bigger than the whole sky.

I went on a run this morning, knowing I needed to clear my head. I was craving the wide open sky. I needed space to let my heart be as fragile as it wanted to be.

In the past, my post-book release slumps have always caught me off guard, but this time, I was prepared. This time, I knew the flood of feelings would come for me.

Out on the trail, I ran past this bench positioned with the perfect view of the Superstitions—Gemma and Ollie’s mountains—and the visual of this solitary bench in front of such a spectacular view made me smile, even while tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. 

Writing a book is like having a front row seat to an incredible show, a brand new play still in rehearsals. You get to watch the early days of fumbling lines and forgotten cues, of costume fittings and disastrous stage lighting. It’s a beautifully unique experience to witness something in every stage of its development. It feels like the best-kept secret you’re dying to tell everyone. 

Releasing my book is like letting go of that secret, like giving up my front row seat to let the rest of the audience in. It’s exactly what I want, but it still makes me feel a little sad, a little tender and raw. It’s a new beginning born out of an ending that I always knew was coming. 

Because, as we all know, the show must go on. But this time, it’s without me in the front row, making corrections and calling out, “Let’s take that from the beginning!” Now I get to stand backstage and peek behind the curtain; I get to watch everyone else experience my book for the first time. It’s thrilling and wonderful, but the loss of control always leaves me feeling a little bit empty. 

It’s a bittersweet goodbye.

But it’s also a standing ovation. 

It’s happy and it’s sad.

And it’s okay that it’s both. 

Because my heart is big enough to hold all of it.