The Luminist

Last October, when I scribbled my sloppy signature on a book contract with a British publisher, I jumped for joy. Thirty-six years of Great Britain shaping my life paraded through my mind:

That terrified 20-year-old student dragging her suitcase through Heathrow. An office off of Old Street with grungy desks and dodgy bathrooms in my first post-MBA consulting gig with the Royal Mail. Mike getting down on one knee on a rickety Thames pier to ask for my hand in marriage. Bleary-eyed Heathrow stopovers on my way to military bases in Kuwait and Qatar. Sleeping under the stars in west Wales with my new work fam.

Britain, you had me at hello. I’m a card-carrying Anglophile. Fifth drink free.

A year after that historic leap, I’m learning that having a British publisher came with some unexpected lessons.

Not about Britain… About me.

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I was reviewing the copyedited proofs for Do Loss, pages spread across my kitchen island.

The publishing team’s close eye had saved me from some embarrassing errors. From using figures of speech that might offend (kicking the dog, anyone?), using terms that might confuse (warfighter rather than servicemen and women), ensuring that examples of collective loss were global (9/11, Australian wildfires, Grenfell towers).

After all that work, I was confident we were close with this version. So I was happily sipping my coffee as I skimmed the text I’ve now read a hundred times, when a microscopic blank space caught my eye. Then another. Then another.

I love my resilience researchers, my neuroscientists, my PhDs. I reference their ideas throughout Do Loss. But their names in print felt…off.

Wait, the tiny little dot!

The period after Dr. was gone. Dr. Bonanno had become Dr Bonanno. Same for Dr Ann Masten. Dr Scott Small.

I scratched my head. Then last weekend’s copy of the Financial Times, its pink pages in their weekly spot on my kitchen island, pulled my attention. I slid it in front of me, scanning the front page of the iconoclastic British paper. Sure enough, there was an article looking back at Covid, quoting Dr Fauci.

No period in sight.

We’d been at this for months, iterating and updating, making my book more accessible to an international audience by favoring a neutral version of English. We carefully balanced this with one obvious fact: I’m an American and have a uniquely American way of communicating.

Seeing abbreviations without a period, I should have been all potayto, potahto. All keep calm and carry on.

Not so much.

It was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

I lurched up from my stool, its legs scraping backwards on the hardwood floor. I raised my hands and cried out to the heavens: “Why oh why British English do you torture me so?! I thought we were friends!”

So then I wondered… what the heck is wrong with me? I’m really having a meltdown over punctuation??

I wasn’t the one to invent American English. I didn’t pull out a black sharpie, crossing out the U in colour, armour and honour. I didn’t zigzag through the ‘S’ in prioritise, monetise, analyse, converting it to a Z. I didn’t decide to capitalize acronyms or use a period after Dr.

So why do I feel so... accountable for it?

Actually, now that I think about it, why is American English different in the first freaking place?

Turns out, we mostly have our pal Noah Webster to thank/blame.

Back in the 1820s, this Webster guy wielded his quill like a scalpel, tearing British English to bits. He spelled words the way they sounded to him, dropping U’s and inserting Z’s, trading out C’s for S’s. Then he codified his choices in both his famous Webster’s Dictionary and a book to torture primary school kids called The Blue Backed Speller. One hundred million copies later, his vision of giving the US it’s own unique identity through it’s own unique language, became reality.

And boy, did he ever succeed. Because here I sit, two hundred years later, with my love of all things British clashing with my very American identity in the shape of one tiny dot.

But I wasn’t always weirdly defensive of American copyediting rules. For most of my young life, I would happily abandon my American identity at the drop of a hat.

Back in 1989, as a 20-year-old backpacker with my Eurorail pass and meager budget, everyone would treat our Canadian doppelgangers, their flag proudly displayed on their backpacks, with warmth. Us loud Americans? No flag needed to identify us. Eye rolls and sighs were our welcome wagon, along with the occasional ‘no room at the inn’ when there were clearly bunks to spare. It left an impression.

So over the next thirty years, I learned to play the field. I decided when I cared if someone saw me as an American. And when I didn’t.

Sometimes I chose seamless integration. The Lufthansa flight attendant would speak to me in German, I would give a noncommittal nod in response — just one more unbothered, no-nonsense, monochrome European loading my roller bag into the overhead bin.

Other times, I chose in-your-face American-ness. Loud and proud. I’d regale my London cabbie with tales of dressing up for Halloween or attending Friday night American football games. He would turn his head, speaking through the space in the plexiglass window at a stoplight: “I thought that was only in the movies!!”

When I started my pilgrimage on St Olav’s Way last summer, I wondered how an American in rural Scandinavia would be received. But I also had no interest in trying to camouflage myself for four weeks. My backwards baseball cap, my rapid-fire questions, my enthusiasm, my constant hugging all gave me away.

Turns out, nobody cared.

Pilgrims and hosts and grocery store cashiers all spoke English as our common language — the middle ground for the backpack-wearing Dutch, Danes, Germans, Belgians, and occasional American, and the Swedes and Norwegians feeding, lodging, and hosting us along the way.

And those who specifically commented on my nationality seemed charmed by it.

Sverker, a 70-year-old sprite of a Swede, hosted me on my tenth day of walking.

Dinner accidentally lasted three hours as we covered every conversational base: his career as a gym teacher, his beloved Harley Davidson, our shared experience losing a spouse. He had me laughing out loud at his adventures on a six-week trip he’d taken with his wife Ingrid to America a decade prior, complete with pictures of them in wild west costumes.

As I finally cleared my dishes, we talked about breakfast.

“What time would you like to eat?”

“How about 7:30 or 8?”

“Which one?”

“Let’s do 7:45?”

He laughed. I apologized.

“Well, at least you will not forget me. What other pilgrim asks for breakfast at 7:45?”

“That’s what I like about Americans. You are so… open.”

Those weeks in Sweden were the first time I’d been consistently praised for my American attributes: how we’ll talk to anyone, our ridiculous optimism, our generosity and flexibility.

But apparently I’m still prickly.

I still feel the need to defend my American way of being to others, going so far as to defend my American punctuation to others. (Insert eyeroll.)

Apparently, I’m not here, in my treehouse kitchen, writing a book that I want to be as accessible as possible for everyone around the world. Instead, I am trapped in those moments when I’d been judged for being American. Standing in the Brussels hotel lobby when the concierge brushed me off. Fuming after a 30 min wild good chase that a Munich gate agent sent me on. All those times I obscured my identity so people wouldn’t even get that far.

But I am here now. No one is chiding me for being American. We’re just editing a book.

We solved what shall forever be known as The Period Problem, and Do Loss is off to the printers. It turned out just right — a concrete playbook for navigating loss and change, understandable by anyone who reads the English language.

It’s still me. There are quirky lines and silly sayings, straight from this enthusiastic American’s brain. References to the Lone Ranger. Bruce Springsteen. Elvis. Nirvana (the band, not the state of being). I like to think it’s strikes a happy medium: authentic but not so American-centric that the point gets lost.

