The Next Write Thing: Real Life Stories by Nan Tepper

“Wait? What? Why is my alarm going off? It’s still dark out. Did I set it wrong? ”Then, I remember. I’ve got to get up NOW because I’m flying to Los Angeles this morning. This isn’t a pleasure trip. I’m visiting my brother, who was in a motorcycle accident in June. He’s in a rehab at the beginning of a long road to recovery. It’s the first time I’m seeing him since the accident and I’m a nervous wreck. Bargaining with the goddess, Nyx, I just need to sleep for nine more minutes. I hit snooze and swear I’ll only do it once.I keep my promise, dragging myself out of bed at 4:09am, and needing to pee 2 hours ago, but not getting up to do it, I race down the hall using my best “I’ve gotta go” wiggle-walk while I clench my pelvic floor muscles as tightly as I can. But I scoot to the stove to turn the kettle on before hitting the bathroom, because COFFEE. I start to feel the leak. Clench. Clench more! Of course I should’ve stopped to pee first, but honestly, what’s more important? Coffee always wins. Doing it my way means my coffee is brewing while I mop up the spillage. Nan, you’re such a clever girlTwo birds, one Bounty paper towel.Note to self: do the damn Kegels, PRONTO! No more excuses. Yes, yes, you say that all the time, but this time you mean it. Right. Uh-huh. We’ll see. The thought of a pessary in my future gives me pause, but my internalized Scarlett O’Hara kicks in, telling me tomorrow is a fine day to begin. I did most of my packing last night, giving myself mental reminders along the way, even though I’m not so good at those anymore. I should have made a list. That’s what I always say. Do I ever make a list? Hell, no. But had I, these things would have been on it:1. Make coffee. I wasn’t kidding around.2. Pee. As if I need to write THAT down. Notice the order of operations.3. Pack CPAP. Don’t leave lying on the bed. Put with luggage!4. Drink at least half a cup of coffee and save the rest for the ride to the airport.5. DON’T DO THE NY Times puzzles!!! It’s tempting, yes. If you break your streak, you’ll live. Will I really? Yes, you will, Nan. Don’t be such a baby!6. Leave a couple of lights on, but which ones?7. Feed the cat.8. Text the cat sitter, tell her you fed the cat.9. Pack the car, then double and triple check the house.10. Grab a protein shake from the fridge.11. Remember to take it with you.12. Lock the door.13. Unplug the car from the charger before you try to pull out of the garage.14. Enter the airport address in Google Maps.15. Worry that you didn’t lock the kitchen door. Perseverate about it while sitting in the car. Look at the time. Fight with your memory a little more, THEN get out of the car and check. Of course you locked the door. But did you put the keys in the hidey place for the cat sitter? Fight with yourself a little more. Get out of the car again and check. Keys are there.16. Go, already.The sky is dark. It should be. It’s 4-fucking-thirty in the morning. The break of the break of dawn. Oooh, the high-beams on the new car are great, and they turn on automatically. I don’t have to do a thing. I guess some AI is good AI? Until it needs to be repaired. But I’ve got a warrantee! Until it runs out.I jump on the Thruway for the 67-mile ride, knowing I’ll need extra time to park. I set my cruise control and steering assist. I need all the help I can get this morning; I’ll need help on the drive home, too. I get back absurdly late at night. The two times of day when most car accidents happen.OMG, shut up already, Nan.Will there be a parking spot for me? Will I know where to go? They’ve been doing construction at the airport. Will going through security be scary because of all the bullshit going on?I circle and circle and fret and circle some more. I finally find a spot, and guess what?Yes. It’s as far as it can possibly be from the elevator that will bring me to the terminal. I only discover that by walking and walking, searching for signage, and finding none. I’m a signage freak. There must be signs with helpful arrows. Who do I complain to? It was too early in my trip to start crying, so I said––out loud, my voice echoing in the cavernous space––“Buck up, girl. You’ll get there.”I have a pathological fear of getting lost. I momentarily entertain the thought of trying to go back to the car and park it closer, worrying about coming back late at night. I’ll be so tired! What about the thieves and rapists hiding behind the cars? I jot down the number of the parking area in my Notes app, because yes, I will forget it. Column 32, Level P3.I need to avoid depending on my memory as I wander the garage upon my return, yelling, “here, Kona here little Hyundai, mama wants to head home.” I worry that cars look so much alike these days, that I’ll get confused and try to get into the wrong one and trigger an alarm.I trudge to the elevators, panting through my mouth, drying it out. I think of wet things, even though conjuring saliva hasn’t been one of my superpowers for all the years I’ve been on anti-depressants. It’s a desert in there, and I don’t have any water.I see the long line of people waiting to go through security and my anxiety kicks in again. Why are there so many people traveling today, SO early in the morning? What’s wrong with them?2nd note to self: Make sure you’re super-friendly, self-deprecating, humble, grateful, and patient when it’s your turn. You don’t want to get in trouble with the TSA. I hear there’s a lot of that going around these days. Have you heard the same thing?I say an embarrassing prayer of gratitude, “Thank god, I’m white.” Then I really want to cry. Because that’s part of the anxiety, too. Is my ID enough? When will they start deporting queers and Jews? It’s only a matter of time. I brought photos of my passport and Social Security card at the advice of a lawyer friend in case there’s trouble. The TSA agent is an older woman with fabulous eyeglasses; she asks for my license. Of course, I’m not prepared. She’s warm and patient as I thumb through my wallet to find my ID. What if I can’t find it? Will they re-route me to Alligator Alcatraz? I’m a citizen, I swear! Flying is nerve-wracking enough without needing to be concerned about deportation, too.She points to the next line and wishes me a safe trip. I wait to hoist my luggage onto the conveyer belt. I place each piece in its own gray plastic bin. I pray they don’t open my purse. It holds a lone pot gummy in a baggie, just in case I want to doze on the plane––or giggle.I prepared my story ahead of time, my scenario scripted, “I swear, it’s a Vitamin C gummy. Me? Use federally illegal narcotics? Why, no sir, not me, never, ever, ever. I swear on my father’s life.” Yes, yes, he died 14 years ago. But they don’t know that. I reflect on what an ass I can be sometimes. I have deportation fantasies and I’m smuggling sleep gummies as my way to say fuck you to the piece of crap “government” running this country.I don’t want to be a total wimp, there’s a rebel in me, she needs to express herself and break some rules. I make it through the line, unscathed, and shlep to the gate.I approach the gate guy; and tell him I need help with pre-boarding and he asks if I require a wheelchair in Denver to get to the next gate. I’m tempted to take him up on it and ashamed of myself, because do I really NEED it? I think of my mother, who started gaming that system years and years before she needed it, and grudgingly, I opt in. I decide to make it easier for myself, something I rarely do. Asking for help is uncomfortable for me, but I learn something simple today. The help helps. It was the very beginning of the trip, and I was already exhausted, and my feet hurt.As I board the first plane, I worry that I won’t be comfortable in the seat, because I am an ample woman. Would the seat belt fit? Or would I have to discreetly ask for an extender? It’s very hard to be discreet about being too fat to fit when people are sitting right on top of you. Huzzah. All is well. My seat is comfortable and the belt has room to spare. I guess the shots are working!I make it to Denver, and a man named Mateo is waiting to take me to the next gate which feels MILES away. I board his unadorned golf cart (no gold leaf for this guy, he’s got taste), there’s a yellow bicycle bell with a smiley face on it attached to the windscreen. Off we go! Ding, ding, cart on your left, he sings to the people walking in his path. When we get to the gate, I give him a grateful tip and find a seat close to the jetway door, settle into a cozy chair to wait for pre-boarding.Those of us needing extra time and assistance walk slowly down the jetway; a very old woman with a cane leading our procession. I feel self-conscious, a little ashamed, because again, do I really need to be up front? My internal wrestling is loud, so I stop listening to the yammering in my head, breathe, and take care of my needs. I grab the aisle seat in the second row. This is the same seat I sat in for the first leg. Now I’m superstitious about which seat I occupy and that becomes the most important thing. I have to sit here on each flight, or the plane will crash. On the way home, too.All the travelers aboard, the flight attendants ready the cabin for take-off. Just before the door closes, the gate agent jumps aboard and in a loud voice, asks “is there a Nan Tepper here?” Oh shit. They caught me. Damn pot gummy. I could chew it up now.I raise my hand, and wave, “I’m Nan Tepper.” He hands me my small black shoulder bag. It contains ALL my ID, my cash, my plastic, my keys, AND the gummy!I had no idea I’d left it on Mateo’s cart. Everything was there. All of it.In that moment, my stress begins to fade. I feel almost happy. Hopeful. This small miracle lifts my worries, for the moment. But not all the way, because I still have to get through this flight, hail another golf cart in LA and get to the shuttle bus for my car rental. I still needed to be harassed by the rental agent’s scare tactics to pre-pay for

In the frenzy of organizing and packing to attend a writers workshop in Cape Cod and tying up loose ends, I decided to give myself a week off from writing a new story––that’s the first break I’ve taken in 83 weeks of new essays. I’ll be working on my memoir-in-progress this week and I’m excited!So, this week, I thought I’d treat you to a story that I wrote for my local Story Slam, an event I participate in as often as possible. The Slam is the origin of my active writing life, the thing that fed my hunger, and challenged me to do more.The sentence that had to be included in the story to qualify for the competition was “I’m Not Superstitious!” Originally performed for the Woodstock Bookfest Story Slam in June, on Friday the 13th, 2025 at The Maverick Concert Hall. What a blast!My Great Aunt Paulie lived in a one room efficiency in downtown Miami Beach Florida. AKA “The Promised Land.”My Great Aunt Paulie’s Primary Mission in life was playing a mean game of Kaluki. You know Kaluki? Me, neither. It involves a deck of cards. She told me it’s like rummy. I don’t know from rummy, either. But her Second Primary Mission? Fighting evil. My Great Aunt Paulie was a self-appointed superhero.She was a simple soul, not learned in the ways of Talmud or Kabbala. But she knew a s**t ton about evil.My Great Aunt Paulie was from the shtetl, a girl who witnessed pogroms, Cossacks. Murder. And she had a terrible husband who sometimes hit her.My Great Aunt Paulie learned the secret that would ward off the evil eye. A secret that can be summed up in three little words. Puh. Puh. Puh. That’s right. Puh. Puh. Puh.She said it when bad things happened. She said it when good things happened. Can never be too safe, right? Of course, right.Other people know this phrase as well. Even you may be familiar with it, especially if you’re Jewish. There are different ways to perform the ritual. Some people raise two fingers, then utter it, poking at the devil. Well, not the devil. We don’t believe in the “devil.” That’s a gentile thing.But we sure as hell believe in evil.Some people say it “poo-poo-poo.” I don’t like that version because it reminds me of, well, Poo.Most people do a dry puh, puh, puh. It’s polite not to shower the person you’re trying to save with your spit.My Great Aunt Paulie. She didn’t go for the dry puh, puh, puh. My Great Aunt Paulie; she was a spitter.It wasn’t the kind of spit that sometimes forms on an old person’s lips. Paulie was an intentional spitter. She’d summon up a gob of the stuff from God knows where, and let it fly.She did it with verve, she did it with gusto. She did it with a sense of passion and commitment I’ve never seen before or since. She’d say, “that’s the way you gotta do it, for it to voik.” “Voik” is Jewish for work.Her puh, puh, puh. Wasn’t a sprinkle. Her puh, puh, puh was WET. It was so wet, you had to jump out of the way to avert the possibility of drowning, or, at the very least, being completely drenched in her spit. Her spit. I can tell you, from being the recipient of one of her “blessings” it’s not pretty. We’d all take cover any time she came into the room.One day, I said to her, Great Aunt Paulie, you’re so superstitious! She said “No, I’m not! Vat is dat?” I explained it. She said, “oh yeah, no kiddink? I got news for you little goil, I’m not superstitious. I know evil. Evil is real.”Puh, puh, puh.She was right. And now, I do it, too. But I do it dry.So, how did it turn out, you ask? Well. I was thrilled to take second place! And my friend, Kathleen McKitty Harris, nabbed first place….again! McKitty’s a rock star. Check her out, she’s a phenomenal storyteller and writes on Substack, too. Her publication is called Always Ask for Matches. She’s a pro at Brooklyn, Queens, and Bronx Irish accents. I do Brooklyn, Queens, and Bronx Jewish. Honestly, it’s to the untrained ear, it’s hard to tell them apart!I’m so grateful when readers decide to support my writing financially by becoming paid subscribers, so if you want to do that, thank you, thank you!If paid subscriptions aren’t your thing, but you want to support me from time to time, donate to my writing workshop fund.AND, here’s a thing you can do that doesn’t cost a penny. On the top or bottom of the story, you can click on the “♥️” to like my essay, click on the speech bubble (💬) and leave a comment, and/or click on the little spinny arrow thingy (♻️) and restack the post (“restack” means “share” in Substackese).Those three actions will help me reach more readers! Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

