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Here I am, crying in my car as if my entire body has been shattered and I will never breath again. My face is pressed against the vinyl of the passenger seat, the seat belt cutting into my shoulder. Stop it, I say, over and over�� but my body ignores me. I’m hysterical. I feel every millisecond of sadness I have ever felt in the last thirty years and I’m afraid I will never climb out of this car again.

But I do. The weeping eventually stops, replaced by what I now call a grief hangover. I feel exhausted, numb and shaking from the power of that much sorrow being forced out of my cells. It takes a couple of days to regain a little balance and a few more to return to my baseline of joy seeking, practical optimist.

I’ve spent years in therapy attempting to stop these episodes of hysterical weeping. Medication doesn’t help either. I’ve discussed the multiple sources of grief in my life, especially the chronic anticipatory grief of my daughter’s condition. But no amount of talk therapy, somatic therapy or meditation has helped me stop crying.

So today I am asking, what if crying from gut-wrenching grief is actually okay? What if the release of so much sadness is good for me?

Anticipatory grief is feeling the loss of someone before they are gone. It’s the grief people experience while a loved one slowly dies from Alzheimers or another degenerative disease. The grief is compounded by witnessing the decline of someone you love and having no idea how long it will be before they die. There is usually guilt mixed in with the grief because you want the decline to end but you don’t want the person to die. This kind of grief is complex and can last for years�� even decades.

One of my dearest friends recently died and as I thought of her, I started crying in my car. This is a normal response to death. Of course I cried! But what happened next was all of that anticipatory grief I carry with me every day came pouring out too, mixing new grief and chronic grief into a storm of weeping. Once the door opened, I was overwhelmed with even more sadness related to my job, my friends, my family, my country��

I know I scare my friends who witness my crying. It scares me too.

Perhaps that’s the real problem. I’m afraid.

Again I ask, what if crying so hard is actually okay? What if it is a normal response to an impossible situation? If so, then there’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m not weird or crazy. I’m human.

Maybe other people cry in their car too, until their steering wheel is covered in tears.

Do you?

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I lost one of my closest friends last week. Sara Sherman-Levine, nurse, healthcare advocate and powerful force of nature. She was someone who walked into a room and made everyone feel warmer. Someone you wanted to talk to. Someone who always had your back.

I miss her.

I met Sara when my daughter Rhia was eight. We traveled to Stanford to meet with a renowned neurologist seeking help for Rhia’s worsening ataxia. Sara was his assistant. Her no-nonsense honesty coupled with joyful dedication won my trust. After the doctor told me his opinion, Sara clearly explained that there was no cure for Rhia’s ataxia, or even a clear diagnosis, but that didn’t mean Rhia couldn’t thrive. I absolutely believed her.

When the neurologist moved to LA and Sara worked in a different clinic at Stanford, we still ran into each other. When Rhia was twelve, Sara discovered that I was sitting in the hospital waiting room while Rhia had surgery on her feet. Sara found me there, gave me a big hug, and sat with me for over an hour. I needed a little bit of her strength to conquer my fears about Rhia’s surgery and Sara gladly gave it.

Many years later, I was in the middle of a divorce when I needed to bring Rhia to Stanford yet again. Sara offered us her spare bedroom for the night. After Rhia went to sleep, she and I sat together in her backyard, sipping wine and catching up. I told her how lost I felt and how afraid I was that due to State budget cuts, Rhia was about to lose access to Stanford.

“You should move to the Bay Area,�� Sara said.

“I can’t afford to move here!�� I replied with a laugh. She watched me closely as I shook my head and said, “I can’t imagine being able to afford the Bay Area as a single mom with a disabled kid.��

“What if I told you a friend of mine is renting his house? Want to take a look?��

I laughed, told her it was impossible, but eventually agreed to look at the house.

Sara was right. Rhia and I moved into her friend’s beautiful home in San Mateo where we lived happily for seven years. I found a great job that paid all the bills and provided health insurance, a first in my working life. I had to stop thinking about all of the limitations and instead think more like Sara.

The question isn’t always, “How?�� The question could be, “What if?��

That was Sara. She was an idealist with her feet firmly on the ground. She believed in me and because of her belief I felt safe enough to take a chance. She made my life better and in doing so, made Rhia’s life better.

Sara is gone now. It feels impossible that the brilliant force that was Sara is now quiet. She fought for the rights of women, the disabled and the people she loved, but she couldn’t fight cancer. Instead, she accepted it. She tried treatments that made her sicker until saying, “Enough.��

“I’ve had a wonderful life,�� she told me the last time we met for dinner. “I have zero regrets. I’ve been very lucky. And when I’m ready, I’ll know it’s time to go.��

Two months later, we said goodbye through a text because she didn’t want company. I wish I could have hugged her one more time, but that was Sara’s choice and I had to respect it.