As I finished writing these words, Connor walked into the kitchen and sat down next to me. I sipped my tea while explaining what the post is about.

“Yeah, you know, in New Zealand I had some of that same feeling. About how people saw me as an American. I just had to accept it and move on.”

Out of the mouths of babes. Or 6’2” young men.

“What kind of tea are you having, mom? My New Zealand friends used to drink Oolong.”

I turn the box around to show him the label.

“English Breakfast!”

Laughing at myself,

Sue

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NFL Red Zone blared on the TV as I looked down at Connor’s attempt. “You are failing at Mike Deagle shirt folding school,” I cracked.

Connor laughed, not bothering to argue. He was sitting on the floor, back against the sectional, his entire wardrobe of shorts, pants, t-shirts spread around him in piles like lily pads on a late summer lake.

“Here, let me show you again,” I said. I held the shirt longways, fingers curling around the shoulders, flicking the fabric into a rectangle then folding it over like I worked at the Gap. It was the same technique Mike had taught me close to thirty years ago.

Wrinkle-minimizing and space saving, like all of his favorite things.

We folded the rest of Connor’s t-shirts with varying levels of success. He mated his socks, rolled his shorts, stacked his hoodies. After pulling aside three outfits for the road, he stuffed everything else into two cavernous duffle bags and one hard-shell suitcase. He lugged them out to the garage and plopped them into the bed of his truck.

Twelve hours later he was off, moving cross-country for his new job in Colorado.

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When friends and family heard the great news, they sent their heartfelt “atta boys” to Connor. And then, their praise to me.

“Way to go mom!”

“Nice job, Sue!”

“What a long road, you did it!”

I have always struggled with this. For being congratulated for something the kids have achieved.

The first time I remember cocking my head with confusion was that December day in 2022 when Kendall opened the online admissions portal to find her Tulane acceptance letter covered in virtual confetti. When I shared her news with my dad, who is not one to blow smoke, he texted back “Congrats to Kendall, and great job, mom!”

I remember looking down at that text and thinking, ‘Mom? What’s this got to do with me?’

Yes, I’m her mother. I clothe her and feed her and love the living daylights out of her. But the accomplishment of getting into her dream school? That’s all her.

Same with Connor. The accomplishment of getting a dream job in his dream state? All him.

But wait.

I’m sitting here tracking Connor as he drives into Kansas, and something’s nagging at me. Because I also believe in this thing called “ordinary magic” that I learned about from resilience researcher Dr. Ann Masten.

Way back in the 70s, when people still thought resilience was something kids either had or didn’t have, like being left-handed or having red hair, Masten called b******t on that whole idea. Her research showed that resilience, actually, grows like a weed. It just needs a few of the right conditions and it will find a way: small acts of encouragement and warmth from parents and teachers, regular routines of problem solving, paying attention, sharing their toys, and environments that offer opportunities for kids to play and explore safely.

All of that creates the conditions where kids naturally learn to adapt when things get difficult.

It’s magic because it works. It’s ordinary because it’s commonplace, scattered throughout the relationships, classrooms, bed-time routines, and play dates already present in everyday life.

Ordinary magic has become a pillar of my philosophy about surviving hard times: we all can develop resilience, given just half a chance.

So something doesn’t add up here.

I can’t have it both ways, can I? I can’t simultaneously believe that Connor did this all on his own AND believe that his resilience was cultivated. If I believe in ordinary magic, then I have to admit I played a part in creating it.

Alright, let’s dig into this thought experiment: if ordinary magic grows from the right conditions, what conditions did I actually set?

Well, there was the obvious stuff. I kept him fed and housed and loved. But that’s just baseline parenting, right? I’m not patting myself on the back for that.

However, I did some things differently after Mike died. I had to. Suddenly I was a single mom with two pre-teen kids. I quite simply couldn’t get them both to track practice and horseback riding at the same time.

And so, I let other people in.

Before Mike died, we were pretty insular. We saw friends and family of course, but we played our cards close to our chest. Family affairs, kid drama, advice giving stayed within the nuclear family. But when I was barely treading water through my own grief, I disintegrated those Deagle walls and let everyone who cared about the kids show up for them.

My mom became the carpool warrior and kitchen queen, racking up miles between school and sports and playdates and hobbies, and then cooking up delicious meals and delivering them with grandma hugs. Uncle Richie became the kid whisperer, always available to take the kids to a movie, or sit in silence, or chat about something Connor or Kendall weren’t ready to tell me. Connor’s homeroom teacher Mr. L suggested he take a break from the stress of debate team for a bit. Kendall’s principal Mr. Jefferson gathered a constant stream of communication from her teachers and let me know when he felt she was drifting off the rails.

Flash forward to this summer, Mike’s old coworker took Connor to lunch to talk through the industry. My dear friend Takis met him for coffee twice and massaged his resume. My work buddy Mike gave him industry insight, a pep talk, and let him drive his sports car. On Zoom calls, scores of business folks from the Colgate alumni network came through with advice no one can hear from their own mom. And Richie was still there too, letting Connor talk through all his options.

I orchestrated exactly none of those relationships. But I also didn’t shut them down. I didn’t insist we could handle everything ourselves. I stepped back and let Connor’s village support him.

And that’s ordinary magic, isn’t it? Not that I did anything spectacular, but I did get out of my Lone Ranger tendencies to set the conditions — the relationships, the openness, the safety — where Connor’s natural ability to adapt and thrive and land a badass job could flourish.

As Connor makes his way out west, he takes all of that ordinary yet magical resilience with him.

He’ll use it as he meets new colleagues, learns a new profession, figures out how to navigate a work day without a nap. Maybe even how to iron a shirt.

I’m going to miss him like crazy. I’m going to miss watching 22 seasons of Top Gear together. I’m going to miss answering his random questions like “How do you feel about the fall of the Soviet Union?” and “What do you think about pirates?... Or Rolls Royce vs Cadillac?” I’m going to miss the quiet hours we spent reading on the couch.

But maybe — and I’m still getting used to this idea — I can feel proud too. Not of his accomplishments, those are his. But of creating the conditions where his warmth and motivation and curiosity and ability to get along with anyone could unfold.

Even if I’m still figuring out how to accept the congratulations without feeling weird about it.

To the magic we accidentally create,

Sue

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I stood in misting rain, like a cucumber in the produce section at the grocery store, lightly coated on regular intervals by a nearly imperceptible spray.

The moisture was just enough to make my hair frizz and give my shirt that ‘I took this out of the dryer too soon’ feeling. Perfect. It was match for my mood as I toured Mount Vernon, the estate of my favorite founding father, George Washington.

I’d driven the 45 minutes out here in search of a reset. I needed something to distract myself from Kendall’s days-away departure for her study abroad semester in Portugal. I needed to get out of my head.

A nervous snowy-haired docent leaned in apologetically as she scanned the QR code on my ticket.

“Welcome to Mount Vernon! Just so you know, we are in the midst of a renovation project. We are restoring Washington’s home to its former glory, inside and out, so we can continue to host the one million visitors we get every year. Visitors cannot enter the house, but you are welcome to see the exhibits in the museum and throughout the grounds.”