I originally wrote this piece for a storytelling event that took place a long while back. I thought it would be fun to tell it to you today. This one may be more fun to listen to…you know by now that I’m a ham.Some folks who share their lives, homes, and hearts with animals refer to themselves as “Pet Owners.”Who are they kidding? What are they thinking?My pets own me. My babies are “Nan Owners.”I live with my pups, Hazel and Hugo, and two cats named Frankie. Yup. Both cats are named Frankie. Their nicknames are Big and Little.I’ve shared my life with one or more animals at a time for over 40 years (the record was 6 for a brief and crazy period). I don’t have kids. I’m single. I’ve got a good job, a nice house, and I work from home.So, we’re together, all the time.Some folks say, “They’re just animals.”As if that makes them less than humans? No such thing in my world.In my world, I revolve around them.In their view, and in mine, quite frankly, my only job is to make their lives happy. Keep them stocked in toys and treats and the best organic food money can buy. Bully sticks cost a fortune, but oh, they love them. I budget myself so that once in a while I can satisfy their urge to chew the good stuff. Do you know what a bully stick really is? It’s the cartilage in a bull’s penis. Giving my dogs an opportunity to demolish penises of any kind satisfies a slightly vengeful side of me. I get to pretend they once belonged to a different species. Can you guess which one? It’s win-win all the way.My life’s work is to love them, feed them, walk them, pay their vet bills, pay their grooming bills, and respond to whatever needs arise, because yes, I am their b***h. It’s never the other way around. And they like it like that.Hazel, the older of my two Shih-Tzu’s, is on Prozac. She takes it because she’s OCD. The Chinese herbs and weekly acupuncture appointments treat her congenital kidney disease.I pay the animal psychic to converse with Hazel so I can be privy to her deepest thoughts. I’m not as fluent in Dog as Minerva the Pup whisperer, but I’m happy to pay just about any amount to understand Hazel’s hopes and dreams more clearly. Because of Minerva, I know Hazel loves to go to daycare twice a week because she’s very social, and I want her to mingle and make new friends. The daycare uses a puppycam so I can watch her play all day; it’s a hoot, and worth every penny. They tell me she’s quite a leader. But I know she’s really a control freak, like her mutha.I live to serve, nothing more.When Hazel was a puppy, I taught her to play fetch. That one act sealed the covenant of my devotion to fulfilling her every need, no matter what it was. Her part of that covenant was to keep my throwing arm in shape.I taught her inside. She learned fast because she’s a genius. It soon became the thing she loved to do the most.There are no walls in my main living space. If I’m sitting on the couch, I can throw the ball 20 feet into the kitchen or into my office.Throw the ball! Throw the ball! Throw it! Throw it! Throw it! she implores, speaking in Dog, doing a little dance, her nails clicking on the floor, her impatience and anticipation almost overwhelming her.I throw the ball.We have wood floors, and she skids and slides and bangs into walls. Sometimes, she looks like a cartoon character running in place. Nothing stops her, her mission is clear.She brings it back.Drop it. No. Drrrop it. No. Drrrop it. No, not yet!“I can’t throw it again if you don’t give it back.” I try to reason with her.She stands there with the ball in her mouth and eyes me suspiciously. She weighs the pros and cons…and backs away. Then, she drops the ball. I have to get up to retrieve it. I figure she’s just trying to get me to exercise more. Or maybe she’s just a pain in the ass. I pick up the ball and throw it into the kitchen.Oh, s**t. It’s under the refrigerator, again!She scratches at the fridge door. She scratches the floor. Over and over and over. She tries to get under, but that’s impossible. She needs me!She looks at me with frantic eyes, and says, in Dog, Get the ball! Get the ball! Get it. Get it. Get it!She stands there, glaring at me. Talk about guilt. I can’t get there fast enough.“Wait a minute, I’ll be right there.” Now! Now! Now!I get up from the couch. I grab the wire hanger thingy I invented for times like these.Easing my way down to the floor, I lay flat on my belly and thread the stretched-out hanger under the fridge and fish the ball out with the hook at the end. I get back up.I throw the ball and then return to my desk. This goes on all day. Every day. She’s OCD, remember??In between all this, I try to get some work done, but it’s hard. I have no boundaries, because she’s trained me well. It’s almost impossible to refuse her. Damn those big, brown eyes.Hazel also has a problem with pee because her kidneys are malformed. Yes, there were several ultrasounds. Sometimes, she just can’t hold it in.My girl is the record-holder for the world’s longest pee. Not in seconds or minutes. We’re talking inches and feet.You know how sometimes when you’re doing something you’re really engaged in, and you have to pee? But you hold it in…. just a little longer?Not Hazel. Sometimes when we’re playing ball, and she has to go, she goes. She doesn’t stop and squat. She just pees while she’s running. Hence, the world’s longest pee. I’ve measured. I buy a lot of paper towels.When the day is over, we all get into bed. 2 pups, 2 Frankies, with a Lovey thrown in for good measure. Oh, I forgot to mention Lovey? Another cat. Yeah, it’s bad. Sometimes, Hazel pees in our bed. My friends say I shouldn’t let her sleep with me. “She’s a dog, she belongs in her crate.” I tried that but it made me sad.Instead, I spent a fortune on a handmade waterproof blanket we all sleep under. I do a lot of laundry.When we wake up in the morning, I run her outside to pee, even though I’ve gotta pee, too, and I’m post-menopausal, so... I run back in and make it to the toilet just in time.Where’s Hazel?Do you really have to ask? She’s getting her ball. She brings it to the bathroom and sits down with it in her mouth, four feet away.She stares at me and cocks her head, wearing her sweetest hopeful face. I’ll do anything for that face, and she knows it. She drops the ball and waits.It’s way too far away, but I lean over and stretch as much as I can to reach it, without falling off the toilet. But, I can’t reach it. So, in my most supportive voice, I say, “Hazel, closer, closer.” Hazel speaks and understands Dog and English.She looks at me; she looks at the ball––and then she butts it toward me with her nose.See, I told you she’s a genius! It only rolls a few measly inches. Not nearly close enough. I know she’s doing this on purpose. It’s all part of the game.“Almost, sweetie,” I encourage her, saying, “Do it one more time.”Another nudge with her black button nose; this time her aim is true. If we were playing putt-putt golf, she’d sink that sucker.I reach down, grab the tiny yellow tennis ball that’s the constant thread in our lives, and throw it into the hall.My day’s begun. Sisyphus has nothing on me.Afterword: Sadly, Hazel died in 2018, at 5 years old, due to her kidney disease. She was my smartest, most annoying, most fabulous pal. I miss her every single day. Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

My parents are having a dinner party, and I’m not invited. I’m 5 years old, so maybe that’s why. The upstairs neighbors are coming over, and I’m excited, because I love Carol so much. She’s really, really tall, taller than my father, who isn’t short, and she’s very skinny (maybe a little too skinny) and she’s beautiful, and has blond curly hair. I’m fascinated by her hair. No one in my family has it, and I don’t know a lot of people who do, so this adds an extra layer of uniqueness to her. She has a soft voice, it’s a little trembly, and a high, fluttering laugh. She only raises her voice if she loses patience with her 2 boys, which doesn’t happen often because they’re very well-behaved, or with her husband, which happens much more often, because he’s not so well-behaved.I love being around her because she loves me. She doesn’t have little girls, just her boys, and I overheard her telling my mom that she wished she had a daughter, too. She always wanted one. So, she treats me like her honorary kid, and it makes me feel special.Her husband Saul is totally the opposite. He’s very tall too, and very handsome. He has black, wavy hair and he’s not as pale as Carol. He loves me, because he also wanted to have a little girl. But he’s cranky, and sad, and bossy, almost all the time, and he’s very impatient.They arrive at our door right before my bedtime, so I get to stay up to say hi, and Carol gives me a big hug, kneeling all the way down to my level. Saul looks down on me from his very great height, and affectionately palms the top of my head with his enormous hand, and says, “Hi, kiddo.”While my mom is getting the food ready, my dad excuses himself to take me to my bedroom and tuck me in, kissing me goodnight on my lips and then on my forehead. He goes to the doorway, and standing there, before he flips the switch to turn my lights off, says “Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite, I love you Princess Pussycat.” He says that to me every night. It always makes me smile. As I lie in my bed, in the dark––with a crack of light streaming in through my partly opened door––I started worrying about bedbugs. What are they really? Do I have them in my bed? Do the bites hurt a lot? I push those thoughts out of my head, and listen to the grown-ups laughing and talking––I can’t make out what they’re saying––but the noise coming from the dining room makes it hard for me to fall asleep. I don’t like to miss out on anything, especially when it seems like so much fun. My parents told me that when I was littler and still sleeping in my crib, I would hear them in another room enjoying each other without me, and I’d yell out “Stop that laughing!”It occurs to me that if I’m very, very quiet, I can sneak into the hallway outside of my bedroom. There’s a wall I can hide behind so I can listen and not be discovered. I get out of bed––very quietly––and tiptoe into the hallway to eavesdrop. I stand there, listening, as mom brings dinner out to the table. And then, I hear Saul start to complain. I don’t know what my mom has cooked––it smells like chicken, and smells really yummy––but whatever it is, Saul doesn’t like it. In fact, he seems to hate it, and he hasn’t even tasted it yet. He lets everyone at the table know. He isn’t polite at all. He’s rude and whiny, worse than any little kid I’ve ever heard. My mom always makes me taste just one bite of something if it looks icky to me, and then if I don’t like it, I don’t have to eat it. I think that’s fair. Saul won’t even try it.I get really mad, and think, how can he talk to Mommy that way? He’s acting like a big baby. He has no manners. It’s not a surprise, he’s always kind of grumpy. I try to calm down, but I feel so angry, and I don’t understand why no one’s defending her.I hold on for as long as I can, but I’m getting angrier, and finally when I can’t stand it anymore I march right into the dining room, and stand right next to him, craning my neck to see him towering over me, even while he’s seated. I yell: “Don’t talk to my mother that way!” They all look at me, look at each other, and burst out laughing. I don’t understand the reaction, and it does nothing to calm me down. They’re making fun of me, saying how cute I am. It just makes me angrier.My dad says, in a stern voice, “Okay, Nancy, back to bed.” But I don’t budge. I want Saul to apologize to my mother, but that’s not happening. I don’t move––probably for about 30 seconds––when my dad begins to count to three. ONE…TWO…That usually gets me going. He never reaches three. Until tonight. When he gets to TWO, he hesitates, and says, drawing out the words, TWO and a quarter––I squirm a little––TWO and a half––I shift my feet, and feel my heart beat a little faster––TWO and three-quarters––I can’t believe I’m staying put, it’s as if I’m glued to the spot. I know in my heart that I’m in the right. He waits for me to respond. I just stand there, a scowl on my face. Before he gets to three, he threatens me with a spanking. Surprised, I stand my ground ––I’ve never been spanked in my life––and cross my arms over my chest. I scrunch up my face, and try to look as scary and serious as I can. I think to myself that I must look scary, because I feel scary.And then, he hits “THREE.” He stands up from his chair, and slowly places his napkin on the table. He walks toward me, and now he’s mad. He says “turn around and march into Daddy’s bedroom!” I’m flooded with confusion. He’s never talked to me this way before. I walk into my parent’s bedroom, with Daddy following close behind, and then he sits down on the edge of his bed, and sounding a little nervous, says, “Come here, and bend over my knee. I’m going to spank you, and this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.” I’m not too worried, because he sounds more afraid than I feel. I say to myself, “whatever you do, don’t laugh.” The thought just popped into my head. I can’t believe that my father would hurt me that way.He raises his soft, beautiful hand a few inches away from my butt, and softly taps it three times, and as I hold back my laughter, trying to switch my smile to a sad face, he lifts me off his lap, and places me on the floor, and faking an angry tone, points to the door, and says, “Now, back to bed!” He doesn’t tuck me in that time.He’s right. It does hurt him more than it hurts me. I can only imagine that he was holding back his smile too, as he spank-patted me, not sure that he was doing the right thing, afraid to harm me, his Princess Pussycat.1. I’m so grateful when readers decide to support my writing by becoming paid subscribers, and for the WHOLE month of June I’m running a Happy Pride month sale. 50% off my regular price for annual subscriptions.Only $25 for a whole year of my stories!2. If paid subscriptions aren’t your thing, but you still want to express your gratitude for my essays from time to time, a contribution is always appreciated.3. AND, there’s another thing that you can do that doesn’t cost a thing. On the top or bottom of the story, you can click on the heart and “♥️” my essay, click on the speech bubble (💬) and leave a comment, and/or click on the little spinny arrow thingies (♻️) and restack the post (“restack” means “share” in Substackese). Those three actions will help me reach more readers!In July, I’ll be teaching my Substack 101 Workshop, again. It was a big hit in May! For any of you who are considering dipping your toe in the Substack pond, I can help get you started. For more info on the workshop, click the title below. So, You Want to Write on Substack But You Don’t Know Where to Start? Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