She was just a few years older than me, and of course it makes me look at my own life and mortality. At 58 I probably have about ten really good years left. A few more years when I’m not in chronic pain or suffering from some age-related illness. Or not. Cancer, a car accident, a heart attack�� anything can happen, so I don’t take this life for granted. I’m not being morbid, I’m simply looking at the reality of life. Human beings are mortal creatures with a limited amount of time to enjoy our lives inside these fragile bodies.

As I sit here pondering my next move, I hear Sara in my head asking, “What if��?�� What if I allowed myself to fully live my best life? What does that even look like? How can I be of service to others in a way that brings me joy? This is how Sara lived and I want to live by her example.

Thank you, Sara. I will love you forever.

My heart carries too much grief. My daughter’s constant struggle with her illness. The loss of dear friends, those who died from AIDS in the 1990’s and those I’ve lost to cancer now. The loss of my husband to alcohol. My mother to mental illness. Today I grieve for my country.

I find solace in the poetry and music of Nick Cave. In this interview with Stephen Colbert, he talks about the transformative power of grief through art.

We cannot get back what we have lost and we cannot deny the pain. But we can express how we feel through creativity and share it with others struggling with their own sadness. perhaps we can help each other.

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A few days ago, I received five sample book covers from my publisher. Being included in the cover design process is one of the reasons I am thrilled that is publishing my book. Most publishers make all of the decisions about a book’s design without any input from authors, which often leads to very unhappy authors. I wonder how many smiling authors holding up their published book for photographs actually hate the cover.

Right now I am looking at five sample covers I printed and taped onto the wall near my desk. Five beautiful designs�� so which one do I choose?

What makes a good cover? For me, the cover needs to show the mood as well as the story. Mood can be shown with the colors and the right font while the story can be reflected in a simple image or symbol. For example, when I had my publishing company, Medusa’s Muse, I published a book called The Radical Housewife. The author, Shannon Drury, found a designer she liked and they worked together to create the book’s cover. A simple frying pan held in one, rubber gloved fist captured the energy and mood, as well as showing that the book was about a mid-western feminist housewife. I still love this cover (and the book).

Another important consideration for the way a cover is designed is how it will look as a postage size image on Amazon. Which colors and images will stand out on a computer screen as a reader scrolls through thousands of book covers? A book doesn’t just have to capture the eye on a bookstore shelf, it must compete online.

I’m now staring at the book covers for Raising Rhia, wondering which one captures the story best. I’m drawn to the picture of a single yellow flower with petals that rain down like tears. But I also like the bright red poppy on a blue background with a small picture of Rhia smiling inside a heart shaped locket. To help with this decision I’ve asked friends to tell me which they like best and I’ve discovered that no single cover stands out more amongst my friends. A lot of people like the cover with the illustrated hand holding a single flower, which isn’t my favorite. They say it looks like a cover you see hung in the window of Barnes and Noble. One friend, a graphic designer, talked about the fonts, which made me look at the details of each cover more. How do I choose the best one?

While looking at the covers, I feel both thrilled and terrified. There is my name, Terena Scott, on each one. I wrote a book and it will be launched next Spring. I hope it is found by the people who will benefit from reading my book, because that’s why I wrote it. With that in mind, I need to decide on the cover that will call to them. But which one?

What covers compel you to pick up a book and open it to the first page?

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I sit at my desk with my lap top open and begin to type.

Just start, I think. Write anything. Write the first impulse of words! If you start, you’ll find the flow.

My fingers stop. I stare at my plant that is trying to adapt to the new room we’ve moved into. Some of the leaves are curling.

“Keep typing��, I say out loud.

I’m not sure why I should.

What is the point of my stories when everyone I know is afraid? How can I relieve anyone’s suffering with a poem? It feels pointless. Self-indulgent. I”m writing about my author career and publishing my book. Who cares? People are actually dying due to the so called leadership of “President�� Trump and his side-kick, Elon Musk (Or should that be written the other way around?). Therefor, my ridiculous scribblings about book launches and asking for blurbs feels childish. Look everybody, I wrote a book! Great, but what am I actually doing to stop the oligarchy in my country?

I feel a thick, gray, straight line inside the front of my brain, just above my eyebrows, that has shut down my creativity. Forming meaningful sentences feels exhausting because the words have to get through this inner wall of helplessness. My anxiety and rage are bigger than I can describe. This writer is mute.

Of course, being silent is exactly what the patriarchal oligarchy wants. So I keep trying. I keep writing even though most of it is trite and not worth sharing with anyone. Occasionally I write something that feels good enough for someone to read, but those sentences are becoming harder to create. I feel too much fury and too much sadness for everyone who is suffering right now.

Immigrants.

Queer and Trans.

Women.

Disabled.

Non-Christian.

Non-White.