“Okay, thanks.” I replied, not thinking much of it. I wasn’t there to take in Washington’s hand-chosen paint colors or admire the quill he used to sign his letters. I just wanted to walk around and shake off this funk that had been stalking me for days.

So I steered toward the gardens, which were flowering and vibrant in the misting rain. I walked down to the river. I peered into the pastures. I meandered.

And then I crested a hill, and the estate came into view. It looked… a bit worse for wear. Scaffolding covered the main house like an ill-fitting cage. The front door was hanging open, blocked to visitors by orange construction netting. Inside they were tearing out the floors.

I took in Mount Vernon’s hodgepodge of lush life on the one hand (top-heavy flowers, fluffy sheep, fat pigs wallowing in giant puddles in their sty) and dilapidated, down-on-its-luck deterioration on the other.

Half-in, half-out. Stuck in a tweeny time before it comes back to itself.

Me too.

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I have experience, lots of it, riding the sine curve that is life.

I know that the troughs bottom out, and the trajectory eventually arcs upward again. Not due to wishful thinking or even the passage of time. But due to adjusting, adapting, processing the blank space. Actively reconstructing life.

But the thing is, I wasn’t in the upswing yet, the part when I get to do what I do best — adapt. I was in the drop.

Because my daughter Kendall was still at home, leaving trails of flip-flops and half-eaten avocados wherever she went. I couldn't start rebuilding until she left.

We’d had the most remarkable summer. We’d laughed together over my son, Connor’s crazy morning hairdos, bitten our nails together as we checked the mail daily for Kendall’s passport with her precious Portugal visa pasted inside, created a rhythm together of duties that each fit our skills. We’d supported each other through internship frustrations (Kendall) and job searches (Connor). We talked and talked and talked and talked. Oh, and laughed a hell of a lot too.

But in this final week, instead of spending every hour we had enjoying each other, all I could see was seat 31F on that 10pm Saturday United Airlines flight to Lisbon.

I wanted to get her the hell on it so I could get this over with.

The Tuesday before, I was staring down at her dirty frying pan and egg-covered spatula in the sink, when I started to tear up. So soon, too soon, I’d no longer be rinsing her abandoned dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. But at least that meant I could also stop being so sad and finally get on with it…

I stopped, dropped the sponge, wiped my hands, and said out loud to no one “This isn’t working.”

Cue coping methods montage.

I cleaned out the Deagle ‘Health Center’ — a plastic bin in the mudroom loaded with Bandaids, cough drops, Sudafed, Advil — like it was a race to the bottom. I threw out the fluorescent packs of expired Dayquil, Nightquil, and a random nasal spray I’d picked up in New Zealand in 2024. Then, I purged my bathroom vanity of long ignored lipsticks, expired sunscreens, perfume I had used to freshen up after red-eye flights for work. Next, I hit Target, prowling the aisles with no real purpose except motion, motion, motion. I came home with pastel post-it notes I didn't need and a journal for my next book, desperate to be thinking about the future rather than living in the present.

These moves helped. They tided me over for a bit. But I was still antsy. I wanted a bigger change of pace, of environment.

So I took myself off to Mount Vernon, and got a visual manifestation of the messy middle that I was trying to escape.

Thanks universe.

As I headed out of the estate a few hours later, the same sheepish docent reminded me my ticket was good for the remainder of 2025. “Well… but how long is the renovation going to take?” I asked.

“We sure hope it will be done in early 2026. Parts of it will be done sooner. It depends on the weather and other factors we can’t control.”

I feel you, lady.

When I arrived at my car, I caught my own reflection staring back at me through the droplets on my driver's side window. I reached down and grabbed the bottom of my shirt, pulling hard to smooth out the zigzag wrinkles my cross-body bag had pressed into the soggy fabric. My frizzy hair winged out from the sides of my temples.

Here I was, a grown woman, moping around George Washington's construction zone in the rain because I didn't want to feel sad about my daughter's amazing adventure. I burst out laughing.

Come on, Deagle!

Yeah, it sucks.

Also, it's not for much longer.

Double also, you are lucky to have this feeling at all.

What a mess!

What a perfectly normal mess.

Driving home, I remembered my first international trip.

It was 1989, from Pittsburgh to London. I dragged my suitcase through the bowels of Heathrow to the Tube. Then I settled into an ancient dorm by Waterloo station, and proceeded to have a life-transforming five months abroad.

This kind of international semester has become a family tradition: Mike went to Cape Town. Connor went to New Zealand. This was Kendall's turn.

So what the hell was I doing acting like this was a funeral?? There would be time for grieving later! Right now, I needed to get my ass in gear and help Kendall prepare for four months on a different continent! So over the next week, I ran errands to CVS and Sephora to pick up last minute items. I cajoled the pharmacist to fill prescriptions. I did the returns on shoes, shirts, makeup that didn’t work out. A trough in my sine curve may be approaching, but Kendall was on an upward arc. Brace for impact, Europe, a Deagle is landing!

And then the calendar flipped to departure day.

Allergic to packing early, Kendall managed to get it all done in a day. Bags zipped and ready, we had our final meal together at the kitchen island — Uncle Julio’s quesadillas and tortilla chips. We walked several laps around the driveway as the setting sun’s rays cut through the trees to scuff up the bottom of Kendall's new sneaks.

Then, time was up.

Connor carried Kendall’s bags to my car.

“Can I drive?” Connor asked.

Kendall gave him the stink eye “You know she’s stressed and needs to feel in control right now, dude! No!”

I laughed. “You can drive home from Dulles, honey.”

The airport drop off felt like every other. We weighed both bags, printed out the tags, peeled their adhesive and stuck them on the luggage. Connor tossed them on the conveyor. We watched them snake their way to oblivion.

We walked the two minutes to TSAPre and did our tight trio hug, arms overlapping on each other’s back. Then Kendall walked down the roped-off area. We hung to the side. We lost sight of her as a blue-uniformed Lufthansa crew surrounded her like an amoeba. We saw her blonde hair flash and her hand stick up in the air for a final wave goodbye.

Ten hours later, she sent us a video of her bougie dorm room in Lisbon.

I spent that Sunday clearing the fridge of items Connor and I don’t eat, cleaning the bowls and pans we don’t use, taking the trash out of Kendall’s room. I was a little wistful, but not a tear escaped while I was over the kitchen sink. Then I sprawled on the couch watching sports with my son.

“How are you doing, ma?” Connor asked.

“Pretty good manny, pretty good,” I replied. And I meant it.

My anticipation of this rollercoaster ride had been the worst part. But even that is part of the ride, I suppose.

It’s only up from here,

Sue

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I lay awake on the bottom bunk in my tiny Swedish cabin, the glow of the midnight sun lighting its shoebox-sized windows. I stared up at the slats criss-crossing the top bunk, just like I used to stare up at my big sister's bunk, her Holly Hobbie bedspread hanging off the side.

