December 2025

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Climbing Out:

(A Gobble Wobble Story)

Last month, I signed up to run a Gobble Wobble on Thanksgiving Day. Thankfully, it was an untimed race — less about pace or bragging rights, and more a reason to coax people off their couches and justify the copious amounts of food we’d eat later. (Disappointing reality: the average runner burns about 350 calories during a 5K, which equals one cup of stuffing or one slice of pumpkin pie, not both.)

I crossed the finish line much slower and more exhausted than I’ve ever finished a 5K. I used to joke that 5ks weren’t even worth running–they were too short to space out as a runner and run my own pace. But this time, I hit the two-mile mark and prayed I had enough left in the tank to finish.

Before you judge me as some washed-up runner reliving her glory days from half-marathons past, hang with me. I promise this story has a point beyond making you feel bad if you’ve never laced up for a race.

Here it is: I’m digging out of something.

And it’s hard.

There’s so much that shapes our sense of self. There’s something about middle age that brings both comfort and clarity—you start to accept who you are, wrinkles and all. My skin isn’t glowing anymore, but it carries the wisdom of decades. I trust my choices more, react less, and appreciate calm in a way my teenage self couldn’t. Still, I’ll admit I love the occasional ego boost: nailing a new recipe, taming my curls with a good haircut, or buying a new pair of jeans which are so fashionable that people stop me in public places to ask, “Where did you get those?” (True story).

But then. We find ourselves facing a difficult issue, a problem without a quick answer. Something in our lives that reminds us that we are fragile and flawed and vulnerable.

For me, that reminder has been running.

Two years ago, I got sick, and I haven’t been the same physically since. And while I’ve become accustomed to it in most areas, I was missing the life I used to live as a runner. Great runs which felt effortless. Even hard runs where I could pride myself for finishing. So this fall, I decided to change my inner dialogue from “I can’t” to “maybe I can.” I downloaded a Couch-to-5K plan and started over with a run-walk routine.

It’s been slow. Much slower than I expected. And harder (so much harder!) than I wanted it to be. I kept waiting for that rush of pride to show up, the sense of accomplishment that used to come so easily. But it didn’t. Mostly, I felt tired. Frustrated. Disappointed.

Climbing out of anything is hard. Add in shorter days, increased darkness and the stress that comes from the busyness of the holidays. Starting something new, improving on something–it asks everything from us: physically, mentally and emotionally.

As part of my “What You’re Writing” newsletter from October, I joined a small group in keeping a gratitude journal. On Thursday, November 27, I wrote that I was grateful to have crossed the finish line—running the entire way. I even took a selfie with my husband (who, annoyingly, looked far less tired than I did) and posted both in my Happyfeed app. Because here’s the truth: regardless of my slow pace, no one cared. People ran faster. People ran slower. But I trained. I showed up. I ran the race. I even went to church afterward, sweaty and still in my running gear (which, wonderfully, is a thing our church welcomes on Thanksgiving). And yes, I ate both the stuffing and the pumpkin pie and wrote both of them off as well-earned calories.

End thought? Climbing out, trying something new, making a significant change–it’s difficult.

But you know what’s not? Celebrating.

The big achievements and the small milestones on the way.

For the days we soar and the days we simply finish.

Because sometimes, finishing is the victory.

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November 2025

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Naps

I know what you’re probably thinking: She’s not really going to write an entire newsletter about naps, is she?

Oh, but I am. Because for me, naps have become part of what it means to live…and to write.

Before October 2023, my life was nonstop. I thrived on being everything for everyone, all the time. Honestly, I loved it when people said, “I don’t know how you do it all.” It felt like my superpower.

Then I met my kryptonite. After battling an illness for six weeks, I woke up to a very different reality: daily fatigue. While my health has improved a lot since then (and I’m deeply grateful), naps have become a constant in my life.

Most days I can keep them short—thirty minutes. Other days, my body insists on more. And while you might be thinking, That actually sounds lovely, let me tell you—Western culture (especially the productivity-driven Dutch West Michigan kind) isn’t exactly nap-friendly.

I’ve taken more car naps than I can count. One time, when my timer went off, it took me a minute to even remember where I was. (Answer: Target’s parking lot.)

