I live in a small studio.

Gray moving containers are stacked high against the walls. My daughter and her cousin visited for spring break. They slept in my bed. I slept on a blow-up mattress. The cat jumped on the desk and pranced by. Oliver waited for me to deflate it in the morning. After they left, I put the room back in order. Oliver didn’t notice. He had his chair back.

The dog barked.

Loudly. I stood on my tiptoes and looked out through the peep hole. A naked man was standing at the fire door. Two police officers offered him a blanket. He ran by them. I turned off the hall light and unpaused my show.  

The back wheel of the 150-pound motorcycle pressed against the door of the elevator.

Oliver and I squeezed past it and the woman wearing a beaded headdress. We got off at the 10^th floor. Walking down the hallway, I noticed the plaster on the carpet and the dark brown door covered in scratches. I didn’t look back. I already knew which apartment was hers.

Her name is Emma.

I know her name. I’m sure she doesn’t know mine. She knows Oliver’s name. I met her in the dog park just a few weeks after moving in. My feeble attempts at talking to her was always met with silence. Today was no different. We walked back down the 2^nd floor hallway. Oliver and I following behind. When we reached the elevator, she said, “goodbye Ollie.” I replied, “see ya later.” She walked on.

My biceps burned.

My shoulder ached—the bad one. A gallon of milk, two boxes of cereal, a three-pound bag of chicken. I was still figuring out how to shop for just one. I keep saying I’ll buy one of those wagons. It’s too late. I’m moving in two months.

His name is Allen.

It was early when I asked for my package. He sat looking at me until he pushed the chair back, smacked his lips, hefted his pants, and slowly walked toward the mail room. He came back with empty hands. I went back thirty minutes later and asked a different clerk for it. She found it. I smiled at her and left.

I stood on the scale, glaring at the numbers.

Later when I took Oliver out, the number from the scale in my head, instead of turning right towards the elevator, I go left. Out the fire door into the stairwell. Oliver looked back at me, went down a few steps, stopped, looked back. I caught up to him. We started down again. That was easy. Coming back inside, I walk towards the stairs. Ten floors down hadn’t been so bad. Let’s try ten up. 2^nd floor, I gulped air. 3^rd floor, my chest was pounding. 4^th floor, my calves burned. 5^th floor, I opened the fire door. When I got inside, I hid the scale.  

It was 6:00 pm and I was late.

Oliver pulled at the leash as we ran down the hallway. At the elevator, he did his dance. We raced to the park. He made it, squatting in the rock bed. But that’s when I realized I was the one doing the dance.

Smoke from bacon crept to the ceiling.

The smoke alarm blared. I scrambled—fan on, window open, step ladder out—reaching to turn it off. From somewhere below, a dog barked. Oliver barked back. Later, out in the hallway, I avoided eye contact with the guy from 1001.

Get out of the way!

Her arm blocked the elevator panel. I reached behind her for the button. Her eyes locked on her phone. Every single time. The dog and I got off at the dog park. The dog’s tail wagged. Next time, I’ll ask her to push the button for me.

On the Amtrak yesterday. a young woman came on.

Before she even sat down, she was scribbling and writing in a day planner. Her pen rapidly moved as she turned the pages. Flip, write, flip, scribble. The book cover too short for the spine.

She opened her computer. The calendar popped up. Colored blocks covered the week. In her internet browser, dozens of tabs displayed while the Wifi spinning wheel continued. She picked up her phone, swipe, swipe, refresh on the computer, swipe on the phone. She took a second computer out of her bag. 

I’d left my glasses behind.

My hair was hanging in my eyes. I got on the down elevator. Pushed 10. Ping. The door opened. Again. Again. I was already on 10. I needed floor 2.

I moved across the country a year ago.

Having not lived in an apartment since my 20’s, I was worried about Oliver, my nine-year-old mini golden doodle disturbing my neighbors. I picked out a 10^th floor apartment, all the way at the end of the hallway. I had lots of time to think.  

After reading a piece in the Atlantic the other day, I’m spending the day diving into a new form of writing: non-fiction essays.

It’s a shift away from the story-based writing I normally do and I’m realizing how much I’ve missed flexing this muscle.

Yesterday I did an interview and the host had me thinking long after the interview ended about the difference between fitting in and belonging.

I shared a chapter from my book, a story about inviting myself on a trip to Ireland. I wrote that belonging was something you had to reach out and claim.

But now, I think it’s more than that. I think to belong means you have to believe you deserve to be there.

A rejection. It hurts. But I am noticing that my rejections are getting better and better:

No response. —>

Thank you for submitting but we are going to pass. —>

We found this piece engaging, especially the striking imagery…

Now, we are getting somewhere.

This morning, I read through the first 142 items on my feed.

The results:

14 Articles 

36 Notes

92 Grow your Substack Notes (tips for getting more followers, engagement strategies, monetization advice)

And it’s not even 8 am.

A year of connection

Or maybe just a year talking about connection.

I just finished working on a piece and I’m wrestling with two versions of my voice.

When I read them side by side, they don’t feel like the same writer. I’m curious which one you prefer.

A: Yet this time, I was taken back to Christmas; I stopped midsentence and sucked in my breath. The silence felt near complete.

B: But midsentence, the internal grid shifted. I was pulled instantly back to the couch in Chicago. I stopped talking and sucked in my breath. The silence in my headphones felt near complete.

The realization that the people you thought knew you really don’t.

Or maybe they do.

My daughter graduated last weekend, and the tension between me and the other side of the family felt thick.

When I got home, I couldn’t stop replaying the events.

So I opened my computer and went down a rabbit hole — building the tracking tools for the place-based inquiry I’ve been designing. A packing list. A budget tracker. A dashboard to monitor it all.