verbal aggression, fire setting, animal cruelty, stealing, destructive behaviors, impulsive, sexualized behaviors, physical abuse, difficulties with authority?

“No, no, no, no, no.”

“Hallucinations or paranoia?”

“Not that I know of,” I replied.

“Is she non-verbal?”

We all turned toward Katie, who had her head resting on the table. She didn’t respond, and I didn’t know if she was ignoring us or checked out. I started to say something to her and thought better of it.

“No,” I replied.

“Self-care skill needs?”

“Yes.”

“Can you describe those?”

“Right now, she barely gets out of bed. We have to force her to eat and shower. She knows how to dress and brush her teeth 􏰛 is that what you want to know?” I asked.

He nodded. “Current diagnoses?”

Oh, where to start. “Reactive attachment disorder, anxiety, depression, sensory integration issues, and fetal alcohol syndrome.” I glanced over at Paul. “Did I miss anything?”

He shook his head and said, “None that I can think of.”

“Current medications?”

I pulled a list from our binder and handed it to the doctor.

“Previous placements?”

“None.”

The case manager asked about Katie’s family history.

“We adopted her from Russia at sixteen months old. She was only fifteen pounds and severely malnourished. You could see every bone in her body…” my voice trailed off, not wanting to discuss it in front of Katie. While she knew she was adopted, she had never wanted any information about the orphanage or her birth mother, and we never offered any.

After what seemed like hours, we stood up and stretched. The team invited us to tour the campus. The well-used school was cozier than the junior high at home, and the horse arena where they did equine therapy piqued Katie’s interest momentarily. A church filled one corner of the property and offered Wednesday night youth groups and Sunday services. Welcome signs and encouraging notes decorated the single-story, brick, ranch-style lodge where Katie would live. Her new housemates were boisterous and chatty, excited to meet Katie. As we said goodbye, the warm chaplain with his ruddy, Santa-like face prayed over our family.

As the case manager walked Paul and me to the car, he said, “Take a week off, Valerie. You have done so much. Don’t feel guilty, you didn’t cause this.”

Words could not adequately describe the emotions surrounding that day. Paul and I were numb but grateful, sad but relieved Katie would be safe under someone else’s watch. We were utterly depleted.

After leaving the campus, Paul and I drove a meandering road showcasing Montana’s gorgeous mountains, enormous hats, and endless blue skies. It soothed us as we tried to leave behind the trauma of the previous months. We returned to Santa Barbara to figure out what life without Katie would be like.

Read the whole book: Off-Script: a mom’s journey through adoption, a husband’s alcoholism, and special needs parenting.

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