I have transitioned from teaching in-person to teaching online, and this has been a positive shift for me. But I have a dear friend who is recovering from a major surgery and is attempting to return to the office full time. She hears from her boss that she is supported, but she also wonders how to carve out that necessary nap sometime during her work day. (Yes, she confessed to me that she has locked her door, turned off the lights and taken a short office cat nap.)

Studies show that napping isn’t just indulgent; they’re actually good for us. The American Heart Association, Harvard Health and the National Sleep Foundation all agree that napping can restore mental clarity, fight off fatigue, boost productivity and improve overall well-being. Naps are medically necessary for infants and toddlers as their bodies and brains do the monumental work of growing and developing. And yet, most of us only allow ourselves the occasional Sunday nap, possibly with a football game or a NASCAR race on in the background as white noise.

So yes, today I’ll nap. Just like most days. And before you start feeling bad for me, know this: I’m okay. Honestly, I might even be better for it. Napping has forced me to slow down and reevaluate my priorities. If I only have so many awake hours, I want to spend them well.

I no longer accomplish everything, every day. I’m not the superhero I once was. And that’s not a bad thing. Spiderman once said, “with great power comes great responsibility.” I would say I’m now living in the world of “moderate power” with “moderate responsibility.”

And you know what? That feels a lot more manageable

My dog Teddy making naps look so cute and easy

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(September 2025)

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What Next?

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The good news: my “Not Yet” jar is full. Quite full. Crammed to the top, in fact. II had to swap out a handful of $1s for $5s just to make room.

The bad news: my list of available literary agents is shrinking by the day. As I am learning, the middle grade genre is a small and specific one, with a narrow audience of readers and hence a limited number of agents willing to represent MG writers.

Most days this journey feels a little manic. One day I’m sending queries, drafting newsletters, planning author visits—and yes, perhaps even doing some writing of my own. It feels purposeful, hopeful. Then the other days come. The days when a newsletter deadline sneaks up, two rejections land (before lunch!), and I realize I haven’t written a single creative word of my own in weeks.

A neighbor asked me the other day how my writing life was going. I smiled and said, “Good!”. But if I’m honest, I’m not sure what happens if, in the near future, the last agent query comes back as a “no.”

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​What next?

One option is self-publishing. I know people who’ve done it successfully. A local author I met loves it—he gets to choose his format, illustrator, timeline, everything. And the timing of self-publishing is fast: my friend Cindy DeBoer self-published her own memoir in a little over two months. The trick with self-publishing in what happens AFTER publication–you’re on your own. There’s no marketing team to help get the word out, schedule school visits or book talks or even for you to be a presence at a literary conference. Every copy sold comes from your own blood, sweat and tears.

And even if that felt manageable on a given day, there’s future implications with how many books actually sell. The average self-published book sells between 250-500 books, with a few reaching the higher end of 1,000. Publishers, on the other hand, look for authors who can move 10,000 books in a year. And if your self-published book doesn’t sell well, it can actually make it harder to land a publisher for future projects.

See the pressure here?

Another option I have is to shelve Lily of the Valley for now and go in a different direction. Write another novel that might have an easier appeal to literary agents and the publishing world. If that novel does well, bring Lily back into the conversation.

In baseball terms, I feel like I’m closing out the eighth inning. I’m down, but not out.

Maybe there’s a different chapter of my writing story that I need to write.

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(September 2025)

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The Weight of Grief

the weight of grief sculpture by celeste roberge

Recently, a high school student passed me in the hallway and called out, “That’s the death lady!” I knew what they meant. I’ve spent more time than most people talking and teaching about grief, dying, and the complicated way we humans try to keep living through it. Some of that comes from being raised as a mortician’s kid. Some of it just comes from being alive in the world right now. Death is everywhere. You don’t have to look hard.

Recently, two people I knew died—both younger than expected, both leaving behind families who are completely shattered. I keep thinking about how we’re supposed to move forward after something like that. How do you even begin? Is it possible to find meaning again? Or joy?

When I was working on my master’s capstone, I researched the importance of writing about grief in fiction. In my research I found this quote from Megan Devine exposing one of the underlying issues of grief: “We don’t talk about the fragility of life: how everything can be normal one moment, and completely changed the next.” There are an estimated one million words in the English language, but none of them seem to be enough to understand and express grief.