I'd spent another day walking through the Swedish countryside. Past grazing cattle, just like the cows at the dairy farm alongside my childhood neighborhood. Past giant red barns, just like those on the windy country roads of my youth, different only in the absence of the Mail Pouch Tobacco logo painted on one side. Past burbling rivers, bigger versions of the creeks I rock hopped in with my beat-up sneakers. I’d been thinking about my grandparents. About my dad and mom taking us camping in the Kinzu of central Pennsylvania. About riding my big wheel down the hill, coming to a screeching halt in my gravel driveway.

Here's what wasn't running through my head: An angry client. A sneak attack email. A bill that was coming due. A delayed flight. A missed doctor's appointment. A repairman who wouldn't return my calls. A worry I couldn't shake.

None of that. Instead, memories and imagination blurred together in a lazy haze…

I hadn’t felt like this since I was a kid. Simply letting time pass without trying to squeeze every drop of productivity out of it felt a little like being weightless. Like I might drift away without responsibilities and deadlines anchoring me to earth.

I thought maybe the similarities between rural Sweden and western PA had activated my childhood state — a roving sense of freedom, lollygagging and, if I’m honest, a little boredom. But in a good way, a way that felt like an afternoon nap, or throwing pebbles into a pond, or a cat lounging in the sun…

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A few weeks ago, I was scrolling through a blog post when one of those brilliant, precise Japanese words snagged my attention: yoyu.

Room to breathe, the writer said. A sense of calm spaciousness.

Then this word I'd never seen in my life popped up again in Craig Mod's walking memoir about pilgrim trails in Japan. "The excess provided when surrounded by a generous abundance," he wrote. "It can be applied to hearts, wallets, Sunday afternoons, and more."

Holy s**t, that was it. That’s what my life felt like in Sweden, and when I was a kid.

Growing up in rural steel country, I had nothing but space. Time alone in my bedroom, reading Tolkien, Asimov, Jean M. Auel. Aimless wandering through the neighborhood, the creeks, the mall. Spontaneous Saturday night bowling with my friends. The spaciousness of my own thoughts as I swam lap after lap, methodically covering 5,000 yards every afternoon at swim practice.

Then I became a person who filled life to the brim.

I filled it with the box-checking my ambition required: business school, long hours, climbing the corporate ladder. I filled it with the activities of a go-getter: Ironman training, round-the-world travel, happy hours with friends. I filled it with all the minutiae of raising a family: lacrosse practice, grocery shopping, doctors appointments, playground visits.

I was like a pitcher left under an open tap, overflowing. It was a rich, full life; I was exhausted.

Yet for a while, it was everything I wanted. It was fun to somehow keep up with the punishing pace, to feel like Superwoman. That is, until my body couldn’t keep up.

In the winter of 2022, work was hectic. We were short one senior exec; another was out on medical. And we were in the full-tilt throes of a company-changing deal. I was stretched thinner than I'd ever been.

In the midst of the controlled pandemonium, I started to experience heart palpitations. Not the falling in love kind. The what-the-heck-is-this kind.

“I’m sure it’s no big deal.” I told my friend Mike, while asking for the name of his cardiologist.

“Well, either way, just get an appointment quickly,” was his worried reply.

Dr. M ordered a medley of cardiac favorites. An EKG. An echocardiogram. Then a stress test.

Of course, I forgot to bring gym clothes for the final treadmill torture session. The hiking boots I kept in my trunk would have to do. I peeled off my blazer and watched as the tech stuck electrodes to my chest and arms. I stepped on the moving belt, getting breathy as the incline rose one degree at a time. Then the speed picked up, until I was close to flying off the back and had to grab the handles.

The test over, I re-assembled myself and went back to work. Sweating.

My heart thankfully was fine. But that moment — marching uphill in my corporate blouse and slacks, feeling my heart flutter under my sternum as I tried to catch my breath, then rushing back to meetings — stayed with me. What was I rushing toward? When would I finally arrive? How much was too much? What was I unwilling to sacrifice?

For two years, I kept circling back to those questions. With each loop, I realized I couldn’t find the answers without space to think, to just be, to remember who I was underneath all the doing.

So I planned a pilgrimage. And I left the corporate world behind.

Six months later, in the Swedish countryside, I found yoyu again.

That was over a year ago. Now I'm back home, in a house full of kids and book manuscripts and endless maintenance tasks. As much as I’d like to, I can't replicate the endless summer afternoons of my childhood, nor the long days walking and thinking and watching birds and chatting with Swedes. Someone's gotta run the house, pay the mortgage, snake the drains. Someone's gotta tend to these two almost-adults as they countdown to launch.

Here's what I can do: Linger. Dawdle. Fart around. Say no to invitations that don't appeal. Make room for noticing, serendipity, and calm.

So a couple weeks ago, I arrived at the airport early. My gate was in a dead-end section I have never been to before; nothing looked familiar. No international destinations, no giant windows, no stream of passengers flowing like a river through the main hall. Instead, the gates were labeled by a logic I couldn’t grasp — A1C, A2B — and departing to a scattershot array of destinations: Savannah, Scranton, Albany, Ithaca.

It was people-watching paradise.

I savored my portable oatmeal as I let my eyes wander. To my left was a grandma with an orchid flower pin in her hair, light orange against her jet black bun. To my right, a high-energy mom keeping her gaggle of kids corralled, handing them each goldfish crackers in tiny plastic bags. Ten yards in front of me, a guy with curly hair was down on one knee, fishing a box out of his backpack. I cocked my head sideways and squinted to read its contents: LEGO Star Wars: 327th Star Corps Clone Troopers Battle Pack.

I giggled with equal parts delight and disbelief as Storm Troopers scattered across the airport leather seats and a Spider Droid reared up to do battle. Paying attention had somehow dropped me in an alternate, hilarious universe.

Eighteen months ago, I would have been checking emails, stress-eating a bacon-egg-and-cheese breakfast sandwich while power-walking to my gate. Sweating.

I would have walked right past this guy and his LEGO battle without seeing any of it.

Yoyu isn't a destination you reach and stay at forever, but it’s also not a memory you can’t ever return to. It's a choice you make over and over. Some days I nail it — like that people-watching morning. Other days I'm back to stress-eating and sweating.

But now I know that even just 30 minutes of downtime in a weird corner of the airport can bring me back to the kid, and the pilgrim, who had nothing but time. No time machine or trip to Sweden to see the midnight sun required.

To finding your yoyu,

Sue

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"I just can't imagine," Sarah said, her hand fluttering to her chest like she was having a cardiac event herself. "I mean, losing your husband and raising two kids alone? I would never survive what you've been through."

We were standing by the coffee machine in my old corporate office a few years back, and I'd made the mistake of mentioning that Connor was headed to New Zealand for study abroad. Somehow that led to Mike, which always led to this.

"You'd be surprised what you're capable of," I said, the same response I'd been giving for seven years.

But Sarah wasn't done. She shook her head like I'd just told her I'd survived being struck by lightning while wrestling a bear. "You're just so strong. I don't know how you do it."