My father died on the last day of June in 2011, during Pride month. I’m mentioning it was Pride because my father was gay. He officially came out in midlife, when I was 16 years old, around the same time that I came out. My parents divorced and they began new lives, both of them living more honestly, and finally getting what they needed and had been unable to provide for each other.I was devoted to my father in healthy ways and not so healthy ways. We had a classic codependent relationship. He needed me to love him the most of anyone in the world, and I needed that from him just as much. It was challenging––and I’m saying that in retrospect––because it was only after he died that I began to fully understand the price I paid to meet his expectations. I witnessed his mood fluctuations and his low opinion of himself, and tried to convince him, repeatedly, that he was the most special person that ever lived. It didn’t change anything for him, but I never stopped trying.I loved him deeply, though the part of me that longed to grow up came to resent him. There were so many things I appreciated about my dad. He was talented, creative, very smart, and had the capacity for great kindness and humor.As his death neared, he made it clear to his boyfriend, me, and my brother that there was to be no funeral, no shiva, and he demanded cremation. It felt like he wanted to be forgotten. But we’re Jewish. We’re supposed to be buried, it’s the rule! We’re expected to sit shiva––a seven-day mourning period––with friends and relatives. Shiva is the initial mourning period for the ones who remain, to carve out a niche to grieve and to celebrate the memory of the ones we’ve lost. And no burial? If he was scattered, how would I visit him? Or feel guilty about NOT visiting him?Even with my reservations we respected his wishes. Well, except for one. I sat shiva. Not for seven days, just for one. There was no way I wasn’t going to say the Mourner’s Kaddish in memory of my dad. It’s a comforting prayer that I needed to recite for myself, so that I could begin making my way forward into my life without him.Then, his ashes arrived from the crematorium. I’d never seen human ashes before. Pets, yes. People no. Sifting the ashes through my fingers, I was rapt with wonder that this gray powder had once been my dad, the man that I loved.Months passed, and it felt incomplete to me that we hadn’t had a ceremony. His ashes sat on a bookshelf in a utilitarian green plastic box. I’d look at the box from time to time, and wonder what the hell I was going to do with them. I wanted to create some kind of ritual that he would have approved of. That codependent streak was still there. Old programming dies hard.One day I was sitting at my desk, reading an article on my laptop, and an ad for the Atlantic City casinos popped up on my screen. In that moment, I knew exactly what I had to do. I got on the phone, called my brother, then my dad’s boyfriend and proposed my idea. They were both enthusiastically in.Years before, my dad’s boyfriend took him to a casino for the first time, and dad adored it. No blackjack or craps for him. He loved the slots, and only played the nickel machines. He could be a very prudent man. I’d never been to a casino. Gambling scared me. I was wary of becoming addicted––because my tendency is to go all in when I’m excited about something new. And I rarely had cash to burn. Up until that point, I’d avoided the temptation. My brother, at one time in his life, loved to gamble and was intrigued with my idea, so we set a date.In preparation for the big day, I bought three small round cardboard boxes each in a different vibrant color. I measured out some of the ashes into each box, so we’d be able to express our goodbyes in our own way.We rented a car and on a windy fall day, we drove to the Jersey shore to say goodbye to Dad.When we arrived, I handed out the ashes and we went our separate ways. I walked to the water’s edge. My dad always loved the beach. Opening my little purple box, I said a few things to the Universe, even though I thought it might be a little woo-woo. A part of me hoped he could hear my words. I scattered some ashes into the surf. That’s what I was supposed to do, right? The gesture felt a little empty, so I kept the rest. We met up on the boardwalk, and headed to the Borgata, Dad’s favorite casino.The noise, the smoke, the scantily clad cocktail waitresses were all overwhelming. I made my way to the slot machines, where I was disappointed to discover that one-armed bandits are extinct. No handle to pull. Just a big button to push. I had no idea how to play, so my companions gave me pointers. I budgeted $200 for the day.I picked a machine, sat down, and was about to feed a token into the slot when it hit me. In the midst of what was a somewhat somber occasion, a playfulness rose up in me, and I reached into my bag and pulled out the small box of ashes. I placed it on the ledge of the machine, carefully removed the lid, pinched some ashes between my fingers, and gently and discretely sprinkled a bit of my father onto the slot machine screen. Setting aside my doubts about speaking to the great beyond and being heard, I whispered “Come on Daddy, Nan needs a new pair of shoes!” and I pushed the button. A winner! It spit out $25 in tickets, and I was hooked. I played one more time on that machine. Same routine. A pinch of Dad, and a sprinkle. I won again!I moved from game to game, and kept winning. Every machine, a pinch and a sprinkle. I didn’t win every time, but I was way ahead.My brother found me on the gambling floor, his money gone. I was still winning, but I was running low on my magic ingredient.Not only did I recoup the original $200, I walked away with an extra $700.My brother noticed the almost empty box, cocked his head, and looked at me, a question in his eyes.I turned to him, and with a giddy smile, said,“You know what I’ve got here?”His eyebrow raised and I replied,“It’s fairy dust.”My father would have loved it.1. I’m so grateful when readers decide to support my writing by becoming paid subscribers, and for the WHOLE month of June I’m running a Happy Pride Month sale. 50% off my regular price for annual subscriptions. Only $25 for a whole year of my stories! 2. Or, you contribute to my “Nan needs a new pair of shoes” fund! A great way to support my writing without having to commit to a paid subscription. 3. AND, there’s another thing that you can do that doesn’t cost a thing and takes a moment to do. On the top or bottom of the story, you can click on the heart and “♥️” my essay, click on the speech bubble (💬) and leave a comment (that takes a little longer), and/or click on the little spinny arrow thingies (♻️) and restack the post (“restack” means “share” in Substackese). Those three actions will help me reach more readers! Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

I wake up on a Monday in February to get ready for my day. Mondays are a busy day for me because I attend my 12-Step meeting for an hour, go directly into a 1-hour Zoom with my 12-Step sponsor, and then I proceed to an hour of therapy. The perfect trifecta. I’m introspective on other days of the week, too. But on those other days, my personal exploration isn’t squeezed into 3 consecutive hours of me, me, me.Rousing myself from bed, I lumber into the bathroom to pee, splash water on my face, and brush my teeth. All I can think of is my first cup of coffee, the first sip actually––because that’s the best part––and wishing I had a personal caffeine fairy to place a hot cup into my waiting hands.As I stand at the bathroom sink and open the medicine cabinet for my toothpaste, the little note that’s been wedged into the metal trim framing the mirror flutters free and lands in the sink. It’s been there since 2017, scribbled by a friend who was taking care of my pets while I was on my first trip out of the country. When I returned home, I discovered it tucked into the spot it still occupies.The note is scribbled in black marker on a scrap of paper torn from a larger piece. The paper is ragged. It makes me uncomfortable when things aren’t neat and tidy, but I put the feeling aside as I read the message. It’s simple. It says, “Welcome home, Nan,” and is adorned with a heart. I keep it there, because every time I see it, I smile.The note feels like a blessing, there for me to read whenever I need a reminder that I’m okay, I’m safe at home. Some days, I take a moment to pause when I see it. I read it and nod in agreement. Then I continue on. Most days, I don’t notice it at all––it blends into the background of my life. The days when I need to see that message the most are when I’m anxious and ungrounded. That scrap of paper reminds me of my first brave trip away from home, out of my comfort zone. It’s a reminder that I can do many things I thought I couldn’t do.I grab the note out of the sink, and check that it isn’t wet. I try to tuck it back into the mirror, but the edge of the paper isn’t sharp enough. I grab my scissors out of the medicine cabinet, and gently trim the edge of the note carefully so that I can tuck it back into the mirror. I’ve trimmed that note quite a bit over the last 7 years, but I always snip only a sliver of paper to hone the edge, so as not to lose the words.This particular Monday is special because I’ll be completing the 12 Steps. It’s a major milestone. Even though I’ve been in and out of 12-Step work for about 30 years, I’ve always left before I find a sponsor, before I work the Steps. Doing the Steps has scared me. Some of the steps are about God and surrender, and that’s always been a dead stop for me. My choices are God, a Higher Power, or a higher purpose. The idea of surrender is more than uncomfortable. I’ve always felt I’m in charge, not “God.”In the beginning, I devoted myself to my group––a higher purpose, something greater than myself. But the concept of a Higher Power lingered, and I decided not to hide from it. The idea of faith is somewhat foreign to me. It feels a little silly. Admitting that I might have faith is embarrassing. I don’t want anyone to think I’m naïve or a sucker. I’m a concrete thinker. I want evidence. But I also felt that to complete the steps, I needed to suspend my disbelief, to embrace mystery. To find the willingness to surrender and admit that I don’t have all the answers, that there is a Higher Power. That a Higher Power is something that I will never understand with my head, but can accept with my heart. I opened myself to the magic of not knowing and I got the Steps done.I’ll keep doing the Steps, using them in various combinations to support my ongoing recovery. They are the tools that help me live a mindful and healthy life.Before beginning this work, I was often fearful, anxious, and angry. I feel calmer now and rooted in the present. My anxiety and fear have diminished, and when I get angry it is not as intense as it used to be. My road rage has evaporated. I see evidence of a Higher Power in the synchronicities that keep occurring in my life. I don’t think of these events as coincidence anymore.After my meeting, I join my sponsor on Zoom and we cheer my achievement. When we wrap up, we send each other virtual hugs. Then I change gears and head to therapy. I’m excited to share my news.My therapist is the person who pointed me back toward 12-Step recovery. She said I needed to connect with my spiritual self, with something greater than my ego. “Me, me, me” was not the way that I would heal. Doing 12-Step work, I’ve learned it can’t be all about me. I live in a world with other people. I’m not alone. Connecting with my heart, my true essence, is necessary for healing. To do that, I need to remove the armor I’ve worn for so long. I remember that I’m home wherever I go, because “home” resides within me.I walk into my therapist’s office and settle into the comfy couch that’s my safe space every week. Then I announce, with a big smile, that I’d finished the Steps. She smiles back at me, and says “Welcome home, Nan.”Welcome home? She had no idea about the little scrap of paper that made itself known to me by jumping off the mirror this morning. I hadn’t told her yet. Higher Power? Who knows? Could be.1. I’m so grateful when readers decide to support my writing by becoming paid subscribers, so if you want to do that, thank you, thank you!2. Share your love. If paid subscriptions aren’t your thing, but you still want to support me, send me a tip!3. AND, there’s another thing that you can do that doesn’t cost a thing. On the top or bottom of the story, you can click on the heart and “♥️” my essay, click on the speech bubble (💬) and leave a comment, and/or click on the little spinny arrow thingies (♻️) and restack the post (“restack” means “share” in Substackese).Those three actions will help me reach more readers! Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

