Boys Become Men, Chapters Become Books, and Writers Keep Writing

There’s something vulnerable about returning to a space you once inhabited faithfully.

Like opening the front door of a childhood home or a beloved space, after years away. You recognize the creaks in the floorboards, the familiar light through the windows.  The pull of memory lingers in the corners and in the muscles of your hands.  If push comes to shove, you can probably still find light switches in the dark.

I started writing here a long time ago.  A long, long time ago.

Some of you have been here since then, and to you I say, Hi, guys.  Remember when we started this together?  I was in my twenties, a lifetime ago by any measure of the imagination.  My boys were toddlers, my days were filled with “long day of small things,” a phrase my friend Catherine has patented for the trenches of early motherhood, the seasons that change our names and our souls through tasks that never stay finished.

I started writing in an effort to claim a bit of myself back during naptimes and after bedtimes, and lots of you showed up in that little space we shared together.  You let me think out loud, and I loved you for it.

Then things got really sad, really fast, when I became a widowed single mom in the course of a day.  A twelve-hour illness, a missed diagnosis, a tectonic shift of every status I knew.

Everything felt different except one thing: I was still writing.   And more than ever, I had some things to process on the page.  You joined me then, too.  You let me tell the raw truth and ask the hardest questions. You helped me to become brave, to find my voice, and to find my words.

I’ve written a lot of books since those early days: six titles under my own name, a few under a pen name, and more than a dozen titles as a ghostwriter in collaboration with other authors, including a gold medalist, an Emmy award-winning journalist, and a candidate for President of the United States.  I’ve partnered with Penguin Random House, St. Martin’s Press, LifeWay, Tyndale, and NavPress. You’ll find my work on the New York Times Bestseller List, just not my name.

I write because I don’t know how not to.  It’s an itch that settles between my shoulder blades if I don’t give it a good go, like a momma bear against the bark of a tree.  

In the last twenty years, I’ve taught hundreds of students, children and adults, and my current sweet spot is nestled into the fourth grade, where they are old enough to read and write, but young enough to fit inside our calm corner: a tent filled with pillows and stuffies, a space for learning how to regulate feelings that feel bigger than ourselves.

To the old friends who have been around since the earliest days in the blogosphere, I raise my polka-dotted mug to you, old friend.  And to the new friends who have somehow found their way here for the first time, welcome.  My name is Tricia, and I like you already.

I am happy to tell you: the boys grew into men, the chapters grew into books, and I grew into myself.  I’m on the far side of my forties now, and Peter and I will celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary on Thursday.  There have been three thousand days since it all started with Love in a Red Cup, and we’re still bookending our days with coffee and ice cream.  And I’m still writing.

Sometimes life unfolds faster than words can keep up. Some seasons have demanded living more than documenting. I think maybe that’s adulthood: learning that silence has many shades, and it’s not always absence.

Sometimes it’s construction. Sometimes it’s recovery.  Sometimes it’s simply exhaustion.

But it’s not always quiet.

I miss honest conversations.

I miss storytelling.

I miss the strange and beautiful connections that happen when someone reads words on a screen and whispers, “Me, too.”

If you’re new here, here’s what I want you to know.

I believe in true words written by real people.

I believe humor and grief can sit at the same table.

I believe sadness and joy are sisters who hold hands.

I believe people are more fragile than they appear.

I believe God is kinder than many of us were taught.

I believe beauty still exists in hard places.

I believe survival deserves celebration.

I’m here for words, not numbers. For people, not platforms.

I don’t know what this next season of writing will look like.  I suspect it will be less polished, more honest, less performance, more presence.  I’ve added watercolor and sketching to my favorite things to do, and I still love good coffee, meaningful conversations, and honest books.

I’m here, still writing.

And my goodness, it’s nice to see you again.