I smiled and grabbed my coffee, mumbling something about getting to a meeting. But walking back to my office, I felt that familiar exhaustion settle in my chest. It wasn’t sadness. It was the weight of being misunderstood. I was tired of being either a tragedy or a superhero in the eyes of others who are too overwhelmed by their experience of my experience to actually see me.

This is the problem with how we talk about loss in our culture. You're either a broken victim whose life is essentially over, or you're a superhuman inspiration whose strength defies all logic. Both stories are b******t. Both make it harder for everyone else to face the inevitable losses coming their way. And both leave those of us who have been through loss feeling like aliens trying to explain our planet to confused tourists.

I now spend 20 hours a week working to counteract this narrative — writing this substack and trudging through edits of Do Loss — but sometimes I’m not doing it for everyone else.

Sometimes I just want people to stop looking at me like I have three heads when they find out I’m a widow who doesn’t hate her life.

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In 2021, I heard that the show Sex and the City was making a comeback. The reboot would feature an eerily familiar storyline: lead character Carrie's husband dies suddenly of a heart attack.

I'd never watched the original series. Too much about fancy clothes and endless dating in a city I never lived in.

But a widow trying to figure out her life? I pulled out my credit card and subscribed to HBO.

I needed to see how someone else would tell this story.

Turns out, they got A LOT right. Not the designer shoes or Manhattan real estate — God knows I'll never relate to that. But the messy, contradictory reality of loss? The way grief makes you both more fragile and more fearless? How life doesn't stop, it just becomes different?

There was Carrie, scream-crying in despair one minute, laughing with her friends the next. Getting overwhelmed by people's pity, then strategically mentioning her dead husband to escape uncomfortable conversations. Making new friends who never knew her husband, creating bonds with people who couldn't define her by who she was in the "before times."

For the first time, I saw something close to my actual experience on a screen. The version where widowhood doesn't mean the end of your story, but rather a plot twist that changes your life.

Which made it even more annoying when I read my favorite Financial Times columnist Jo Ellison tearing the show to shreds week after week. Too woke, she wrote. Trying too hard to be relevant.

She wasn’t entirely wrong. Yet, I felt protective of Carrie. Like it was my job to point out to the non-widows of the world just how uncannily she and the show were reflecting what it’s actually like to be us.

I sat down at my laptop and fired off a letter to the editor without a second thought:

The show’s depiction of loss and its aftermath rang deeply true for this mid-50s widow.

I am not a New Yorker with a closet full of designer clothes, but a business executive raising two teenagers in suburban Virginia.

Still, the experiences were mine — ugly funeral homes, awkward conversations, filling some of the hole by meeting new friends, a loss of tolerance for the pettier parts of life, playing the dead husband card, and opening to the mystery of life.

The show may have got many things wrong, but loss, in all of its dimensions, it got right. Couldn’t we all use a common, yet light-hearted viewing experience telling a story with death at its centre? We rarely personalise this inevitable part of life, despite the last two years of the pandemic and millions of people gone. This show starts that conversation.

The editor wrote back within 24 hours. They wanted to publish it.

That letter became the precursor to everything I've written since — The Luminist, the book, all of it. Turns out I'd found my calling defending a fictional widow's right to complexity.

Fast forward to August 2025 and I'm watching the series finale. Carrie, alone in her light-filled brownstone, walks from room to room taking in her carefully chosen art, her stacks of books, her cozy corners. She's just spent Thanksgiving delivering pies to her beloved friends and running interference at pal Miranda’s dysfunctional family gathering. Now she's savoring the quiet aftermath in her own space.

Barry White’s rumbling bass fills her living room as she surveys what she's built. Not what she'd dreamed of or planned, but what she'd created from the pieces that remained.

She picks up a spoon and eats pie straight from the dish.

As the credits rolled, I turned off the TV and walked through my own house — my carefully chosen art, my stacks of books, my view of the trees and stream out back. The life I'd built that Sarah at the coffee machine “couldn't imagine surviving”.

For years I'd been fighting to rewrite the story of loss. Through every Luminist post, every conversation, every time someone looked at me with that mixture of pity and fear. Trying to show the world that devastation doesn't have to mean diminishment. That grief can coexist with joy. That life after loss can be not just survivable but luminous.

And there on my screen was someone else telling that story. Finally, I wasn't the only one making the case that widowed life is complex, but still beautiful.

It’s a different kind of great.

I’ve never needed permission to reimagine my unchosen life into the vibrant collage it is now — international trips, writing retreats, a thick-as-theives bond with my college kids and friends. But damn, it feels good to have my truth reflected back to me on the screen.

To know there is at least one person out there who understands that as a widow, the entire world tells you to ask for less, to take up less space, to protect the world from the pain you’ve felt, and settle for whatever crumbs of happiness happen to fall through the cracks into your basement lair.

Not Carrie, and not me. Our lives may look different because we are widows, but they are not smaller nor duller nor less full of love.

"You are so fabulous!" Charlotte had said to Carrie earlier in the episode.

"Well, that was never in question," Carrie replies without an ounce of apology.

That's me, I thought, watching her twirl in that frilly pink dress. I may be in monochrome athleisure, but I couldn’t have said it better myself.

To fabulous widowhood,

Sue

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I was ten pages into How to Think Like a Philosopher by James Baggini when my brain started smoking. Imagine little metaphorical curlicues of white floating from my ears.

I wasn’t reading, I was just saying words in my head without absorbing a dang thing. So I'd go through a paragraph about Socrates, blink, and realize I had no idea what I'd just read. Back to the beginning. Again. And again.

I slid my bookmark into place and stared at the book in my lap. Reading has been my refuge since I was eight years old, sneaking Nancy Drew mysteries under my bedroom covers with a flashlight. It's where I go when the world gets too much — when grief felt like drowning, when corporate life made me want to scream, when I just needed to disappear into someone else's thoughts for a while.

But for the first time in my life, my brain was refusing to play along…

Next thing I knew, my phone was in my hand, finger tapping the music-note icon.

That’s when it clicked. TikTok, damn you!

A year earlier, I’d downloaded the app as an experiment into mother-daughter connectedness, despite knowing my brain was not equipped. I’m hopelessly distractible. I can’t fly without attempting to take in the silently-streaming movie on the across-the-aisle passenger’s screen.

But I was driven by the upside: the chance to connect with Kendall.

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At first, it was exactly what I wanted it to be. Quick touchpoints through our "did you see what I sent" texts, both of us cracking up over a cat dashing through a forest wearing a mini sombrero, or a toddler giving their dad the stink eye. Pure joy, zero brain damage.

Then I started using TikTok on my own.

Fashion tips for women over fifty. Football commentary that made me laugh until I snorted. Nutritional supplements for middle-aged athletes like me. And the "We Do Not Care Club" snippets from menopausal women around the globe: "We do not care that we wore this same outfit yesterday, you will see it every day this week."

It was perfect for those ten-minute gaps — waiting for a prescription refill, sitting in my car before an appointment. Just enough time to plug into the matrix and disappear. Or when I needed to cool my jets after a frustrating conversation. Or slogging through particularly torturous writing session. Twenty minutes on TikTok to laugh my ass off always did the trick.