It’s Saturday night in the summer of 1996. I’m in my bedroom in the huge house I’m sharing with 4 other people. It’s a new living situation for me. I’m trying it out, but it’s difficult. I don’t like having housemates. I like my privacy and quiet, but the opportunity arose when I was looking for housing, and I thought, why not give it a try? At least I’d save some money.I walk down the hall to the shared bathroom to shower before I head out. Sharing a bathroom is the hardest part of this living situation. I take my clothes off and lean in to the stall. As I reach for the knob to turn the water on, I see, out of the corner of my eye, a mass of dark curly hair blocking the drain. My stomach flips and I gag. That hair belongs to the 18-year-old kid who lives down the hall. He turned me on to Rusted Root, and I love him for that. But who raised him? Geez, man. Clean up after yourself. I’m not your mother.It almost puts me off taking a shower. I’m resentful that I have to deal with this and my jaw clenches as I try to shove my feelings down. Armed with a handful of tissues and retching slightly, I reach into the shower, turning my head a little––so I don’t have to see––and feel for the bird’s nest below. I grab it, and pull it all out, and quickly toss it into the garbage.“Okay,” I say to myself “try to remember why you’re showering at 8pm on a Saturday night…you’re going dancing.” There’s a new gay club that opened and I want to check it out. Maybe I’ll meet someone, I think to myself. I want to meet someone. Showered and dressed in my favorite club outfit, which consists of my black high-waisted stretch pants with white polka dots, my sleeveless black turtleneck, and to finish the look, my favorite part: a hot pink cropped linen jacket, shoulder pads and all. Yes, it’s very 80s, and it’s the mid-nineties now, but I like what I like, and I think I look hot. I do look hot, dammit!I get to the club way too early. I can’t help it; I’m not cool that way. There are two other people, and we wander around the open dance floor, avoiding eye contact. It seems like we don’t want to acknowledge each other’s awkwardness. It feels so desperate, showing up before the deejay. I roll my eyes at myself, and survey the space. I buy a ginger ale and find a wall to lean against and wait for the other people who are looking for love (or sex) to arrive.The cute gay boys begin to trickle in, two and three at a time, and the dance floor fills. I’m shy and tense. “Why did I bother?” I say to myself, shaking my head, “I won’t meet anyone tonight.”I treat myself to a real drink. A shot of crappy bottom shelf tequila. Slugging it back, I want to feel softer, less stressed. It relaxes me a little, burning my throat as it moves into my bloodstream. I’m not much of a drinker. I rarely have more than one because I have to get myself home.As I’m spinning possible horror stories in my head about what could go wrong because I’m shy and kind of nerdy, a woman walks in. She’s dressed in white, wearing a v-neck tee-shirt and jeans. She looks like one of those people who don’t need to obsess about the way they present. She looks casually perfect to me. She’s cute. No, she’s beautiful. There’s disco playing, and she’s dancing on a platform. Her hair is blonde, and cut blunt to her jawline. Her teeth are perfect, straight, white, and oh…her smile. Her smile is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s bright, she seems so happy, so self-assured. She’s dancing alone, and projects confidence in her solitude. She seems like she’s in another world. I stare at her from across the room for what feels like a very long time, too long maybe, but I can’t stop watching her. She looks up, coming out of herself to take in the room, scanning the crowd and her gaze lands on me. I freeze inside, but somehow my smile takes hold of my face. I have a great smile too, though my teeth are not as white or straight. It’s a big smile that lights up my face. There are times when I lose control of my smile, it's authentic, and I can’t and don’t want to shut it down. Smiling makes the rest of me relax a bit, though I can feel my heart beating more quickly than normal.She sees me smiling and smiles back. We hold each other’s gaze for a while, until my shyness returns and I break the spell, gazing downward. We approach each other from opposite sides of the space and dance together. Between the two of us, there’s an awful lot of smiling going on. It’s fun. We barely speak to each other, it’s so noisy inside. I can feel the bass line pounding, matching my heartbeat. Trying to stay present to the moment I’m in, I can’t help but wonder…what if she’s the one? Ugh. I do this every time. Tied up in futuristic thoughts, I lose track of what’s happening right in front of me.We agree, wordlessly, to go outside to take a break, and get some air. Leaning against the building we talk. I like her. She’s smart and very, very funny, and she’s got a great laugh. It feels easy and exciting. As we’re chatting, some guy drives by in a rusted-out Buick that needs a new exhaust pipe, and screams “F*****g dykes!” at us. We look at each other and burst into uncontrollable laughter, saying “f*****g dykes” over and over again. It’s hilarious. Swapping phone numbers, I fly home, filled with hope. Even though I’m nervous, I call her the next day. She’s an organic farmer living in a small antique Airstream on someone else’s land. She’s got her own plot. I’m a massage therapist. I swap a massage for cucumbers, tomatoes and way too much zucchini.We begin to date, move in together, probably way too soon (not in the Airstream). But this “roommate” is one I can happily share a shower with. It only lasts about a year, I’m not ready for love, I don’t know how to do intimacy, and I leave. But later, after the hurt heals, we become best friends.Almost 30 years have passed since the night we met. Sometimes, we tell each other that story, sitting on her deck, drinking water and getting high. We look at each other, and at the same time, yell “F*****G DYKES!” and laugh and laugh and laugh.1. I’m so grateful when readers decide to support my writing financially by becoming paid subscribers, so if you want to do that, thank you, thank you!2. If paid subscriptions aren’t your thing, but you still want to support me, I’ve had enough coffee today, but you could buy me a tequila! 3. AND, there’s another thing that you can do that doesn’t cost a thing. On the top or bottom of the story, you can click on the heart and “♥️” my essay, click on the speech bubble (💬) and leave a comment, and/or click on the little spinny arrow thingies (♻️) and restack the post (“restack” means “share” in Substackese). Those three actions will help me reach more readers! Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

“Where would you fly if you could?” she asked.*“What do you mean, If I could? I can! I can fly anywhere I want. I’ve done it. Hundreds of times,” I reply.Yeah, yeah. So, what if I can only fly when I’m sleeping, when I’m dreaming? It sure as hell feels real for me every time. When I soar in my dreams, I’m unencumbered by things as hefty, as ungainly, as the enormous shell of an airplane wrapped around me, all metal and plastic, engines roaring a never-ending din. When I’m flying in my dreams I’m not buckled into a seat that’s too small for my shapely body. There’s not a seatbelt extender in sight.I’m not squeezed in with hordes of others, crammed like chickens in overstuffed cages, all destined to arrive at the same place, only to deplane and scatter, to frantically try to catch their connecting flights, hoping not to miss them, perseverating in advance, wondering what they’ll do if they don’t make that next flight. The meeting they’ll miss, or damn, their grandmother’s funeral! They berate themselves for booking connecting flights with no extra time to get to that gate that feels like it’s miles away. They hover anxiously at baggage pickup, praying that their luggage arrived when they did. They look for the hot pink ID tag that separates their suitcase from the others…it doesn’t hurt that the suitcase is bright orange as well. All those people, trying to get cabs/Ubers/Lyfts/limos, searching for their rides. Their drivers are tired-looking people holding bent pieces of cardboard with a last name scrawled in big black block letters, or on more tech-savvy iPads, waiting to take them to the place where they’ll be staying. The cars are ordered in advance, a courtesy from the tech company they have an interview with in 17 minutes, when they’re 43 minutes away, and only if there are no sudden accidents on the highway to make them even later. Or they’re searching the crowd for their great uncle Max, who’s 88 years old. He’s come to pick them up, even though he really shouldn’t be driving anymore, he’s got terrible cataracts that he refuses to have removed because he’s afraid the doctor will slip and blind him. No one has the heart to tell him he’s already almost there. And his reflexes? They’re not what they used to be…the whole family agrees. But no one’s brave enough to take his keys away.Nope, mine is a solo flight. No jetway to walk down to get to the flight attendants greeting me at the plane’s door, “Hello, thank you for flying Jet Black. We’re so glad you’re with us today!” No, they’re not. They’re paid to say that. How can they do that job? It seems so boring and bleak, yet dangerous at the same time. I could never do it. My flight has no bulkheads, no carts in the aisle bringing me substandard food and tiny bottles of vodka, though I must admit, the peanuts are still weirdly satisfying.I don’t have to sit through life vest demonstrations, even though we won’t be flying over any bodies of water on this particular flight. I don’t have to listen to the “Put the oxygen mask on you first, before you help the child sitting next to you” lecture. I know I’d screw that up. Because if bad things happen on a flight, I’ll fall apart, I’ll cry and scream, pee myself, and probably pass out. I’ll be of no use to anyone. I know this for a fact. That kid sitting next to me will be s**t out of luck.On my solo flight, I am fearless. I’m completely brave. It never occurs to me to be afraid. I am absolutely fine, but not arrogant about it. I’m completely in my body. Expansive. Not shoehorned into a seat that feels 4 sizes too small for me. Or claustrophobic in the lavatory, bouncing off the walls, jostled in a fit of turbulence. I’d fall off the toilet if it weren’t so tight in there, the walls closing in. I think of the mile-high club, wondering how anyone could imagine that was a great place for a covert f**k. Too freaking kinky for me, any day of the week, and so completely unsanitary, it makes my skin crawl.There is no baggage stowed above me or under the seat in front of me. There’s no seat at all. There are no snacks and drinks on my flight, no worrying that the guy sitting three rows ahead of me might be a drunken MAGA dude with a concealed weapon that somehow got through security, looking for a fight with some big city snowflake lefty, or the guy muttering to himself who might be a hijacker. I don’t have to think of things like that at all on my solo flights. No tray tables to place in their upright and locked positions prior to landing.While I’m soaring, arms held by my sides, or one arm out in front of me, doing my best Captain Marvel impersonation, I dip down low to fly over trees, and the house I grew up in, or the apartment building where my grandmother lived in Brooklyn when I was a little girl. I fly through the classrooms of my childhood, with precision and speed. There are no obstacles on my flights. I’m a nimble navigator, Amelia Earhart without the mechanical trappings of all that machinery. I don’t take a plunge into the Bermuda Triangle.I make hairpin turns, stopping short in midair, and I hover like a hummingbird or the Golden Snitch. I can do anything, stop and start, zoom up to the clouds, and race down to earth, coming to a halt just centimeters, no, millimeters from the ground. I can change directions and zip back up, bursting through low-hanging clouds, the air cool and thin. I am utterly powerful, completely invincible.And all the time, through every flight, the underlying thought is always: “This is real, right? I’m really doing this. I know I am.” But beneath those dream thoughts is my waking mind, longing for this gift to linger, if I can just reach out and grab hold of it and keep it close. It feels so real…but I know I’m sleeping. Please let it be real. I think if I wish hard enough, this magical, transcendent ability will follow me into my day. In those moments just after waking I believe with all my heart that I can fly whenever and wherever I want.As I come to full consciousness, I know that although embodied flight is only possible in my dreams, the gift of flight is within me. I can soar and feel powerful and free. I can accomplish feats that I once thought impossible. I am, in fact, very capable of conjuring that magic and wonder in my daily life, when I stay awake to those moments and possibilities.*With thanks to Abigail Thomas for her two-page writing exercises (she hates the word “prompt”) in Thinking About Memoir, a genius of a book that is sadly out of print right now, but hopefully not forever… Look for used copies online!And… Rona Maynard reminded me of the fab song from Talking Heads, “And She Was.” It’s another story about women who can fly. Enjoy. This one always makes me feel good!Paid subscriptions are available for those who can and want to support The Next Write Thing. There are no paywalls here, and never will be. If you’re not into subscriptions, please consider making a donation from time to time! Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

