Returning to Myself

Dear Reader,

Writing has always been my way of saying, I was here. This mattered.

When life fractures us, language becomes a bridge between what we feel and what we can survive. Poetry, especially, allows room for truth without explanation—it lets us speak without apology.

Lately, I’ve found myself leaning into that more than ever.

I am metabolizing grief and transmuting it into art—poems, songs, fragments of feeling that don’t always make sense until they land on the page. My self-worth took a dive for a while, but the steady presence of dear friends and family has helped me begin to restore my finish, piece by piece.

To write is to bear witness—to our lives, our losses, our healing. It is not about performance or perfection. It is about presence. And sometimes, it is about survival.

I’ve been listening to Brandi Carlile’s Returning to Myself, and while her story is not mine, her music meets me exactly where I am. That idea—returning to oneself, tending what’s tender, learning how to feel whole again—has been echoing through me. It’s a quiet kind of rebuilding. Not dramatic, not linear. Just honest.

And that’s what I hope this space can be for you, too.

I’m sharing this not because I have it all figured out, but because I want you to feel seen—and not alone—just as I hope my poetry allows. What I once believed was a gift I gave myself in writing my first book, I now understand as something more expansive. These words, these pages—they can be yours, too, if you need them. Healing through connection has a way of guiding us back when we feel lost.

As I write this, I’m watching rain fall steadily outside my window. A mama robin is perched on the deck, standing guard over her nest below. There is something about the simplicity of that moment that reminds me to breathe deeply, to stay here, to take life one moment at a time.

I’ve also started playing guitar and singing again with Helen – Red Door Duo, and it’s been surprisingly grounding. My talented friend, Melissa, reminded me that singing stimulates the vagus nerve—helping the body shift into a calmer, more restorative state. I don’t know if it’s science or surrender, but I do know it helps. And yes, sometimes that healing looks like

singing. Sometimes it looks like yelling into the open air just to release what’s been held too tightly inside. (Perks of country living—I can get away with it. )

There are a number of events coming up in April and May—online and in person—and I would truly love to see you. No pressure, no expectations. Just the possibility of a shared moment, a conversation, a reminder that we’re not doing this alone.

Because in the end, writing is more than expression—it is connection. It is a way of reaching out a hand and saying, I’ve been there too.

And maybe, if we’re lucky, someone reaches back.

Just remember—the writer always gets the last word.

With affection,

Carrie VS