I’m sitting at a round table in a sea of round tables at Loews Hotel just off the Hollywood strip at The Writers Rising Conference. Jen Pastiloff is reading a poem from her forthcoming book Proof of Life.
In the past month, I dropped off my son for his freshman year at college, followed a calling to leave a company and community that I was part of for the better part of a decade, and discovered that my marriage was shaky and needed to either be reimagined or ended.
Jen’s poem cracks me open. My body is shaking. I’m weeping. I sense a crack of light, an inkling of what might come if I make it through this identity crumbling transition.
Jen asks us to write a message from a part of our body to ourselves. I immediately know that it's my throat and vagina that want to speak to me, the two parts that have always represented my voice and expression. They’ve been in an ongoing dialogue throughout my life, speaking to fear and permission and desire and clarity and sometimes massive terror. We have a few minutes to write. I type so quickly, words tumbling out of my body, up from my vagina, down through my throat, moving through my solar plexus and heart, rising back up, passing through my arms and out into my fingertips.
Jen asks for volunteers to share what we wrote. This has happened many times with other presenters. I have not yet raised my hand at this conference, not once. Now my hand shoots up faster than my mind can think.
Jen looks at me. “Come on up, you, the one who danced this morning at the back of my yoga class. Come up close rather than speaking from a mic at your seat. I’m deaf; I need to be able to read your lips.”
I walk to the front of the room with my computer in hand, standing body to body, facing Jen with my back to the room. She asks if I feel awkward. I say, “Beautifully awkward.” She laughs. In our sudden intimacy and beautiful awkwardness, she says, “I do.” I say, "Me too!” There’s energy flowing through my whole body, pregnant and pulsing.
I read what I wrote, which is also a poem. I feel my individual self speaking clearly for the first time in a really long time. With the last line, Jen does a dramatic mic drop. My heart flutters.
I exhale and return to my seat. On my laptop, I see many comments from online participants and participants in the room, in our chat, appreciating and admiring my expression, some encouraging me to publish it, to share it more broadly. I love the experience of feeling seen, celebrated, and encouraged. It’s more than I can even take in during all this ending of eras and being at the doorstep of so much unknown. As for sharing more broadly, as for “publishing,” I’m not ready. Not today. But soon.
*****
That was seven months ago. I haven't published anything since then, though I've written dozens and dozens of pages for articles, for my first book, for sanity.
It’s been seven months of grief, with respites of joy and creative expression and making amends so I can walk forward with integrity and a sense of almost-okayness in my bones. It’s been seven months of processing the last decade mentally, emotionally, somatically, and spiritually. It’s been seven months of couples therapy and hard conversations, finding my way back to love and life, and inching towards more self-love and attunement with my husband. It’s been seven months of facing creative injuries that I’ve carried like dollhouse weights hidden in my body and psyche to remind me of how risky and dangerous it is to share my deepest heart and quirky perspectives out loud.
I’m not through this dark night yet, but the crack of light I saw when Jen was reading is ever present and, I daresay, closer.
I created a Substack account in an SFO airport lounge a week after the conference. Seven months later, I'm ready to hit publish. To share my story, to share the poem that I read at the conference, to share my heart and exhale and tremble as I await to receive you and yours.
The Story You Cannot Afford
This is the time to remember.
What feels tight isn’t always tight.
Sometimes it’s dense and concentrated and fucking rich
like triple chocolate cake.
Stop trying to liberate me, to understand me, to coax me to open.
I am as open as the sky.
You keep pretending that I need you to save me.
There is nothing to save, nothing to remember, nothing to coax.
I existed before your memory began in this lifetime or any previous one.
I existed before your ancestors were even dreamed up.
I am ancient. You are mortal.
Use me better. Trust me more.
I am here for you.
I know how to connect with the whole symphony.
I am breeding ground for love and freedom and expression.
You keep looking up. Look down too.
Life pulses through this body so quickly,
so intensely,
so gently,
so everything-ly.
Betrayal is a story that you cannot afford.
Me reading “The Story You Cannot Afford at Writers Rising 2024. It’s slightly different from above; I want to share the moment with you.
Practice 1: Calling our Parts Back Home
Find a comfortable place to sit or lie down.
Close your eyes and take a few deep breaths.
Bring your attention to the sensations you feel in and on your body, the sounds you hear around you, thoughts passing through, and your emotions. As much as possible, be an observer of your experience with minimal judgement.
Shift your attention to what feels like the center of your being. There is no right place; it’s wherever you sense the center to be at the moment. Rest with gentle awareness here for a minute or two.
Scan your awareness for a part of you that has left or forgotten this center. Again, there’s no right way to do this. Memories, sensations, sounds, or emotions may arise. Trust whatever comes. Rest here with gentle awareness and open curiosity. What you’re noticing may remain the same or it may change.
Ask this aspect of yourself what it can tell you about itself: it may share a name, a role in your organism or psyche (ex. “keeper of the peace”), a desire (ex. “to be valued”), a fear (ex. “being rejected"), and so on. Thank this aspect for sharing whatever it shares.
Now ask this aspect what it needs in order to be true to the whole, instead of protecting itself in whatever way it has been.
If you’re able to give it what it needs, do so. If the ask needs to unfold over time, you can make an agreement that you’ll do your best to provide what it needs.
Have whatever feels like your center “ask” this aspect to connect and come back into relationship.
See what happens next. Any response, including silence, is perfect. You’ve opened a sacred conversation with the potential for integration. You can return to this conversation whenever you’re ready to deepen in connection and wholeness.
Take a few breaths and open your eyes.
Write or voice record any impressions or insights.
Guided Audio Version
Inspirations + Recommendations
Jen Pastiloff, Proof of Life
Substack:
The book that Jen read from that had me trembling and weeping. It will be released on July 8, 2025. Pre-orders are instrumental. I’m excited to receive mine. Order yours and we can weep and tremble—and exhale and laugh—together.
A Writing Room is a beautiful, dynamic, and above-and-beyond supportive community for writers. I became a member and went to their 2024 Writers Rising Conference because Anne Lamott. I can’t recommend all three highly enough.
Beautiful courageous poem and post Erica. Thank you for sharing it with us.
Thank you for publishing Erica. Beautiful.