Even in darkness, there’s the promise of light.
“May love surround you like sunshine on a sunny day.”
Before I begin, a disclaimer: this edition of my newsletter is heavily focused on mental health, specifically depression and anxiety. If this topic would be triggering for you, please be kind to yourself. If you need to opt out of reading then please do, and I hope to see you back next time.
When I got pregnant with my eldest child I was so excited. So excited: to be pregnant, to be having a baby, that she’d be a daughter when I’d always pictured myself a girl mom. There was plenty to be terrified of (and I was), but mostly I felt prepared and excited to be a parent.
And then she was born…and I didn’t love her. Not at first, anyway. It came eventually, but unlike all of the dreamy “love at first sight” posts I’d seen on social media, it was slow. And with the love came a debilitating anxiety. I was so scared she would die that sometimes when she slept, as bone tired as I was, I’d lay awake and imagine that she had.
It took eighteen months to put a name to what I was feeling: postpartum depression and anxiety. And it took a hell of a lot longer to let anyone know what I’d been going through, and even then I played it very close to the vest, for reasons related to shame and fear and a crushing lack of trust in myself.* The only thing that got me to the other side of that specific darkness was a really good therapist. In our sessions, one of the things we talked about was finding purpose and meaning separate from my role as a mother. And since one of the things I told her was that I wanted to write, she suggested I give it a try. And did I?
Nope. I absolutely did not.
When I got pregnant again in 2019, I told myself this time it would be different. This time, yes, I’d have another kid already, but I’d have another kid already. This time I would at least have some idea of what I was doing. This time I could relax and enjoy and hopefully actually remember the “baby phase” in a way I didn’t with my first.
I bet you can guess where this is going, and why this time was different, but not in the way I’d hoped.
Covid.
My youngest daughter was due in the spring of 2020. Before she was born, I was scared my husband wouldn’t even be able to be at her birth. Then once she was here, I was scared she would get this terrifying new virus and die. I was scared my toddler would get it and die. I was scared they’d both get it and die. I was scared I’d get it and die. I was scared that anyone I let near them would expose them and then, yep, they would die. But we were locked down, so I was also scared that I was irrevocably screwing them up by isolating them both home with me in my crazy, sleep deprived state. We weren’t exactly the ideal picture of mental health, but everyone was anxious and depressed and a little bit crazy in 2020. Our family, like everyone else, was doing what we had to do to survive, literally and figuratively.
Then in September of 2020 something happened that, it turned out, would change the course of my life.
I’d started to feel the walls of depression closing in again. I already had anxiety in spades, but that was normal, right? It was Covid, with a newborn. I didn’t know anyone who wasn’t anxious. I knew I was seeing the signs in myself that I’d promised to watch for, but this time I didn’t know what to do. Therapists everywhere were inundated, and it felt logistically impossible to try and find an hour where I wasn't crippled by the overwhelming job of parenting.
One night I was reading ABC, What Can She Be? to my eldest. When we got to the profession for W (writer), I told her I’d always wanted to write a book. With the pure, direct wisdom of a three-year-old, she said “why don’t you”? So I did. Or I started to, anyway, stealing time where I could, often while nursing Little, often in the middle of the night, and for a long time on Google Docs on my phone and without telling a single soul what I was doing. And this amazing thing happened…my depression eased. Writing a book turned out to be really bloody hard, but this kind of really bloody hard engaged my brain in a way that was so, so good for me. Writing helped me become the best version of myself, a person I genuinely liked and felt like maybe was hiding in here all along. It felt like a missing piece of my identity clicked into place.
I kept writing until I had a whole book, finished in February of 2021. And then I revised it, prepared my pitch materials, started to query it in November, and got my first request for the full manuscript two days later. I genuinely believed It Was Happening. Well…it wasn’t. But I kept going. I kept querying that book and wrote another, then another. I kept writing, kept putting myself out there, kept persevering. I worked and waited for something to happen that never did.
Fast forward two and a half years to last month. We were in the middle of a massive amount of work on our home and had both kids in the stretch of time with no summer camps. Things were absolutely bananas all the time.
Then on a Thursday morning I lost my dog, Hanna. She bolted from the garage I hadn’t yet closed and took off. I loaded the kids in the car and drove around the neighborhood in a panic for what felt like hours, until a neighbor called to say she’d shown up at their house and invited herself to a playdate in their backyard with their dogs. Then that night, as I took Hanna out for her (leashed!) evening walk, I discovered that the construction dumpster in the driveway not twelve feet from my house where my children were finishing their dinner was on fire. Not a small, throw-a-bucket-of-water-on-it fire, not even a grab-the-kitchen-fire-extinguisher fire, but a call-911-fire-truck-rolled-with-lights-and-sirens-on fire. We had a literal dumpster fire.**
But between those, between the panic of losing Hanna and the raw fear of fire, I got an email. An email that, it turned out, would be the beginning of whatever happens next. Though it took awhile for the smoke to clear, literally and figuratively, and for it to sink in that It Was Happening.