Grief takes over more than just our emotions. Sigmund Freud of all people was studying this back in the early 1900s, and even then, he recognized how far-reaching grief can be. It touches everything—our physical health, our relationships, our spirituality. Modern researchers like Joanne Cacciatore have backed this up with science: grief impacts the immune system, our nervous system, our heart. So when people say they feel like grief has taken over their entire body, they’re not being dramatic. They’re being accurate.

And if it’s hard enough for adults to carry that kind of weight, just imagine what it feels like for kids or teens. It’s messy and awkward and full of questions adults often don’t know how to answer—so most of the time, we just don’t bring it up. But we need to. Because here’s the reality: the National Alliance for Children’s Grief reports that 1 in 12 children in the U.S. will lose a parent or sibling by the time they turn 18. That’s six million kids. By the time they hit 25? That number more than doubles. Death—and grief—is not something reserved for later in life. It shows up early and often.

But in Western culture, we’re trained to avoid it. We don’t know what to say, so we say nothing. Someone else’s loss makes us uncomfortable because it brings about mortality salience, the acute awareness of the fragile nature of mortality, both to us and our loved ones. And so, intentionally or not, we leave grieving people to carry their pain alone.

Meaningful Melancholy Created by Albert Gyorgy

So what do we do with all this? When someone we love dies, the loss isn’t just individual—it ripples through families, schools, churches, neighborhoods. But even though grief is communal in its impact, the actual experience of grieving is deeply personal.

That’s why it matters so much that we talk about it. Megan Devine says, “When grief is made visible, a doorway into acceptability and openness comes, inviting others to consider and discuss their grief.” And she’s right. Something shifts when we stop pretending we’re okay and start telling the truth. We start to realize we’re not the only ones walking around with broken hearts.

George Bonanno put it this way: “If we understand the different ways people react to loss, we understand something about what it means to be human, something about the way we experience life and death, love and meaning, sadness and joy.”

And isn’t that what we’re all trying to do? Be a little more human with one another. Hold space for both joy and sadness. And remind each other that even in the thickest fog of grief, we’re not actually alone.

(August 2025)

Lately, I’ve been working with my second-oldest on his college Common App essay. (And if you’re a parent of a high school junior or senior, let me offer this advice: if your school or community offers a one-week Common App writing course—and time and finances allow—take it. They’re fantastic.)

I feel somewhat qualified to help, given that I’m a professor of English. And yet I also feel wildly unqualified, given that I’m his mom. In my experience, the fewer outside roles we try to play in our kids’ lives, the better.

If you’re wondering what the Common App is—or if you’re old enough to remember when college applications meant paper, envelopes, and stamps—it was created in 1975 by a group of 15 private colleges but didn’t really take off until it went digital in 2007. Since then, its essay component has gone through many phases, from 25-word responses to submissions in comic strip form. Today, it’s a 600-word essay based on one of seven open-ended prompts.

My son and I recently spent an evening brainstorming topics. Fortunately for him—and I say that sincerely—he hasn’t experienced the kind of trauma that tends to anchor many college essays: the loss of a parent, a major illness, a devastating failure, or an against-all-odds success story. (Not to diminish any of those topics—they’re valid and powerful—but when you don’t have one, finding a meaningful story can be a tougher task.)

It ended up being a great conversation about who or what has shaped him. He landed on a topic that felt “good enough” to get started—and honestly, with enough revision and feedback, I think it’s going to be more than good enough. I’m excited to see where it goes.

But while he was typing away, I got stuck on the idea of the essay itself.

There’s something a little ironic about asking 17-year-olds to write reflectively about their lives. I love reflection—I assign it weekly in my college classes. But it’s a big ask for someone who hasn’t yet lived two full decades, someone who can’t vote, rent a car, or legally sign most contracts. To distill your life into a single story or insight at 17 feels… both profound and slightly absurd.

I think we should all be required to re-read our Common App essays every ten years—at 30, 40, 50—just to remember what it felt like to stand on the edge of everything. To smile at what once seemed monumental, now a footnote. A faded photo. A blip.

Of course, that got me thinking: what would my 600-word essay be today? What event or person would I choose? What moment, in the blur of days and decades, has shaped me most?

My son and I continue our weekly Common App dates—he writes and worries and wonders; I toggle between English professor, cheerleader, and mom. At some point, we’ll call it done and hit submit. And then his future will begin to play out before my very eyes.