So many people, including a child in Texas who died of the measles.

THE F-ING MEASLES!

How do I describe in words the trembling in my hands, the scream in my throat, the pressure in my lungs and the ringing in my head?

Anger? Fear?

Words aren’t powerful enough.

First, I send my apologies to every person who ever asked me on a date. I didn’t realize how awful it was to face your fear of rejection and ask anyway. I never asked because I was too shy, so I made you do it. I’m sorry.

I’m feeling like a high-school student asking their crush to the prom because I’m now asking authors I admire for a blurb about my book. A book blurb is a short, 2-3 sentence, description of a book telling the reader why they should read the book, written by other writers or experts on the topic. My publisher is requesting that I ask some of my favorite authors in my genre (memoir) to recommend my book so a reader will be interested in buying it.

Every time I ask for something from anyone, whether its a cup of coffee or a kiss, I am so nervous I have to mentally prepare myself for possible rejection. Rejection of any kind, no matter how benign (ex: “You can’t have coffee. I’m out��) feels like I am being completely rejected. Not just the request, but me, the person making the request. I know this way of thinking isn’t healthy but it’s unfortunately the way I’m wired (thank you childhood!).

Sometimes people are surprised by how shy I am and how intense my rejection sensitivity can be. I simply hate bothering people with my ordinary wants or needs. Who am I to ask for anything when people are starving in Somalia? I cover my anxiety with a veil of confidence, using the acting skills I learned in Theater, fooling everyone until I need to actually open my mouth and ask for something.

And having my art rejected is brutal! My art is an expression of myself, so of course I feel as if I’ve been tossed into the rejection pile along with my manuscript. After I wrote my first book, a 300 page novel, it was rejected by 9 agents. Because of that, it now lives on the bottom of my trunk. I also stopped submitting my essays and stories anywhere. All of my writing stayed in my journals and my laptop.

Until now.

Fear of rejection won’t get you a date to the prom or a book published, so I dutifully made my list of the authors I admire and started emailing requests. My list of authors includes those who have helped me during the darkest times of my life and memoirists I love reading today.

The outcome?

One yes. One maybe. Three no-response.

When I got that yes from one of my favorite writers I danced around my house whooping loudly, feeling like the most popular person at school had agreed to go out with me. And then the next person said they would look at my book and see if they had time. Promising. And silence from the other three doesn’t actually mean rejection, right?

My fear of rejection is getting better, but asking authors to write me a blurb still makes my stomach ache. Asking does seem to be easier now. Perhaps that will also make asking for a coffee or a kiss easier, too. Not too long ago, I gave a cute guy my phone number. Maybe I’m getting braver.

Just take a deep breath. Send another request.

How do you handle rejection?

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I have recently moved out of a large house in Silicon Valley to a bedroom in the East Bay. I hear this is called “downsizing��. As I packed and moved my stuff and now unpack it all, I’ve discovered that downsizing means more than simply getting rid of things so you can fit it all into a smaller space. Downsizing is about letting go of parts of your life that no longer fit who you are now.

As I packed my belongings in the old house, I culled objects, mementos and even books that felt too heavy. Not heavy in mass, heavy in energy. Objects I’ve kept for thirty years because they reminded me of a special time or an activity I enjoyed. Books that I love but I know I’ll never read again. Clothes for the person I was, not clothes for the person I am.

Now I am unpacking in my new, smaller, simpler space and realize I have more to let go of. I don’t want to worry about where I’ll store my great-grandmother’s salt and pepper shakers anymore, or my dead friend’s tea cups. I don’t want vintage dresses crowding my closet. I don’t need any furniture other than my bed, my dresser and my writing desk with one chair.

To get to this place of simplicity takes extra thought and honesty and a willingness to look directly at my self and ask��

Who am I now?

For almost thirty years I was Rhia’s caregiver. My entire life revolved around her needs. But now�� what are my needs?

Also, what do I want?

Asking what you need is just a start but if you stay there, you’re limiting yourself. Discovering what you want opens the doors and windows of your life and lets fresh ideas and opportunities enter.

While unpacking my belongings, I’ve focused on what I want in my life.

More freedom. More exploration. More learning. More art.

Do these items help make my wants a reality, or are they tied to the past?

Then I look at the boxes still waiting to be opened.

Do I really want any of it?

Today is Martin Luther King Jr Day. Every year, I listen to his speech “I have a dream��. I have fought for the dream of unity, kindness, freedom, justice, friendship, and hope.

Not Trump‘s dream of power, retribution, sexism, patriarchy, and wealth.

But this is where I live now. Trump’s land. Not Dr. King’s land. I live in a country hostile to people I love. A country dominated by fear of the other. The different. People who don’t fit the idea of what a real American should be.

I look the part, but I am not free. I can pass, but it is not me.

I believe in a country where people are allowed to be themselves without fear of violence.