From the time I was a little girl I was motivated to earn money. When I was 5 years-old my family spent the summer in Fire Island and my playmates and I were tasked with the important work of finding beach glass in the sand by the ocean. Our parents paid us different amounts based on how rare the color of the glass was. Orange was the most rare and paid a whole dollar, turquoise and red got 25¢, cobalt blue 10¢, green 5¢, and brown and white glass only rated a penny.Back in the day, when there were no plastic bottles, there was an abundance of beach glass. Our folks proudly displayed their collections in large clear glass jars on coffee tables and book shelves of the beach houses we occupied. They were pretty competitive about who had more of the less-seen colors so we kids made some serious cash.I’ve been earning since childhood. I liked making my own money, so I could buy things I wanted like candy and books. It gave me a feeling of independence, of self-sufficiency. I love when people say “No one’s had more jobs than I’ve had,” because I chuckle to myself, thinking what silly people! Because truly, NO ONE has had more jobs than I’ve had.When I was a kid I created jobs for myself whenever I wanted to make some money. One day, as a 9-year-old, I decided I wanted to be in the greeting card business. I pulled out my crayons and markers and hand-drew cards that I then sold door-to-door in my suburban neighborhood. Our neighbors were very kind. They were indulgent of my forays into whatever cottage industry I’d think up. When I’d tired of greeting cards, and switched to baking, I made the rounds, cupcakes and cookies in tow. I made a tray, with a strap to go around my neck to carry my wares, like the ones cigarette girls in nightclubs used in the movies. I babysat, cleaned houses, and offered story hour in my backyard on Saturday afternoons. All the little kids in the ‘hood would show up, dollar in hand for a dose of Madeline, Max, then Horton and a few Whos. The parents loved me. I had a bit of a Mary Poppins complex, I’m proud to admit.There were all kinds of gigs in junior high and high school. I worked at a local print shop doing paste-up and layout way before there were digital solutions. X-ACTO knives, rubber cement, kneaded gray erasers, and T-squares were the tools of the trade.I worked in the ladies locker room at the local country club, cleaning golf shoes, and making and re-making beds in the little private rooms, so the ladies who lunched could take afternoon naps, and sober up a little before going home to make dinner for their families.Still a teenager, I taught silversmithing at the day camp I went to as younger kid. I taught myself calligraphy so I could make money addressing bar/bat mitzvah and wedding invites. I worked as a clown and mime, performing at local libraries with a friend from camp. We cleaned up! The more I earned, the more I wanted to earn.I have many feelings, mixed feelings, about my job history. I’ve always had tremendous curiosity. I love to learn, and I’m a self-starter, an autodidact. I’d bop from one thing to another until I learned enough, or earned enough to satisfy my desire. I’m proud of that aspect of my personality. But there’s another side. A side I tended to focus on with more than a little self-criticism.That part is more about the embarrassment I felt because I’d jumped from job to job to job over the course of most of my life. I liked to try jobs on, but I’d get to a point where I’d stop, say I was bored, and move on. Sometimes it wasn’t boredom, though. Sometimes it was because to be really good at something, I’d have to make a commitment to a job, to a path that had to be earned by putting in time. But I wanted things like success to come easily and instantly. I labeled myself confused and unstable. I came to think of myself as a quitter.I dropped out of college after one semester. I didn’t think I had what it took and I had no idea what or who I wanted to be. What I did know was that I wanted to be an adult already, out in the world. I wanted to work and play and earn. I didn’t want to write papers and do homework. I wanted to find something that I loved to do and the idea of more school was something I couldn’t deal with at the time. I was an impatient young person with no connection to my mortality. So I impetuously left school, and joined the work force. I was going to find the shortcut to my future that no else had ever discovered. Hmmm.In my 20s, I worked in magazine publishing in production and sales. I worked as an administrative assistant in Family Court in lower Manhattan. My boss was Judy Sheindlin, before she became “Judge Judy.” Judge Judy hated that I’d dropped out of college. Sometimes, she’d walk by my desk and smack me on the back of my head and scold, “You’re too smart for this. Go back to school. Or you can clerk for me for 7 years, and then you can sit for the bar exam.” 7 years sounded like eternity, and no way did I want to be a lawyer. And yes, she was exactly who you’ve seen on TV. Tough. Outspoken and just the slightest bit mean. I loved working for her because she wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone.After that job, and a couple of nanny positions, I did a brief stint as a drug mule…but only part-time. Or maybe that was more of a hobby…okay, I exaggerate. I was an errand girl for the publishing company where I worked. Cut me some slack, it was the 80s and coke was expensive.I waitressed at some of the best restaurants in Manhattan. I worked at NYU. I sold pet bling at a trendy dog grooming shop in the West Village. I went to school and became a massage therapist. I sold diet products (multi-level marketing, of course), was a cabinetmaker’s apprentice, sold cheese, and was a makeup artist at the Prescriptives counter at Macy’s Herald Square. If you worked at Macy’s you had to march in the Thanksgiving Day parade, so I did that too. I gave house-call haircuts (without a license–don’t tell), I sold real estate, I taught yoga. I was an HIV educator at Planned Parenthood. Most of my time there was spent teaching teenage boys that no, they probably didn’t need the MAGNUM-sized condoms just yet. I was a proud bookseller at a number of different bookstores, which was probably my favorite job of all.At last count, I’ve had at least 80 jobs in my working life. It took me years to figure out the thing I wanted to do. I knew the answer all along but wasn’t paying close attention. I wanted to be a creative. To write, to make art. But I had given up on the dreams I had as a child before I ever gave myself a chance to try. Until I got to my 50s.I wanted something new to do so I volunteered to learn to work on a website for a local non-profit. It satisfied something in me––a love for attention to detail––so I began to teach myself how to do more. I thought maybe I could start a small business making simple websites for people in my community. I wanted to do graphic design, too. I knew that I’d regret it if I didn’t at least try. That decision turned out well for me. I’ve had my own design company for 13 years. It’s the longest job I’ve ever had. It’s been fun and it has sustained me.And now here I am, doing something I REALLY always wanted to do. I am writing and making art. My life has been made rich because of all the different jobs I’ve had. I know a little about a lot of things. I know a lot about some things. This makes me happy. I’ve stopped beating myself up about my wandering, and started to celebrate my wondering. Everything I’ve done has led me home. Life comes full circle. It’s so very sweet.Please support my writing and become a paid subscriber.If you’re not into paid subscriptions but still want to chip in from time to time, you can do that by clicking on the button!AND….I’ll be teaching a 5 Week Zoom Master Class in May all about the ins and outs of publishing on Substack: So, You Want to Write on Substack But You Don’t Know Where to Start? Find out more or register now! Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

When I was in first grade, my class would gather together on Monday mornings to talk about what we did over the weekend. There was a little girl who said the same thing every week, “I went to Indianapolis.” Every week. I didn’t know what Indianapolis was, or where it was, but I thought she was lying. We lived in New York City. Whatever this “Indianapolis” was, I didn’t think it was possible she was going every week. It sounded so far away, so foreign. Finally, after weeks of hearing her say “I went to Indianapolis,” I couldn’t stand it anymore. I blurted out, “You’re lying!” My outburst and anger took me by surprise. I was a nice kid.Then the whole class turned to look at me, jaws dropped, eyes wide. My teacher scolded me, saying “Nancy, you need to apologize!” She was a very gentle person with a soft, soothing voice. But not that day. I guess it took her by surprise, too. I shrank down in my seat and tried to disappear. I could feel shame spread through me like a surge of sudden fever. I mumbled a quick apology, and the class moved on, the school day continued. I’m sure I was forgiven, but I had trouble forgiving myself.One of the hardest things for me to do when I was a kid was to apologize when I’d done something wrong. I’d dig my heels in and I would feel my whole body tighten up, my muscles frozen. I’d get really quiet, my jaw clamped shut. My throat would close and my mouth dried out.I was a mostly well-behaved kid because I never wanted anyone to be mad at me, so I was hypervigilant about everything. So, when I did do something that deserved an apology, it felt like the world was ending. Especially if my behavior had something to do with hurting someone’s feelings. It was extra embarrassing to hurt someone’s feelings because I knew how painful it was to be on the receiving end. I didn’t like myself at all in those moments. I felt unforgivable. I didn’t understand that I could say I was sorry and life would carry on. I didn’t understand that I would still be loved. That I wouldn’t be forever branded as a terrible, horrible person.I would feel tears well up inside me, pressure building behind my eyes. I was determined not to cry. If I didn’t say anything I knew my tears wouldn’t come. And thanks to some very sophisticated magical thinking, I was sure that if I didn’t acknowledge my wrong-doing, if I didn’t speak, my infraction wouldn’t exist. Those were the rules I made up in my head. Apologies = pain. Apologies = shame. Apologies were admissions that I was worthless, not just in that moment, but forever and ever. A life-long sentence. There would be no forgiveness. That’s some pretty extreme black and white thinking for a 7-year-old.But somewhere along the way, as I grew up, my discomfort apologizing morphed into apologizing for things I had no reason to be sorry for. I had models for this behavior. I witnessed grown women apologizing for things they hadn’t done, all the time. My mother, my aunts, my teachers. The cashier at the supermarket. “I’m sorry” was as common as exhaling. Maybe it was some weird shortcut women used to keep life moving along. To avoid conflict, because conflict was hard and uncomfortable, and apologizing was more efficient. It was easier to claim blame than to see things for what they really were. It was easier than challenging established norms. Women have been apologizing since Eve ate that apple.I started apologizing for everything. EVERYTHING. Didn’t even matter if I’d actually done something wrong. I’d even say I was sorry for things that had nothing to do with me. If I apologized robotically, I didn’t have to feel anything at all. I didn’t have to give myself time to assess what the apology was for. Or to realize that I had nothing at all to apologize for.I know a woman who said that sometimes she’ll bump into an object like a table or a chair, and the first thing that pops out of her mouth is, “I’m sorry!” The saddest thing about that? I understood exactly what she was saying. Another woman I’m friends with apologizes when people bump into her. Ooof. “Oh, I’m sorry! Please forgive me. I must be in your way.”I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s automatic. “I’m sorry for existing, for breathing, for taking up space.” Saying I’m sorry erupts from me without thought. That “sorry” jumps right out of me before I have time to shut my mouth. Do I do this because I’m a woman? Most likely. Our culture trains women by osmosis to perceive ourselves as smaller, less worthy, and more flawed than men. Oh, Eve, I’m sure that apple was delicious. I’m grateful you took that bite, but I guess some of the boys weren’t ready to share.Through the work I’m doing in my 12 Step program and in therapy I’ve uncovered what has been the source of my relentless spontaneous quasi-remorse. Codependency. Because I felt guilty about things that didn’t warrant my guilt, I took everything on. Everyone’s needs came before mine.As a tween and teen, I was a peacekeeper. I accommodated the people in my world in any way I could so that life would feel calm and safe. I appointed myself rescuer, problem solver, and soother-in-chief because I wanted everyone to be happy. I thought I could smooth rough situations by accepting blame for things that had nothing to do with me. And similar to my experiences as a young child, I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone being mad at me. I was this way with my dad, especially. He was an exceptionally moody guy for all kinds of reasons that had nothing to do with me. But I always assumed that his bad moods were my fault.I repeated this pattern with romantic partners, and bosses, and friends, and even near-strangers. Whatever you need, my dear, I’m here for you. If someone was angry, I’d apologize without understanding or taking the time to understand what I was apologizing for. I’d jump right in with my emotional first-aid kit and do damage control, even when none was needed. If intimate partners said they wanted to discuss something with me, my immediate internal reaction was “What did I do this time?”Head ‘em off at the pass. Jump right in there and take the fall. For what? Don’t know! But that didn’t matter, as long as everyone was okay. Except me. I didn’t matter as much as the rest of the world. Of course, no one was telling me that. Except me. My apologies were reflexes. The expression “I’m sorry” lost all meaning. Apologizing became a way of shutting down conflict.When I started doing the Steps with my sponsor, I had tremendous anxiety about the steps where we’re asked to do a written inventory of our negative behaviors toward people in our lives. The next step is to tell our sponsor about those behaviors, and consequently make appropriate amends to each person we’d harmed, unless it would cause even more harm. My childhood fears began to peek through. All kinds of shame came up for me…before I even started making amends to people. What if they hated me? Or never spoke to me again? I felt sure if I admitted that I did something wrong, my world would implode.The more I understood about the value of amends, the more I started to understand the value of an authentic apology. I realized that if my behavior went unacknowledged, not only was I ripping myself off, because I wasn’t living within my integrity, I was also taking something important away from the other person. A feeling of validation. Of having an honest relationship. Not only did I value myself by acknowledging my missteps, I was respecting and valuing the person I’d wronged. I began to understand that I have no power over another person’s reactions. That I can only be responsible for myself.The day I met with my sponsor to do my 5th step was life-changing. I told her the “exact nature of my wrongs” as they say in program. I’ve been in and out of therapy for many years, and though I’ve prided myself in being honest with all of my practitioners, I don’t think I was ever completely honest. I left things out, mostly due to shame.When I did my 5th step, I made a very conscious, though wobbly, choice to tell all of it. My sponsor received everything I told her with respect and compassion. I didn’t feel an ounce of judgement coming from her. I admitted things that I’ve perceived as absolutely inexcusable behaviors, and she just heard me. It felt safe for me to apologize. I didn’t even cry.The other side of an apology might be forgiveness, but there are no guarantees. I realized and accepted that just because I apologize or make amends does not mean I will be forgiven.One day, I was in my meeting, and someone shared a phrase that blew it all out of the water for me: “Tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway.”That was the missing piece for me. It felt like my heart opened and the heaviness I sometimes feel when I’m not letting my true self live just lifted. It was a HUZZAH! moment. It was a moment of freedom and self-forgiveness. It was the moment where I finally understood, deeply, what forgiveness is and what an authentic apology is. I felt the power of healing and grace.Recovery is giving me the resources to see situations more clearly, to be honest, to stand in my worth as a person. I’m learning to apologize when appropriate––whatever the consequences––and to keep my mouth shut when it’s none of my business. I’m beginning to stand up for myself when someone wrongs me. I’m finally not trying to rescue anyone. I mind my own side of the street, and it feels great. And I see no need to apologize for that!Please support my writing and become a paid subscriber.If you’re not into paid subscriptions but still want to chip in from time to time, you can do that by clicking on the button!AND….I’ll be teaching a 5 Week Zoom Master Class in May all about the ins and outs of publishing on Substack: So, You Want to Write on Substack But You Don’t Know Where to Start? Find out more or register now! Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