But then came summer.

I'd collapse onto the living room couch around 4 PM, the air conditioning working overtime against Virginia heat. "Just a quick scroll," I’d tell myself. “Ten minutes to decompress, then I'll go for a walk in Great Falls park.”

My thumb started moving. A pug learning to skateboard. A woman challenging anyone who questions her for putting ice cubes in her wine. A dad sharing the absurd questions his teenagers ask him.

Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. The algorithm had learned exactly what made my brain purr.

Sometimes I just got sucked in for 30 minutes. But sometimes, I wouldn’t surface until the sun was slanting through the windows at a completely different angle.

I sat there blinking like someone had just shaken me awake. My neck had a crick from being twisted toward my phone. My mouth felt dry. And underneath the dazed feeling was something sharper: regret. I imagined the hiking trail I could have been on, the swim I could have taken, the actual nap that would have left me refreshed instead of... whatever this was.

I thought I was trading my attention for relaxation. But apparently I was trading my ability to think for feeling like a time-wasting slug.

No, thank you.

I wanted to connect with Kendall, but losing my afternoons and my ability to focus wasn’t worth the price of admission.

So I quit TikTok.

When I went to Do Wales in July, my phone lived in my tote bag. No algorithms, no bottomless scroll, no brain fog. Instead, meandering conversations with new friends, morning walks along the dirt road, long minutes watching the meadow grasses wave in the breeze.

But when I returned home, Kendall was waiting with a stack of unwatched TikToks and a "what the heck?" expression.

I had to explain.

“Listen honey, I don’t think TikTok is evil. But my brain can’t handle it. I’m not going to use the app.”

“Well, you’re weird, but ok. I have an idea.”

She slid into the banquette seat at the kitchen table, made space for me, then patted the cushion.

“Sit here!” she commanded.

“I don’t have my phone,” I replied.

“You don’t need it!”

She pulled out hers and went to the queue of TikToks waiting to be shared with me.

Shoulder to shoulder with my daughter, our twin blonde heads thrown back in laughter, we went through each one. Giggles and glee and “play that one again!” or “what did that little boy say?” until we reached the very end of the list.

“Which was your favorite?” she asked.

“It’s a tie between that little boy saying ‘slay, queen!’ and that girl saying ‘Don’t estimate me.’”

“Yep, I loved those too!”

Ten years ago, I would have not just deleted the app. I would have sworn off TikTok completely. I might have even launched into a lecture for Kendall about dopamine and the attention economy. All or nothing. Pure or corrupted. Pick a side.

But life has taught me something about the wide, unexplored space between rigid principles and total surrender.

In this middle way, I've got my focus back. I can read Baggini without my neurons reaching for an app-shaped binky. And once a week, Kendall and I curl up together, scrolling through her carefully curated collection of absurdity.

It’s not a perfect solution. After a long day of writing or mom-ing or traveling, I still find myself scrolling through the apps on my phone, searching for a short stint in an attention-blotting void. And that’s perfectly okay. I don’t have to be a purist about it. I just have to be thoughtful about what really matters, and what I’m willing to put up with.

And I always benefit from Kendall’s bone-deep pragmatism guiding the way.

Best-ish of both worlds,

Sue

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I was sitting in an armchair in the living room of the Treehouse, Connor sprawled on the sectional with his laptop. We've been calling it "Deagle We Work" lately since all three of us are home so much — my son Connor doing job applications in the office, my daughter Kendall doing her internship at the kitchen table, me in these chairs that used to be decorative but now get daily use.

I was reading Waiting for the Last Bus by Richard Holloway, a 90-year-old Scottish bishop that I picked up randomly at the Piccadilly Circus Waterstones. I was trying to wrap my mind around Holloway’s explanation of “remembrance”, a concept borrowed from his Christian faith. He explains the phrase used during the communion ritual — “do this in remembrance of me” — as a way to bring Christ into the faithfuls’ lives today. To make his teachings, his ethos, his guiding light part of their daily lives.

But Holloway argues we can apply the same principle to our lost loved ones. Intriguing…

I looked up from my book as Connor started talking about the research he’s been doing into the consulting industry. (My beloved son is a verbal processor. We have covered a lot of ground this summer!)

"I think it might match what I’m good at," he said.

I blinked. Connor, considering consulting? That was his dad’s profession. The career that consumed and fulfilled Mike in equal measure.

Then it all clicked into place. Holloway’s point is that we can do more than look back at the memories of someone we’ve lost; we can bring the person forward into our life today. So their influence is present again, not merely living in the rearview mirror.

I looked at Connor, still talking through his thoughts about consulting. Holy moly, that's exactly what was happening right now.

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Every griever knows the terrible math of time. Each second that ticks by pulls you further from that last breath or that final conversation. You're left with two dismal choices: cling to fading memories, or "move on" and risk leaving your loved one behind.

I spent nine years frustrated by those options, knowing in my bones there was more to it. So I read stacks of books about both remembering and forgetting. They were all highlighted and sticky-noted in my vain attempt to understand the interplay between loss and memory and I’m not sure what to call it… spirit, perhaps? Because there were moments that — I can’t say it any less woowoo-y — just vibrated with the essence of Mike. Let’s be clear, his ghost wasn’t visiting me. But it felt like he was still somehow exerting a gravitational pull on tangible reality, though he no longer existed within it.

Holloway, God bless him, helped me put words to what I was feeling. It was not memory. It was this long-lost word that me and my autocorrect are still getting the hang of: remembrance.

According to Holloway, memory is like flipping through a photo album — oh look, there's Mike in his consulting days, briefcase in hand or on another conference call.

But remembrance isn’t looking in the rearview mirror at all. It’s bringing someone’s essence into the present moment. It’s Mike's professional world becoming a living resource for Connor today. It's me setting up conversations between Connor and people who worked with Mike a decade ago. It's realizing Mike the consultant isn’t trapped in amber — his expertise, his network, his way of seeing problems are still very much alive, and able to support Connor's present journey.

I’m am beyond thrilled for Connor to learn about a side of Mike he was too young to understand before his dad passed. And who knows, maybe Connor’s first job post-college will be thanks to his dad.

We're making new stories with Mike. Not just preserving old ones.

Looking back, the Deagle clan has been practicing remembrance for years without knowing what to call it.

Mike's mom died four years before I met him, so I never knew Mary Ann personally. But she lived with us anyway as Saint Mary Ann (because once you die, you can’t do anything wrong, obviously). We made pancakes with her whisk, stored treasures in her mahogany roll-top desk. When Mike would tell some less-than-saintly story about her — like the time she got so mad at him and his brother that she threw a paint bucket at them — we'd smile knowingly, “That’s Saint Mary Ann!"

She became this living force in our family, making us breakfast and making us giggle. Mary Ann shaped how we talk, how we laugh, how we forgive each other's human moments.

That's how remembrance works. It weaves your lost loved ones into the fabric of your daily life in ways both profound and playful.

