000019 — Saturation
Yesterday, in my weekly session with my writing coach, it started like every session. Basic pleasantries. The weather, of course, because it’s been unusually warm here in Colorado, and I’ve been telling everyone how much I’m enjoying summer in February. It’s so warm that our landscapers had to come out to water. In February. That’s insane. We laughed. He told me how cold it is on the East Coast and what’s going on with his family and grandkids. Then out of nowhere, he said, “DK, your writing has so much sharpness. You’re even describing it yourself. You’ve been centered around clarity. Where’s the saturation?” He barely took a breath. As if ripping that band-aid off wasn’t enough, he followed it with the line that disrupted my entire day: “Your writing will really come alive when you write about what’s in your heart, when you let your emotions do the speaking instead of only describing, in beautiful detail and nuance, what’s on your mind.”
This is what I love about him. He doesn’t waste time, words, or an opportunity. He isn’t afraid of having an opinion. He’s direct. If you’re wondering, yes, he’s a New Yorker. He doesn’t apologize or soften, and that’s one of the traits I appreciate most about him. This wasn’t the first time he’s pressed me, this pressing was different. It wasn’t about structure, narrative, grammar, or tightening. It was about me. I was the subject and the object. And I did what I always do when someone gets too close to the live wire. I got defensive. Dude, I’m sharing more than I ever have. I feel alive in what I’m sharing. I’m already being vulnerable by writing at all. What else do you want from me? I’m leaning into one of my deepest fears already, the willingness to share work that isn’t perfectly polished. I’m sharing my thoughts. That’s enough, right? Why isn’t that enough?
“Because it can be replicated,” he said. “And when we were interviewing each other, you told me you wanted to find your voice. You told me you wanted to write with nuance, depth, richness, and beauty. You told me you wanted it to be real.”
That changed the shape of the whole session. We would typically work through writing exercises he gave me, we’d review and read recent work out loud, we’d talk about narrative. This time felt like a therapy session. It felt like I was back in the room with Eric, my former therapist of ten years. Miss you, Eric. I tried to intellectualize my way out of it. I tried to connect dots. I tried to argue that what was on my mind was from my heart. And the more I danced around it, the more he narrowed in. Like a dog after a bone. He asked me straight: “Tell me the emotion you’re most uncomfortable with, and we’ll start there.”
After what felt like an hour of hesitation, I told him, “I’m most afraid of being sad.” He pressed right there. “DK, you’re not sad. That’s not your state, especially right now. You’re afraid of feeling sad. Say that out loud.” So I said it: I am afraid of feeling sadness. Then he went one step deeper. “When you think about sadness, what are you most sad about? Don’t hesitate. Don’t edit. When you think about sadness, what are you most sad about.”
I’m sad about my childhood.
As soon as the words left my mouth, I could feel the reflex show up. The reflex that tries to shut it down before it becomes real. The reflex that says, careful, this sounds like complaining. This sounds like accusation. This sounds like an indictment of those responsible for caring and protecting. And I can’t do that. That’s not fair. And look at what I’ve become, look how far I’ve come, does it even matter?
Yes. It matters. But two things can be true at once, actually, many things can and are always true at once. I can have great love, respect, and admiration for my mother, who was my sole caregiver even when a stepfather was present. And I can be sad. I can even be angry. Not as a verdict on her, and not as an excuse for me, and not as a story I tell to stay small. As a real acknowledgment that the circumstances were real. The feelings are just that, feelings. They don’t have to define that season of my life, and they also don’t have to be erased to prove I’m okay.
I’m saddest that play wasn’t a huge part of my life then. The circumstances around me demanded maturity, and I learned to live braced, guard up, armor on, reading the room before I even knew I was doing it. I can still feel that wiring show up now in tiny ways, the scan, the tightening, the instinct to be ready, even on calm days in a safe life. And then, only when I sit in the sad feeling long enough a more recent memory shows up, one from a few nights ago Olivia asked me to grab the memories question box (thank you for that gift, Elio), and we sat there for half an hour, and then we danced a little, and I’m still teaching her how to heel kick, and she’s awkward and hilarious, and she never shows me her moves, and she did anyway, then another, Noah on the drive home yesterday asking literally every what if question possible. Then another, the chance to have a good friend stay with us, dreaming of the future, eating great meals, and sharing a few well-crafted cocktails.
Olivia’s heel kick was awkward and hilarious. Noah’s what-if questions kept coming from the back seat. None of that erased the sadness. It just let something else sit beside it.