I live in the Hudson Valley, two hours north of New York City. But in the 1980s I lived in Manhattan in a trendy neighborhood (Chelsea) in a fabulous rent-controlled apartment. I ate at great restaurants that stayed open really late and went to the clubs and danced until 4am. I was young, I was cool, I was free, and somehow, I was pretty brave. Maybe even a little reckless.In 1992 I moved away because I was burnt out. I had lived through thirteen years of watching young men, gay men mostly, get sick with HIV and die of AIDS. I was directly involved with the care of many of my friends, and many strangers who became friends. I volunteered in the hospice at St. Vincent’s hospital, offering gentle bodywork to dying men that few people were even willing to touch. I delivered meals to homebound people with AIDS. I managed a medical office that only treated patients with HIV and AIDS. I said final goodbyes to far too many of them. I went to more funerals than I can count. My heart was broken, my soul was dog-tired, I was grieving, and I became somewhat fearful of life. I had survivor’s guilt. I needed respite. I needed to find another way to live. So, completely on spec, I applied to a nursing program in upstate New York, packed my bags, gave up my apartment, and moved to the country.The bottom line is I hated nursing school––it wasn’t for me––but I discovered that a quieter life in the country was sweet. So, I stayed.I met all kinds of people. Lots of hippies. A ton of aspiring yogis. I met people who were into organic food and composting, people who gave pot lucks. I’d never been to a pot luck in my life. I learned the expression “crunchy granola lesbian.” At the time I was more of a lipstick lesbian. Everyone wore Birkenstocks. I found it vaguely horrifying.One day, my girlfriend at the time told me she wanted to go to a sweat lodge. She was learning about the Lakota people and wanted to pursue her education in Native American culture. She had dream catchers all over the cottage we lived in.Something you need to know about me is that I feel a tremendous amount of anxiety about having new experiences. I wasn’t able to get much information about what to expect at a sweat lodge. There was no Google in 1992. For me The Great Unknown wasn’t so great. But I decided to be brave and go to a local sweat with her. When we got there we were met by two lovely people who were going to be our guides. It had rained the day before so the ground was muddy. There were ten or twelve of us. We crawled into the lodge–a domed temporary structure covered in canvas and plastic sheeting––and sat on the towels we’d brought along. It was dark, there was a fire burning in the center of the space, and everything smelled of sage. Seated in a circle around the fire, we were taught some chants and we received traditional teachings about the sweat lodge.Another thing to know about me is that I don’t like being hot. At all. It was quite warm around the fire but I was doing okay. I thought to myself, “Yeah, I’ve got this. No big deal.” Then it started getting warmer. Water was poured on the hot rocks in the fire and scorching steam began to fill the space. The guides told us to lie down on the ground if sitting upright became too hard due to the heat. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lie down. I refused to lie down. One more thing to know about me is I hate getting dirty. Why? As a child, I was strongly discouraged from playing outside. Because if you played outside you’d get dirty. DIRTY! Not allowed. I was never the kid who loved jumping in puddles. Don’t get dirty!As I sat in that lodge, sweat dripping from every pore I possessed, I started to become light-headed because I was too stubborn to lie down. If I did I’D GET DIRTY! I kept breathing, thinking it would help, but soon my breath turned to panting. The guide could see that I was in trouble. I was on the verge of passing out when she yelled at me, “Nan, lie down now or you have to get out of the lodge!”Grudgingly I gave in, slowly lowering myself all the way onto the ground, the muck...the earth. The mud was so chilly and wet. It was soothing. It was almost delicious. The air at ground level was cooler. I could finally breathe normally again. I was absolutely restored and I was filthy. The whole left side of my body, my face and hair, were covered in mud. I even got mud in my eyes.At the very end of the ceremony I sat up and started to laugh. A laugh that started at my feet, and traveled all the way up my body. I laughed at myself. At my stubbornness.Somehow, I had equated surrendering––to the mud in this case––with dying. It actually hadn’t been the getting dirty part that was the problem. It was giving up control. Letting go was frightening to me. It sounds dramatic, I know. But being out of control felt so unsafe to me that I was rarely willing to try things that weren’t familiar. I identified letting go with losing everything. At some point in my life being in control had served a purpose, but it was no longer useful. It was an illusion, that feeling of safety.My need to be in control has slowly been replaced by learning the practice of discernment. It’s very different. It’s much more empowering and balanced. That experience in the sweat lodge made me realize that taking chances, saying yes instead of my knee-jerk “no” might open up a world to me that I knew nothing about. And that might be okay. It was a wonderful lesson in letting go. I’m still tested all the time. My knee-jerk “no” still comes up. It’s so automatic. But now I have the ability to pause and reflect, to question my response. Now, before I shut things down I try to dig in the dirt a little. I’m willing to be messy in whole new ways and that has opened up my lifePlease support my writing and become a paid subscriber.If you’re not into paid subscriptions but still want to chip in from time to time, you can do that by clicking on the button!AND….I’ll be teaching a 5 Week Zoom Master Class in May all about the ins and outs of publishing on Substack: So, You Want to Write on Substack But You Don’t Know Where to Start? Find out more or register now! Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

Books are my lifeblood. I’ve always been a reader and always will be. I can’t imagine my life without books. I can’t imagine being a person who isn't called to read. Even the act of holding a book in my hands, and inhaling the dusty scent that’s between the boards is heaven to me.I was lucky. I grew up in a family that read. As a young child, my mother read to me every night. She was the bedtime storyteller. Now in her 80s, she can still recite Madeline by heart with very enthusiastic gestures thrown in, especially when Miss Clavel knows “something was not right.” I remember her miming Miss Clavel running fast, then faster up those stairs!Stories ground me and connect me to something greater than myself. They have not only been my teachers, stories have been my companions. As a child, they gave me amazing friends. They were strong, brave, funny, ornery, creative, kind, and sometimes just the slightest bit rude. Max, Madeline, Pierre, Harriet (I've told you about Harriet), Curious George, Wilbur, Charlotte, and Stuart. There was also Pippi, who I found a little too silly. I only kind of liked the Bobbsey Twins. They were too goody-goody (but the older sister’s name was Nan, and that made me feel special!). As I got older, I got to know Holden, Scout, and Molly Bolt (IYKYK). There was always someone to hang out with.I only read things that were contemporary. So, no Little Women, no David Copperfield (until I was older). I didn’t like books about fussy, overly feminine girls. I was, and am pretty literal, and I couldn't make the leap to a time that was unfamiliar to me. I needed to read things that were solidly relatable. I wanted to see myself in those settings. Reading anything from the early 1900s or before felt like time travel that was too foreign, too scary. The girls always had to wear dresses, and the language was stiff and polite.When I was 6, my mom took me to the 92nd Street Y in New York City. Maurice Sendak, the famous children's book author and illustrator, and Orson Bean the actor, were appearing together. On stage Orson read the books that Maurice Sendak wrote and Maurice stood before a tall easel with an enormous drawing pad. As Orson read, Maurice drew. He kept up with the story, his black marker flying as he sketched, wildly flipping the pages to the back of the pad as he kept up with the pace of the story. I sat frozen in my seat, mouth gaping at the magic happening before me. It was almost 60 years ago yet when I think of that day I get goosebumps as if I were sitting in that auditorium right now.Reading was a happy activity for me. It also provided solace against the isolation I experienced as a kid. I didn't have an easy time socially, but my life in books was busy, fascinating, and filled with all kinds of adventure. It helped keep loneliness at bay.One Saturday night when I was about 9 my parents had a dinner party. My little brother and I were allowed to visit with the company for a bit, once we got into our pjs, but then we were sent up to bed. I was allowed to read until 8:30 every night, and then it was time for lights out. I was never ready for lights out. So at 8:30, after my parents came to tuck me in and kiss me goodnight, I’d turn off my bedside lamp, wait for the door to click shut, then grab my book and move to the floor tucked under my desk where my nightlight was. I’d lie on my belly, knees bent, ankles crossed, propped up on my elbows, chin in my hands, with my book open in front of me on the floor. I’d read like that for as long as I could, until I was really ready for sleep.The night of this party though, something unexpected happened. My door swung open, light from the hallway flooding my bedroom, and there framed in the doorway was my father and all the company standing behind him. Apparently, there was a tradition of looking in on the cute kids while they were sleeping. I guess I never knew that, because the other times I was sleeping! So. I was nailed. My dad made a little joke, and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him. I thought to myself, “I’m in big trouble now.”About 10 minutes later, my bedroom door opened again, and there was Dad, alone this time. I’d gotten back into bed and was lying in the dark, covers pulled over my head, hoping he’d think I was asleep. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stroking my head said, “Honey, you can’t read on the floor by a nightlight. It’s bad for your eyes. How about if we make your lights-out time a half hour later?” I was shocked. No punishment? A reward? I was so grateful and so relieved. From then on, I’d turn my light out at 9pm on the dot. Then I’d take my book and go lie down on the floor by my nightlight and read until I was tired. And then, I’d go to sleep.I always read beyond my grade level, and my maturity level too––thought I don't recommend Portnoy's Complaint for any 11-year-old, no matter how precocious––but I was voracious, and so curious about life, and I loved the design of the book cover, bright yellow with fun curly writing. But that part with the liver? I could have happily existed the rest of my life without reading that part…ever.I thought one day I could grow up to be a writer. I had doubts though. I wasn’t a confident kid, but who knew? Maybe it would happen. So today, as a writer, I celebrate reading and all the people who wrote the books that informed who I was as a child and who I’ve become as an adult. I thank the writers who’ve made my life so much sweeter.Tell your stories. Write them down. And read as much as you can.Please support my writing and become a paid subscriber.If you’re not into paid subscriptions but want to help get Max home to his bed, you can do that by clicking on Max, or the button!AND….I’ll be teaching a 5 Week Zoom Master Class in May all about the ins and outs of publishing on Substack: So, You Want to Write on Substack But You Don’t Know Where to Start? Find out more or register now! Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