Connor brings me cardinals now, little crystal ones from gift shops whenever he travels. The proud, bright birds have become a symbol of Mike for me; every time I see the real ones in our yard, I get an infusion of Mike's energy. His boldness. His beauty. His way of taking up space in the world.

So when Connor hands me another delicate figurine, it isn’t just a reminder of Mike. It’s a moment when Connor and I connect over our shared love for him; Mike's energy is flowing between us in the present.

And this final example might be small, but I love it.

When I travel, I still use Mike's hotel rewards.

Almost ten years later, his platinum status puts me up in nice rooms with good views. There's something about checking in under his name that feels like he's still taking care of me.

We don't have to choose between healing and honoring. We don't have to cling to memories that can't help but fade.

Our loved ones can still be part of our lives. Not as ghosts from the past, but as living forces in our present.

The consulting job conversations happening in the Treehouse living room prove it — the network and reputation that Mike built are shaping Connor’s future.

Mike isn't just a memory I'm trying to preserve. He's still here.

In remembrance,

Sue

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“Mom, you know there's a screen right there, right?" Connor is shaking his head as I fling my right arm across his chest, craning my neck to peer through the back windshield like I'm navigating a covered wagon.

"I see it," I say, not looking at the helpful little screen that's showing me exactly where Connor's truck, my flower beds, and the cluster of magnolia trees are. Instead, I'm doing a full-body swivel, using my son as a makeshift armrest while I reverse out of the Treehouse garage.

Beep... beep... beep. The backup camera is literally telling me I have plenty of clearance.

I ignore it completely.

"What if I'm in a car without a backup camera?" I counter, still twisted around like an owl.

"When would that ever happen?"

"During an apocalypse," I say matter-of-factly, straightening as we clear the driveway.

He stares at me. "You think during an apocalypse you'll be... backing out of driveways?"

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Call Me Techno-Skeptical.

Connor has never driven a car without a backup camera. Or GPS. Or Bluetooth. He probably doesn't even remember when headphones had wires. To him, I'm performing some mystifying ritual from the dark ages, like churning butter or navigating by the stars.

But I keep my wired earphones in a world gone wireless. I check my monthly budget using both my banking app AND a blank piece of paper and pen, breaking it down with my own hieroglyphic system of arrows and circles. I take three books every trip, even though I know trading them out for a kindle would be better for my back. I pick up my physical newspapers every Saturday at the Safeway.

I would say that when there’s a choice, I’ll go analog every time. However… I am currently writing this on my iPad, which I adore. By some miracle, it snuck past my techno-skeptical defenses to become my go-to for writing, researching, and internet surfing.

So if I’m not a luddite in the literal sense, why the resistance to the backup camera? What defines which technology I embrace and which I avoid with the determination of a nineteenth-century settler?

Last year, when I was starting to outline Do Loss, I spent two weeks trying to build the perfect digital note-taking system. Notion, Obsidian, trial accounts, YouTube tutorials. But for some reason using the note-taking apps, instead of putting pen to paper, felt like a strange torture. Two weeks later I was back to my coffee-stained notebook with its illegible margin notes and sticky tabs hanging off at odd angles.

That felt like a thoughtful choice. I tried something, it didn't work for me, I went back to what did.

But then why do I refuse to even try the backup camera?

The Two Sues.

Eventually during a convo with my editor Leona, it clicked. I've been lumping together two completely different impulses.

There’s a part of me — we’ll call her Centered Sue — who genuinely prefers the feel of pen on paper, who likes the spatial awareness that comes from turning around to look through the back windshield, who enjoys doing things with her own brain instead of outsourcing them to a screen. She's not avoiding technology out of fear or stubbornness, she's choosing what brings her satisfaction.

And then… there’s Belligerent Sue. She hears “you should really use the backup camera” and immediately bristles. “I'm perfectly fine as is, thank you very much.” Her heels dig in not because she's thought it out, but because her autonomy feels threatened.

Same techno-skepticism, totally different reasons. One feels like contentment, the other feels like fear.

Centered Sue is brimming with interest — she likes learning what other people are getting out of new tech, even if she has no plans of using it herself. Belligerent Sue is less interested in learning, more interested in proving to herself and everyone around her that she’s just fine the way she is.

And when Ms. Belligerent takes over… I can be so busy proving I don't need help that I miss out on actual improvements. That backup camera isn't trying to replace my spatial reasoning, it's trying to give me information I can't see on my own. Those sensors aren't making me helpless; they're making me safer.

So last week, I watched Kendall pull out of a tight parking spot at the mall. Her eyes never left that little screen. Beep, beep, beep. Smooth as silk, perfectly calibrated, zero drama. If I had been driving, I would have done my full circus act — arm flung, head twisted, probably asking her to “help me watch for that SUV,” even though the car was literally telling us exactly where the SUV was.

"You make it look so easy," I told her.

"Because it is easy, Mom. The car does all the work."

For the first time I wondered what it would be like to trust that little screen, rather than pretending it didn’t exist.

Then Pigs Flew.

The next time I backed out of the Treehouse driveway, Connor in his usual passenger-seat position, instead of immediately going into my arm-flinging routine, I glanced at the backup camera screen first.

There were the magnolia trees, perfectly framed. Connor's truck, exactly where I knew it was. My flower beds, safe and sound. All of it displayed with mathematical precision.

Then I did my usual turn-around check — arm across Connor's shoulder, full visual sweep of the actual driveway.

"Wait," Connor said, watching me. "Did you just look at the backup camera?"

"Maybe," I said, completing my hybrid maneuver.

"Huh. Old dog, new tricks."

I don't need to force myself to be an early tech adopter. I just need to stay curious about which version of myself is making the choice. Am I avoiding the backup camera because I genuinely prefer my own spatial awareness? Or because someone suggested I should use it and my inner teenager immediately said "make me"?

Most of the time, it's probably a little of both. And that's fine. I'm allowed to be human, to be occasionally belligerent, to keep my wired headphones and my chaotic notebook.

I just want to notice — am I choosing what works or just proving I don't need help?

Turns out there's a difference between contentment and being a stick in the mud. They may look identical from my driveway, but they feel completely different from the driver’s seat.

To paying attention,

Sue

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"I just don't know if it's any good," I confessed. "I mean, I hope draft two is better than draft one, but honestly? I have no idea."

I was on the phone with my friend Jessica, a knot of anxiety churning in my stomach. I'd just submitted a complete rewrite of my book Do Loss; the first draft had been rough, and I had poured everything I had into V2.

I knew she couldn’t tell me that my editor would love this latest draft, but if I’m honest, I was expecting her to say something like, “You put in all that hard work. It’s got to be better!”

Jessica did not take the expected route.

"You know," she said, her voice gentle but firm, "even this revised version is going to need more work. I'm no author, but I'm pretty confident that's just how book writing goes."

My heart sank.

"Sue, you're learning to be a better writer, not getting a grade."

Damn. She had me there.

Because that's exactly what I was doing — waiting for my report card. I wanted to know if I was going to get a gold star or an F-...

But Jessica wasn't done reality-checking me.

