June (Re)Discoveries
A reflection on place and purpose
If you’ve been following along this year, you’ve likely surmised by now that 2026 has been a year of discovery and rediscovery for me. Am I leaving New York? Am I staying here? Do I enjoy writing still? What has been getting in my way with feeling connected to this passion and the work I’ve enjoyed with it for the past 22 or so years? To query, or not to query? How do we juggle the things and show up for what matters most and what will bring joy and fill our cups in Times Like These™?
This year has felt a lot like drafting. But instead of drafting a story in my head, with characters I get to know a little at a time during the writing process (ones whose histories and motivations and circumstances I can tweak a bit for the flow of the story, if needed), I am trying to draft ahead and understand the outline of the biggest story I will ever be a part of: my own life.
It’s a truly daunting task. Which explains the many instances of drowning in overwhelm that I’ve encountered this year. I’ve felt like something was about to break all year long, for one reason or another, and have often felt under-qualified and out of my depths with knowing myself and my circumstances enough to make the right decisions, the best decisions I can at this point in time.
This roadblock, of feeling “not enough” this year, has evolved into trying to find ways to fill my cup, to find a groove, to feel a little more myself again. And one way of finding yourself is somewhat simple: trace back to an earlier time you felt confident and truly enjoyed what life offered you. When did I last feel really, really good about who I was, how I was showing up in the world, and what possibilities life could offer me?
I found the answer to this question by tracing back, to almost a decade ago (ugh, what is time??), to when I was in grad school and coordinated open mic nights for those in my program.
After college graduation and a gap year, I spent a year in Oxford, for an accelerated Master’s program in Publishing Media. The program included very cool modules for book nerds like myself, from Design & Production to Children’s Publishing, and featured projects including pitching a book for an Editorial Content class, as well as designing a marketing plan for filling a gap in genre fiction.
My favorite parts, however, were my classmates. People of varying nationalities and backgrounds, all discussing the nuances of the publishing world in the UK or Ireland, compared to that in Italy or the U.S. or Sweden. Course-mates fresh out of undergrad, looking to earn a degree in something as they figured out who they were and followed their interests, and classmates several years out of school, coming back for a degree because they knew themselves and sought to continue pursuing their passions. And my favorite thing about my classmates? It probably shouldn’t be surprising, in a program geared toward working in an historically creative field, but I loved that in all our varied life experiences, we also were a creatively diverse bunch as well. Our group was one of readers and writers, graphic artists and musicians, singers and supporters. And friends. There are so many in our program I still think of as good people, and friends.
In the first semester of the program, while talking at lunch with a few of my classmates, I forget how, but the conversation took a turn toward open mic nights. About how much fun it would be to have an open mic night for the people in our program, and how many people might enjoy participating and sharing their talent or passion with the group. Somewhere in the conversation, I offered to coordinate it.
Then, I kept my promise. I researched a place and was so happily surprised to learn there were places I could book on campus for the event, at no cost to me or my classmates, and no need for a headcount in advance. I gauged interest across the group for those interested in performing (and perhaps lightly encouraged those with skills everyone wanted to celebrate, who might’ve been a bit shyer to start). I shared info and event details for the group, and on the big night we set up chairs and helped our artist friend hang some of her work on the walls so attendees could view at their leisure.
With the other performers in our group, I read a poem or two, but mostly acted as emcee, announcing names and mediums. I tried my best to add to the hype, and my favorite feeling from that night was how I felt seeing my classmates and friends listen to each other, cheer for each other, celebrate each other. Everyone was respectful and supportive, and so many people told me afterward how much they enjoyed the night.
That feeling in my chest, when I heard how happy the night made them, when I got to hear those responses and know I was a part of making that good memory for them? That’s the feeling I return to, when I think of the questions of when I felt good about who and I was and how I was showing up in the world. While in this process of discovery and rediscovery this year, that is what I’m finding I want to return to, in ways and opportunities that I see arise: I want to be a person who helps make good memories for others, in as many ways as I can.
So, this month, I tried to shake myself a little, to remind myself again that with the writing I do, the first goal might be to write for myself, for my soul, but the second goal is just as important: it’s to share what I can, when I can, so the words that may have been cathartic, or a balm, or just plain fun for me to write, may be available to readers as catharsis, or a balm, or something just plain fun to read.
As I continue to rediscover the the practice of sharing, a couple weeks ago, I attended an open mic night. I got to be among a diverse group of people with a variety of experiences, and we listened to each other. And we cheered for each other. And we celebrated each other.
Surrounded by an energy that was so reminiscent of one of my fondest memories, and thinking of the people that year who encouraged me and helped me feel more myself— even across an ocean from everything and everyone I considered “home”— at that open mic night earlier this month, I stood up in front of everyone. I read them a couple poems.
It felt like that moment in a first draft, when you know you got the energy and the mood of the scene just right, when you feel totally in sync with the story. It felt like coming home.