Note: I originally published this essay on March 17, 2024 without audio, so I thought I’d come back and add it to my new podcast. It’s also somewhat coincidentally connected to the new story I published this week, There’s a Pill for That. Check it out if you haven’t read it, yet. One morning when I was getting ready to go to school, my mom said she thought I looked ill, and wanted me to stay home. I refused, because I had studied hard for a spelling test, and I felt fine. I knew every word and I wanted to ace it. Spelling was something I did well, and I was proud of it. I went to school that day and had a grand mal seizure in front of my whole 3rd grade class. A month later I had another one, again in front of my classmates. From that point on, I got scared if I felt the slightest bit off. I was terrified it would happen again and I would find a reason to stay home. My mom indulged me because she was afraid too. Sometimes I used her fear to my advantage so I could stay home when things were hard.I started to isolate because the kids were mean about my seizures. They teased me, sometimes brutally. The world I created was quiet. It was lonely. I learned to be sad. I felt frightened to move out of my comfort zone.Subconsciously I made a connection: when I was sick I got extra love and attention. So I got sick a lot. Most times it was legit. Sometimes I faked it though, when I needed a little more love, a little more grace, a day off from the bullying I was experiencing in school. Yes, I knew the trick of holding the tip of the thermometer to a light bulb. Through trial and error, and getting caught only once, I learned that people with fevers over 105° aren’t lucid or conscious so it would be wise to read the thermometer before showing it to my mother. But no one could prove that I didn’t have a stomachache or a headache.One morning in 5th grade my teacher called me out of the classroom and told me that I had to go to the principal’s office. She didn’t say why. My heart began to pound and my palms got sweaty. As I walked down the hallway, I thought, “I don’t know what I did but it must be bad. I never get sent to the principal. I must be in big trouble.” When I got to her office, she brought me to the room that was used for the bad kids and the kids who needed extra help because they weren’t very smart. I wasn’t bad and I was smart. She opened the door and a very tall, thin old man in a business suit greeted me, and bent down to introduce himself. He told me to sit, we were going to have a little talk. We both sat on the tiny chairs the kindergarten kids used. It was so stupid, especially for him. He was so big. He said he was a psychologist. I thought, “Crazy people go to psychologists. I’m not crazy.”He started talking to me, pulling his chair way too close, his face inches from mine. He was bald, had crooked mossy teeth and really smelly breath. He said that my parents and my teachers were worried about me because I seemed so sad all the time. This was a place where I could talk about my feelings. Terrified and angry, I wondered why my parents didn’t tell me this was going to happen. Why didn’t they warn me? Do they think I’m crazy? The doctor told me that we would meet every Thursday morning going forward so we could get to the bottom of things. Every Thursday, for weeks afterwards, I conveniently felt too sick to go to school. When the grownups finally got the message, the appointments stopped. There was never a discussion about it. Life just went on.I began to use illness––real or invented––to avoid things that were uncomfortable or overwhelming. I used illness to receive extra love and attention. I wanted people to feel sorry for me. As sorry as I felt for myself. These behaviors continued throughout my life. I had a need to have people worry about me and take care of me, while at the same time, I’d push people away and say “Don’t worry about me! I’m fine.”When I was in my 50s I saw a therapist who bluntly said to me during a session, “You create the crap in your life so that people will take care of you.” I felt like she’d slapped me across the face and dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over my head. She’d uncovered my M.O. I couldn’t own it then. It was very painful to hear. But I wrote it down, because it screamed the truth at me.As I lived through my 30s, 40s, and early 50s, I was forever searching for “cures.” I went to one specialist after another, looking for the thing that would explain my deep sadness, my lack of connection to the world around me. I manifested dysfunction as a cry for help. I hoped I would find the answers that would rescue me from my pain. I begged for diagnoses. I begged for medications. I went on disability. I convinced myself after years of being a professional patient that there must be a pill for what ails me.Being sick with physical illnesses like bronchitis, colds, or the flu, or with mental illnesses like anxiety and depression provided ways for me to stop. To slow down when things in my life got too challenging. The illnesses were real. The body and mind are connected, and sometimes we create illness from held trauma and fear. I don’t believe this is the case with all illness. I think the somatic piece has been a central theme in my life. I didn’t know how to identify feelings, I didn’t know how to speak my truth or ask for what I needed. I didn’t know I could.I didn’t know that I could create boundaries, that I could say no when things were challenging without having to add illness on top of it to make my “no” valid.I had no idea that what was going on with me was rooted in a lack of something, and to access that “something” might require some dedicated work and time. It would require total honesty. Something spiritual and based in self-love. In discovering and releasing trauma I hadn’t fully understood. I did know that I didn’t love myself. I didn’t have confidence or any clear sense of self-esteem. I didn’t recognize my talents. I apologized for being. All the while I experienced success in just about anything I pursued. I discounted my victories and walked through life feeling like a fraud. I lived in a state of ambivalence, afraid to grow up and pushing love away.One of the things that I’ve learned in therapy and in my 12-Step program is that when I’m not feeling well physically, it might be a sign that I’m becoming depressed, that I’m not dealing with areas of my life that need to be dealt with. I’m learning to listen for those messages, to that voice that lives inside and knows the truth. I’m learning I can ask for help without needing to create a crisis. I’m deserving of care, not because I’m sick but because I’m human. Because I’m worthy. I don’t need to be sick to be seen.If this post was meaningful for you, please restack, comment, and like. It helps me reach more readers! xoPlease support my writing by becoming a paid subscriber!If you’re not into paid subscriptions but want to support me from time to time you can do that by clicking the button…AND….I’ll be teaching a 5 Week Zoom Master Class in May all about the ins and outs of publishing on Substack: So, You Want to Write on Substack But You Don’t Know Where to Start? Find out more or register now! Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

I share my birthday with International Women’s Day, March 8th. I just looked it up and it’s MUCH older than I am. 50 years older! I love International Women’s Day. It’s woman-powered. Like me. From the time I was a little girl I always expected my birthday to feel magical. For the most part, it did. My mom and dad loved celebrating all kinds of occasions. For one day every year, I was the star. I ate what I wanted: CAKE! I got presents, cards, phone calls, and checks from my grandparents. But there was always a crash afterwards, an after-birthday emotional hangover, because I had to give up my star status… and then wait a whole year to feel special again. I always adored my birthday until I turned 49, because anticipating 50 was horrendous. Turning 50 was rough. I don’t think I’ve ever been filled with a deeper sense of dread than I was leading up to that birthday. I was overwhelmed with my life, broke, and unemployed. I was living in New York City, in a place I didn’t want to be. I was struggling through the worst depression I’d ever had. My father was dying, and I’d survived a 2 month “retreat” on a locked ward. I had no idea what direction I was going, or where I might end up. I could tell you I was scared, but I think I was actually pretty numb.The day of my 50th arrived and I got up, got dressed, and planned a solo day. I made a reservation for lunch at Union Square Cafe, restaurateur Danny Meyer’s first restaurant. It’s my favorite. The food is amazing, and the service without compare. I worked there when I was in my late 20s. I have Union Square Cafe pride. When I made the rez, I let them know I was former staff, and that it was my birthday. On my way downtown, I stopped at Paragon Sporting Goods, and treated myself to not one, but two pair of the most ridiculous, stupid shoes I’ve ever owned. They were “5-finger” toe shoes. Yeah, you know the kind. Uncomfortable as can be, no arch support, but trendy and cool. I wore them out of the store, and hobbled downtown to Astor Place Barbershop. I gritted my teeth and pretended that my feet weren’t screaming. When I got to Astor Place, I asked for Enzo, the guy who had cut my hair for over 20 years. They told me that he’d died. Hearing that he was dead made aging feel even worse. We had a special connection. I said a quick little rest-in-peace prayer to him, then got a zippy little buzz cut from Angela.I continued my hobble to Union Square Cafe for my birthday lunch. The staff made a big deal of my arrival, seating me in the smaller back dining room, the one filled with beautiful art and dramatic floral arrangements, with a balcony above. Back in the day we used to eat family meal in that room. They treated me like queen, comping me champagne and dessert––a warm banana tart with a discreet candle. When I blew out the candle I made a wish for clarity.That day was a lesson in being present to the present. It was a marvelous birthday. Leading up to it I’d spent so much energy fretting about it. And, although I needed to grieve some things, I had no idea how the actual day would turn out. By giving myself a lot of love that day, I had turned it around. Four days later I jumped out of bed after a sleepless night. I knew exactly what I needed to do next. The thought that had come to me was, “I’m going to die if I don’t go home.” Yes, die. Maybe I was being a little hyperbolic, but I knew what I meant. The wish I’d made over that warm banana tart had come true. I was crystal clear. I had to move back to the Hudson Valley.Several years before, I had left after 16 years of calling it home, to pursue love in Philadelphia. When that fell apart, I did too. Dealing with my dad’s illness, coupled with my fragile state after the breakup and a lack of resources is what had landed me in the hospital. That, and a pretty intense history of depression. But I had done what I had to do to get well. I knew it was time to return to the place I thought of as my true home. My mojo kicked in, and within two days I had a car, a place to live, and a job. All the heaviness and worry I’d been carrying around fell away. I was going home. I moved back to upstate New York in the spring of 2011. Six weeks later my dad died. He left me money, and I was able to buy a house. No. A home. I started my own business, and my life shifted. After my 50th, my dread about aging quieted, and I started loving my birthday again. I was accomplishing things I’d never imagined I could. Successful in my business, hanging with my beautiful friends, new and old, things were falling into place. I was expressing myself creatively. I think getting older had something to do with my ability to achieve things I hadn’t thought possible. There was an urgency I’d never felt before.Then Covid hit, the year leading up to my 60th birthday. My plan had been to throw a big party for myself. That didn’t happen, of course. Instead I celebrated by getting a tattoo. It’s a bracelet of semi-colons and marks powerful transitions in my life. And even though that birthday didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to, it was still wonderful.This year, my sweetheart is throwing me a party. I’ve never had a partner do that before. We’ll be celebrating the 60th that didn’t happen. And 63, which is definitely happening. There will be friends. There will be music. And there will be cake. If this post was meaningful for you, please restack, comment, and like. It helps me reach more readers! xoPlease support my writing and become a paid subscriber!If you’re not into paid subscriptions but want to support me from time to time you can do that by clicking the button…AND….I’ll be teaching a 5 Week Zoom Master Class in May all about the ins and outs of publishing on Substack: So, You Want to Write on Substack But You Don’t Know Where to Start? Find out more or register now! Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