Where people of all abilities are accepted and every space is accessible. I want every elevator to work.

I want a country that believes education is good.

I want Marjorie Taylor Greene to shut the fuck up.

I don’t know how to move forward in my country when only the rich are free and only the white are protected. When only men have a voice and women have a voice only when a man gives it to them.

I am lucky. I am white. I am cisgender. I don’t look queer.

Most of the people I care about will never look American enough for Trump. So today I am asking, how will I fight for those who can’t hide who they are?

How will you?

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She Writes Press sent me their cover design questionnaire at the start of the holiday season with the request that I answer “thoughtfully.�� It’s due as close to the New Year as possible. It’s a long form with about 18 in-depth questions about my book, including the theme, the characters, the setting and any cover design ideas I may have.

It was surprisingly difficult to answer the questions. One of the hardest questions looked simple: what is my book about? After spending years writing and revising and writing my memoir again, that should be an easy question to answer, but it’s not. What is my book about? Not just what happens in the story, but I need to explain the WHY of my book.

How do I answer that question in three simple sentences?

They call this an elevator pitch. Imagine you’re in an elevator with your favorite author or a famous agent and they suddenly turn to you and say with a smile on their face, “Tell me what your book is about?��

What do I say?

1. My book is about raising my daughter who was born with disabilities and the challenges that go with �� (Boring. Try again.)

2. “Raising Rhia�� shows the challenges of raising a child with disabilities in the United States and how the power of love helps a child thrive. (Ugh! Sounds like a Hallmark Channel movie!)

3. A memoir about raising my child with severe disabilities in America, from birth to high school graduation. As I navigate the overwhelming demands of her care, I lose my sense of self and I struggle to see her as more than her diagnosis. But over time, I rediscover her, not just as a child with disabilities, but as a whole person. In this process, I also reclaim my own true self. (Too Long!)

4. My book tells the story of how my daughter and I learn to hold both joy and grief at the same time as we navigate the challenges of her multiple disabilities. (Hmmm�� that’s the theme I think, but it leaves out the actual story)

The cover design questionnaire is finished except for this one question and I’m obsessed trying to find the answer. Writing what my book is about feels like writing another chapter of the book!

Revision, revision, revision��

Keep trying, Terena.

Christmas has always been challenging for me, probably because we’re all supposed to be so happy! The holiday spirit is about joy and child-like wonder and no one is allowed to be sad. Sadness equals “Bah Humbug.�� So here I was, facing Christmas without Rhia’s magic permeating every decoration and baked good for the first time in her life. My tendency toward melancholy filtered in, no matter what I did to hold it back. I spent too many nights crying on the couch, feeling lonely and lost. F*c*ing Christmas!

As so often happens in my life, friendship helped.

I wasn’t blessed with a big, supportive family; my family is complicated, far flung, and dramatic. And then when Rhia was born, family holidays became even more complicated. Rhia couldn’t participate in most of the events and traditions our family planned and just having a conversation at the dinner table was challenging. Often, she and I sat behind while everyone else went on a Christmas adventure.

Lonliness tripled.

Rhia loved Christmas no matter what, so she and I created our own traditions and kept celebrating like we were children. It’s easy to believe in Santa when Rhia is near. When she left, I was suddenly faced with a Christmas by myself.

However�� Solstice came.

On the longest night I was surrounded by friends sharing food, drink, laughter and hope. We gathered around a large flame and burned pieces of paper where we’d written all of our fears. I wrote “Shame. Guilt. Worry. Weight.�� I need to let go of the burden of fear I carry when I decided to move Rhia into a group home. Then we all created our own essential oil blends to help us remember what we hoped for as the days grew longer. I breathed in the scent of Pine, Cedarwood, Bergamot and Frankincense that I blended together and then thought “More Joy. More Love�� as I dropped an amber bead inside the glass bottle.

On Christmas Eve my friend invited me to their family’s celebration. The house was warm and packed with a boisterous, big-hearted, joyful family that welcomed me with open arms. There was so much love in that house I was astounded! It was all music and mayhem and I loved every single minute of that celebration.

My friend stayed with me on Christmas Morning. We sat in front of the fire and listened to music after we opened gifts. The evening ended with movies and popcorn. Simple. Quiet. Lovely.

Christmas is over. The weight of feeling like I need to be jolly is finally gone. In its place is gratitude. I have been enveloped in love and care from so many people this season. Maybe that’s what Christmas magic actually is. If we force ourselves to be joyful on the holidays when we’re actually grieving, it creates a kind of loneliness that lingers long past the New Year. But if we say out loud what is real, actually say “I am in pain,�� it opens our hearts to the possibility of joy. From holding hands with friends around a single flame on a long winter’s night to sitting quietly with a loved one while recovering from a large party with too much food, we can be healed by the people who truly see us.