An agent who’d had my book for 16 months reached out to say she loved it and wanted to set up a time to talk. There was no way in hell I was going to celebrate yet, because I was absolutely sure it couldn’t be what I wanted it to be. But you know what? The following Friday, on a day packed with a revolving door of various home repair appointments, 24 hours into having no internet, seven days into my husband having Covid and six days into me having Covid—in other words, knee deep in the mundane of life—I talked to this agent, and she offered to represent me two minutes into the call.
I wish I could describe to you the weightlessness and utter disbelief that enveloped me. It was like floating peacefully in the pool while questioning whether I was actually wet.
And then the craziest thing happened. I got off the phone, debriefed my husband, and as my doorbell rang, my phone did, too. A second agent—someone I’d queried on a whim, one of the last agents I’d reached out to—read my book and wanted to talk to me. Someone who didn’t even know I’d just gotten an offer, who just happened to have the most unreal timing in the world. And when I connected with her the following week, she offered to represent me, too.
Right now, as I write this, I’m six days into the three week “decision period.” It's still surreal, an unbelievable whirlwind that feels like it's happening to someone else. I can’t tell you definitively who I’m going to sign with, though I do have a gut feeling and by the time you read this, I will have signed.**
I don’t know what’s going to happen next. My hope is that whoever I sign with can sell my book to a publisher, that it will touch people and make them feel and teach them something about themselves or the world. I know there is plenty to be terrified of (and I am), but mostly I feel excited. And ready.
And in the meantime, I’m writing all of this to you. The group of people who believe in me enough to invite me into your inbox when, let’s face it, nobody really needs one more email to read. And I’m rambling, trying to figure out what it is I’m trying to say. Because I told myself I’d always write with you, the reader, in mind. That I would only write to you when I felt it could be of benefit to you. So maybe what I’m trying to say is that life is weird. And crazy. And beautiful. And awful. And demeaning. And uplifting. And just…complicated. And you can never really know what’s going to happen or where it’s going to go, no matter what you want, no matter how much you plan, and, unfortunately, no matter how hard you work. Sometimes bad things happen, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes good things happen, sometimes they don’t. So what matters is what matters. Being true to yourself. Listening to the little voice in your head that tells you to keep pushing or try this or it’s time to quit because what I really want is this other thing. Being kind. Being bold. And holding your people—maybe most importantly yourself—close.
*One final thought: I could go on and on about the pressures and expectations we place on mothers, stigmas surrounding mental healthcare in our culture, and how paralyzingly hard it is to ask for help when you need it. But instead I’ll say this: if you’re struggling with depression or anxiety, postpartum or otherwise, whether you’re ready to call it that or not, you’re not alone. And if you’re ashamed to tell anyone or you feel too paralyzed to take the first step in getting help—whether therapeutic or pharmaceutical—please reach out to me. I see you, and I support you without judgment.
**It bears mentioning: we know for a fact the fire wasn’t our contractor’s fault, and instead served as a real life illustration of a science lesson I’m sure we all did as a kid: how you can use sun reflected in glass to start a fire.
***As of today, as I come back to revise this newsletter, I’m represented by Alice Martell, of The Martell Agency. You’re hearing it here, first! To say I’m thrilled and elated is an understatement: I’m damn near euphoric. My dream initially was to write a book, and I’ve done that several times over, and I’m proud as hell of that. But that dream evolved, and now it's for the words in my books to find their way to you. And now I’m one step closer to achieving that dream.
Recommendations Roundup
Before I dive into my usual list of book recommendations, I’d like to take a moment to ask you to support a debut author who happens to be a dear friend of mine. I’ve been walking this writing journey with Grace Walz for years now, and I’m over the moon to promote her upcoming debut, Southern By Design. She’s an amazing writer and incredible storyteller (and as a bonus: a truly good human). I feel confident you’ll adore this story and these characters. It’s a must buy that you’ll come back to again and again, and you can feel good that you’re supporting a debut author who’s dream is coming true.
After you pre-order the book, be sure to follow Grace on the socials (Instagram, Facebook), because she’s going places!!!
Sweet Magnolias meets Fixer Upper in this delightfully refreshing debut about a woman bravely chasing her dreams, building a life on her own terms, and maybe even discovering a second chance at love.
And without further ado… book recommendations. Click on the cover of any for which you’d like to read my short review.
Parting Shot
Final Thoughts
I’m very lucky to have a lot of people in my corner supporting the different pieces of who I am. When it comes to my writing, so many folks continually show up for me, letting me bounce ideas off them, reading drafts, and giving me pep talks. You know who you are: thank you. And to you, my readers: thank you from the bottom of my heart for subscribing. I know your time is limited, and you’re choosing to spend a slice of it here, with me. It’s a gift, and one I take seriously.
I wish you the peace that comes from living the life you want for yourself, the hope that comes from seeing your own potential, and the joy that comes from stepping back and feeling gratitude for it all. Go forth, my friends. I wish you well.
Love,
Sarah
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