That’s the question I’m asked every time I’m invited to dinner at a friend’s house, or make plans to go out. My wonderful accommodating friends. But oh, that question. That question is a nod to my history of eating behaviors, my “dieting” behaviors, my “I’m going to find the cure to my food issues” behaviors. What are you not eating these days?I always have an answer. I’m not eating meat, chicken, pork or fish. I’m not eating fat or carbs. I’m not eating sugar, or flour, or grains (whole or refined). No dairy, except cheese. No dairy, including cheese. No soy or wheat or alcohol. No lecithin. No eggs. Definitely no MSG. Of course, no MSG. Never MSG. No fermented foods. Only fermented foods! Gluten free would be better for me, and no I don’t have Celiac, and yes, I’ve been tested. But I’m not eating gluten.No nightshades. No nuts. No cookies. No candy. No ice cream (even the kind that’s dairy-free). I’m eating keto, paleo, Mediterranean, pescatarian, vegan. Sometimes I’m eating “everything,” but I have to weigh and measure “everything.” And I have to drink apple cider vinegar with every meal, because someone once told me that they read somewhere that it might help people lose weight.What do these methods have in common? No joy, no peace, no sanity.Joy is an important element of eating. Food isn’t just for survival, it’s also for pleasure. For nurture. For building fond memories of shared meals with loved ones. Cooking can be a form of self-expression, a love language. I don’t cook much but eating someone’s cooking for me is a way I can receive love. That’s a language I speak. Food is for health and celebration. Food is life.With almost all of the strategies I’ve employed, I’ve lost weight. Most of the time, I gain it back, and then some. While I’m eating the chosen menu of the moment, I drive myself nuts. Food is always on my mind. It’s an obsession. The scale hovers in my line of sight, and the measuring tape is always within reach. My brain won’t shut up. There’s a monologue going on, humming in the background, shouting in the foreground. “You won’t be lovable, attractive, good enough until you weigh [fill in the blank]. For now, “less” will suffice.Structured eating doesn’t work for my eating disordered brain. I don’t have direct answers yet about why the short circuits happen. I may never have those answers. I do know that I can’t fill whatever void exists in me with food. That had been a coping mechanism that helped at times, but no longer works. When I reach for food to try to self-soothe, it’s mostly out of habit now. Because what would my life be like if I let it go?In the summer of 2023 I found myself seeking a solution again. Carrying around an eating disorder is a heavy load. It’s always there, and I found myself alternating between intense self-loathing and extreme body dysmorphia. Denial is a devil.I returned to a 12-Step fellowship I’d tried in the past. It was all about restricting foods, weighing and measuring ourselves and what we put in our mouths. I went to one meeting and knew it wasn’t right for me. So I went online and searched “12-Step” and “eating disorders” and found a different kind of group. I went to a meeting and something clicked.The structure of this recovery program isn’t based on abstinence. It’s based on balance. No weighing and measuring. Not me and not my food. No counting calories. Balance. The program encourages us to find support with outside practitioners; nutritionists and therapists who specialize in treating disordered eating, and medical interventions if necessary. The program encourages us to use whatever tools will help us heal. Eating healthy when I’m hungry, stopping when I’m moderately full. No good foods and bad foods. All foods are good foods. All foods? It felt like the promise of freedom.Now I attend a meeting every day. I have a sponsor. I’ve worked the 12 Steps. The thing that I needed to do that I’d never done before was to find a power greater than myself. It could be God, as I understand God (extremely uncomfortable). Or a higher power (a little Iess uncomfortable). Or a higher purpose (that one fits me best right now).At first, I was resistant to the idea of surrendering to something that felt amorphous. I’m a very literal person. Putting my faith in a mystery like “a higher power” is challenging. I’m open to it, though. I know now that faith is a thing I’ll never comprehend with my ego. It’s understood with my heart. I’ve had glimmers. A spiritual connection. A higher purpose is tangible for me at present. Program is my higher purpose, and so is writing about it as I go forward.Every day I’m learning something new about myself and the changes have been monumental. I’m finding forgiveness for myself and others, letting go of resentments I’ve held on to for years. My anger has diminished and my road rage seems to have disappeared entirely. I feel grounded and connected. A power greater than myself. I’ve become coachable. Me? Coachable? Who am I? I’m comprehending humility, and even experiencing it. I’m more patient. I feel happy! I’m less judgmental, only less. That one will take some time.And my weight? I haven’t lost a single pound. As a matter of fact, I’ve gained some. I’m learning how to do this, one day at a time. I’m not in a hurry. Recovery isn’t linear. It’s a process. I still don’t love my body, but I love me, truly and really. I no longer have an investment in “thinner is better.”I’ve gained gifts from doing this work. A sense of freedom, of emotional clarity and well-being. This program wants me to succeed. I want to succeed and I’m learning to trust myself. Attaining balance in all areas of my life is teaching me that I can have balance with food. Without a connection to something greater than myself, I don’t think that would be possible. The gift is life.It’s my birthday today, and I love celebrating, so….I’m having a sale! You can become a paid subscriber, and support my work. Now through Monday, March 10th, I’m offering 50% off the cost of an annual subscription. That’s only $25 for a whole year!I hate getting gifts on my birthday, but I love cash! Donate to my birthday fund. And because it’s my birthday, and I’M 64, I’m treating you to this fun. When I was a kid, 64 was SOOOOOOO old. It doesn’t feel that way anymore. AND….I’ll be teaching a 5 Week Zoom Master Class in May all about the ins and outs of publishing on Substack: So, You Want to Write on Substack But You Don’t Know Where to Start? Find out more or register now! Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

I started the day with a plan, with a purpose. I was visiting Long Island for a special occasion, and decided that while I was there, I’d take a drive and visit the place that informed much of my life. The place where I grew up. My hometown. The place that fueled my resentments, sadness, anger, and the hard memories I’ve carried for over fifty years.There aren’t many people left there that I knew back then, but there was one person I had to see.Our neighbor, Phyllis. She was family for me. The mother I didn’t have but wanted. She and her husband, Jack and their kids were a constant in my daily life. Their house was a little messy, a little chaotic. Nothing like ours. It was a place where I could relax. Where I didn’t have to worry about plumping the cushions every time I stood up from the sofa. Where the bathroom didn’t have to sparkle every minute of every day. Her house was a place where it felt safe to be me.I hadn’t seen her in years, and I felt anxious because I’ve gained so much weight since the last time I saw her. I walked into the shop where she works, and she didn’t recognize me at first. I knew it. I was right. But when we finished hugging and squeezing the stuffing out of each other, and telling each other how much we loved the other, she said my longer hair threw her. I was trying to grow it out. My go-to haircut has always been quite short. Still, my body shame lingered, and I wondered if she was just being polite. I shifted my attention and reminded myself of who I was with. I was with this woman who loved me and saw me for who I am. When I did that, I was filled with the love and gratitude I’ve always felt for her.Phyllis is a sparkly person. A beautiful woman. Happy, self-assured, takes no s**t from anyone. While we were together, I confessed to her that when I was a teenager and babysat her kids, I’d found some of Jack’s Playboy magazines. I’d sit and leaf through them, amazed and overwhelmed at the size of Bunny boobs. It was titillating, exciting, and a little disturbing, all at once. Sorry, not sorry for the very bad pun. When I told her, she roared with laughter and told me she still had them and said I could have them if I wanted them. Apparently, she never threw them away after Jack died. I passed on her generous offer but wondered what I could get for those antiques on eBay.When we wrapped up our visit, I was flying high. Filled with love. Next, I drove to my high school, feeling some trepidation. I pulled over to the front entrance and took a photo. Something stirred inside me, a fluttery feeling, a little dizziness. There were so many memories, some good, some not so good. I expected to be flooded with the bad ones. But instead, pleasant thoughts moved through me. I remembered school plays, debate tournaments, my job as editor-in-chief of the school’s literary magazine. I felt happy, I was fine.Then I headed over to the junior high. Taking a deep breath, I grounded myself again. I’d gone there with the intention of letting something go. It was the time this boy I knew spread lies about me because I told him I wouldn’t be his girlfriend. He told horrible lies to everyone, that left me socially isolated for years. I took another breath, firmly planted in the present, and thought about the work I’m doing in therapy and in my 12 Step group. I’m turning toward love and away from fear. In those moments of quiet reflection, the anger and resentment I’d felt toward him since I was 13-years old just evaporated. I was able to think of him with compassion, to think that he might have felt pain over my rejection. He didn’t have the tools to handle his feelings in an appropriate way. I never imagined that I could forgive him. I briefly wondered if I was deluding myself, but I really did feel calm and free.And next, my elementary school, a place that was fraught with loneliness and frustration for me. I looked out the car window, thinking about the school principal, Miss Cass, who would stand at the school entrance every morning, her hands clasped behind her back, her apple-shaped torso perched atop toothpick-thin legs, greeting everyone as we got off the buses to start the day. I saw the field that borders the school and remembered getting 3rd place in the high jump competition for 6th grade Field Day. The excitement I felt at winning a sport came rushing back. I was not a jock. At all. I was filled with tenderness for that little girl, Nan. Me.Then I started to drive to my old house. I passed the Catholic church I’d totally forgotten about where I played CYO softball. I was not just the only Jewish girl on the team, I was the only Jewish girl in the league, and I was a terrible player. They made me play right field so I could do less harm. I remembered that my dad volunteered to be a coach. He was terrible at it. He spent most of his time yelling at me when I was a bad sport. He knew nothing about softball, but he showed up for me, because I wanted to play.When I got to the house I grew up in it was unrecognizable. A new (and ugly) façade obscured the lovely home I remembered. I was amazed at how short the driveway was. I thought about the snow I had to shovel, and how endless that chore felt. The hill on our front lawn, where my brother and I went sledding, was barely a swelling of earth. I laughed out loud. Everything seemed so much smaller than I recalled. The length of the streets, the distance between the houses, the height of the trees.As I sat in my car, looking at the house, a sentence I love in a favorite prayer––the 9th Step Promises––from my 12 Step program, popped into my head.We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it.Sitting there, I realized that I can hold my memories with love and compassion. The good ones and the bad. Compassion for myself and the people in my world. I don’t need the angry stories as much as I used to. I wonder if some of those stories have become amplified over time, like my perception of how huge that hill was, how long and steep the driveway.The promise in that prayer had come true for me. I felt peaceful.My last stop was the pizza parlor of my childhood. Established in 1969, it’s still there, in the same location. Mario’s. I sat in a booth, a steaming hot slice of pizza on the table in front of me, too hot to taste, a ginger ale waiting by its side. A sense of joy was infusing my heart. It was the perfect finish to a day filled with surprises and recovered memories. As I sat, taking in the people around me, the garlicky smell of the food, the noise of the cash register opening and closing, 80s music playing a bit too loudly, I marveled at how much the town I grew up in has changed, and how it hasn’t. I marvel at how much I’ve changed, and how I haven’t. The fear and anger are falling away, and the “me” who was always there––but hid herself––is shining through. Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

Episode 6 of Real Life Stories from The Next Write Thing. "The Spy Who Loves Me" by Nan Tepper. Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

Finding clothing that fit, and looked good at me, was hard enough. Having to do it in front of a room of partially naked women as a fat teenager, was more than I could bear. Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

The text of the story:This is how it started. This is what I believe. Memory can be unreliable, but memory can also be a starting point. Even if my memory isn’t completely accurate, it’s provided me with clues to understanding what happened that I believe contribute to the way I am.This is the story I’ve told myself for years. I do think it’s true. The memory is so strong, I can still feel it in my body.I woke up in my playpen. I was 3, maybe 4­­-years old. Still sleepy from my nap, I yawned and stretched. The living room was dimly lit, the afternoon sun slanting in through the partly open, off-white venetian blinds. I could see the sparkle of dust motes moving through the air. I didn’t know what they were, but they seemed magical. Pulling myself up to stand, holding on to the railing of the playpen, I looked for my mom. She wasn’t there. Someone else was standing to the side of the playpen, towering over me. I heard a sound, like metal jingling, looked up a little, and saw a gold charm bracelet, hanging from a wrist. Her wrist. It was Nanny, my grandmother, so big, so tall, with her steel gray hair. The smell of her flowery perfume was overwhelming.My heart began to pound, I couldn’t catch my breath. Where was Mommy? Where was she? She was here before I went to sleep. Why did she leave me? I was frightened, confused. I could feel the burn of tears forming, and I fought to hold them back.Nanny leaned over, reached down for me, and extended her arms to lift me up. I pulled back, away from her, moving to the furthest corner of the playpen.“My shayne maidele!” she boomed. “My pretty little girl” in Yiddish.I scanned the room, searching desperately for my mom. Nanny was scary, she was loud. She hugged too tightly, her kisses were wet, and kind of smelly. I inhaled deeply and then I screamed. I exhaled terror and screamed again. Then I screamed some more. And more. The tears came. They were torrential.I stood there screaming and crying, gripping the plastic-covered railing, and something came down from above. Slowly, slowly, slowly it came into view. A bag of M&Ms. My favorite. I tried to grab the bag, still wailing. But she pulled it away, out of my reach.Then Nanny said, “When you stop crying, you can have the M&Ms.”I must have considered my options. What I really wanted was Mommy but she wasn’t there. But the candy was, and I wanted that too. I wanted the candy more than my fear, more than my sadness. That candy would be a comfort. I turned off my tears and sealed my fate. Feel, or eat?Throughout my adult life, I’ve reached for M&Ms, and other foods, whenever I’ve wanted to self-soothe, tune out, suppress the feelings that are too hard to experience. I still buy those M&Ms sometimes and eat them. They don’t taste as good as they used to. I acknowledge that as I eat them. They’re merely a symbol now. They might calm me momentarily, but afterward, I’m still left with myself, and my stuffed feelings. What I thought once helped is no longer the medicine that I need. Learning that, knowing that, means recovery is happening. Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe

Nan Tepper tells a story that took place in 1968 suburban Long Island. She found a man's gold, diamond, and ruby ring in the aisle of a hardware store and then she reveals what happens next. Get full access to The Next Write Thing at nantepper.com/subscribe