"This is the gift," she continued. "Getting the chance to improve something that matters so much to you. You're not trying to get an A+ on draft two. You're trying to make Do Loss as good as it can possibly be."

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Weeks later, this feedback is still ringing in my ears. Jessica had cut through my b******t to remind me what actually mattered — not proof that my hard work was paying off, but writing a book that truly helped people.

However, my old operating system was completely sabotaging that goal — I was more focused on being done than embracing the process of improvement.

God, how often do we do this? We read a single parenting book expecting to finally understand our teenager. We plan the perfect vacation and think that should solve all our relationship issues. We rush to solve our friends’ problems, rather than just letting them think through things out loud.

We have been trained to believe that swift completion is the mark of success, and if we work hard enough, that completion should also come with a good grade. Growing up, I literally got $1 for every A on my report card. Then in college and business school, high test scores were more likely to land me a good job. And when I was an associate, it was all about turning in well-executed projects… You get the picture. For decades, I perfected the art of "work hard, turn in assignment, get gold star, move on." Honor rolls and promotions trained us to crave this cycle of completion and approval like lab rats pressing a lever.

Then suddenly we're adults trying to master things that actually matter — relationships, parenting, creative work — and we're still assuming one “semester” of hard work should be all it takes.

But mastery has a different trajectory. Instead of seeking our mark of approval so we can move on, we’re aiming for incremental progress — sharpening our skills over and over so we can continuously improve our craft, whether it be writing or communicating or barbecue.

As Jessica snapped me out my gold-star obsession, I felt the way I was relating to the book manuscript change. Accepting that the work ahead would be incremental and non-linear wasn’t discouraging. It was liberating.

Instead of white-knuckling my way toward some imaginary finish line, I could settle into the rhythm of revision. I could focus on making this paragraph clearer, that chapter stronger, releasing the constant wondering about if my work would finally earn me a pat on the head.

When we want to be the best we can be, rather than simply being “done”, the only thing to do is embrace the messy, ongoing work of getting better.

Even when no one notices. Even when we suck at it. Even when our hard work doesn’t immediately result in progress.

Weeks later, my editor sent back her comments. Opening the email, I felt that familiar tension. But Jessica's voice pulsed through my anxiety: “You're learning to be a better writer. What a gift.”

So instead of bracing for a grade, I leaned in. Each suggestion became a lesson to learn from, not a judgment to endure. And you know what? The book got better. Much better. So good that it's now in the hands of the copy editor, putting final touches on the manuscript.

Jessica helped me re-orient towards what actually serves the work, not what serves my desire to feel accomplished. She helped me see that I was seeking completion when I should have been seeking improvement.

The shift from completion-seeking to improvement-seeking changes everything. It means we get to stop waiting for or worrying about report cards. Instead, we can make the most of each opportunity to get better.

The gift isn't the gold star at the end. It's discovering we can keep improving something we care about, revision after revision.

That's worth way more than a dollar.

Here for the process,

Sue

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Connor came home from George Mason University talking about his day like he’d discovered buried treasure. “Mom, you should see this library — it has all these different wings and levels, and the campus has these beautiful brick buildings, and I found this whole section of Fairfax I’d never seen before!”

I was listening to him describe what essentially amounts to an ordinary Tuesday at a state school library. He was practically glowing.

At 22, Connor has developed very specific preferences about where he can think best, work best, exist best in the world. Libraries top the list. But our tiny Fairfax County library branches weren’t cutting it for his post-graduation job search, so he drove 30 minutes to work at George Mason for the day. But Connor, being Connor, didn’t just find a desk and hunker down. He explored. He wandered floors and wings during breaks. He took detours through campus walkways. He strolled streets in nearby Fairfax City he didn’t know existed.

None of these things are objectively stunning. George Mason’s campus is nice. Fairfax City is fine. But he came home energized, describing his discoveries like he had just found the Library of Alexandria.

I’m sheepish to admit it, but listening to my son marvel at 1960s architecture made me envious. If I had been in his place, the only reason I would have walked around is to find the bathroom. I doubt I would have even noticed the mottled red bricks. No, I would’ve marched into that library with a mission: find desk, open laptop, execute plan. Point A to Point B, people. That’s how I typically operate: I arrive expecting things to go a specific way, the way I’ve already planned out, the BEST way. I'm not looking for surprises, I'm looking for success.

But Connor, no matter his original intent, always manages to notice far more than what’s merely in front of his face.

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The Connor Method.

So what if I tried his approach? Last month in London, I got my chance to find out.

I’d planned my usual tourist agenda: exploring neighborhoods, watching Wimbledon on the big screen in St. James square, stopping at an art exhibit — my typical, rigorous sightseeing routine. Day One I dutifully executed the plan, despite the brutal heat and poor shoe choice that left me with blisters.

On the morning of Day Two, I was sitting on the edge of my hotel bed, my gaze switching between my battered feet and the weather app that promised more suffocating humidity…

Screw it. I’m staying in.

But immediately the guilt monologue started. You flew across an ocean, Deagle. You can’t waste a London day hiding in your room. That’s what lazy people do. Productive people push through discomfort.

Then it hit me: what would Connor do? He’d find what he loved, rather than forcing himself to do what he had planned. So I got curious about what I actually wanted. About other options for what a ‘good day’ might look like.

Revolutionary, right??

It ended up being one of my favorite days of the entire trip.

I spent the day in my hotel room watching Wimbledon, reading the Financial Times, and writing. When I got hungry, I’d venture out — breakfast at the French bakery, lunch at the shawarma shop, afternoon coffee at a sidewalk cafe — then tuck back into my air-conditioned cocoon.

The day was all flow, simply following what felt good.

Lo and behold, the Connor Method had worked; I had found something lovely where I wasn’t expecting it. Instead of mourning my abandoned sightseeing, berating myself for getting off agenda, or forcing myself to carry on, all it took was asking myself: what if I have no idea how lovely a slow day in London can actually be? What if I try to find out?

Screw you, rulebook.

The difference hit me somewhere between my third cafe run and Novak Djokovic’s match — Connor doesn’t drag around the invisible rulebooks most of us carry everywhere.

You know the ones: “Days in Europe must involve sightseeing.” “A fun time requires leaving the house.” “Discomfort builds character.”

I’ve spent most of my life following the rulebooks — I dutifully attended business school, married Prince Charming, got the white picket fence, and climbed the corporate ladder. Check, check, check. But then Prince Charming unexpectedly died (after doing everything right himself), and I realized abiding by the rules doesn’t guarantee us much of anything…

While I’ve gotten a lot better at ignoring these made-up expectations, apparently I still have strong opinions about what makes a day “worth it.”

Which is Connor’s secret. He’s not measuring his library day against some standard. He’s just present with what he finds.

The difference between enduring an experience and excavating it for treasure isn't about being young or carefree. It's about seeing life through the lens of an explorer, rather than a curmudgeon who already knows how things should go. That's when state school libraries become ancient wonders; when hermit days in London feel like moments out of time.

Let go of your ideas of where the treasure should be. Show up ready to dig wherever you are.

With curiosity,

Sue

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