September
Bonus Piece · September
Bonus Piece
September
On what I keep doing to the things I love.
From September
I take something I love, and I slowly turn it into something I have to carry.
And somewhere in all of that... I'd stopped writing.
I just don't want to lose the writing underneath everything I want the writing to become.
And this time... I'd like to keep writing.
Transcript
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September.
September has always made me look backward.
And maybe that's just what birthdays do. You start thinking about where you are, and where you thought you'd be by now, and which versions of yourself you can still recognize.
And which ones you can't.
September 8th is my birthday.
And this year I keep coming back to something I've done more than once.
I take something I love, and I slowly turn it into something I have to carry.
I can see that clearly now. I couldn't always.
Years ago, after my marriage ended, I wanted to write.
That was really the beginning of it.
Because there was a lot I didn't understand. About myself. About what marriage was actually asking of me.
How to be strong without going ghost when it counted. How to listen when it mattered instead of waiting for my turn. How to have the conversation before the silence started having it for us.
And when it was over, I wanted somewhere to talk about that. Not to blame anybody. Not to make myself the one it happened to.
I wanted to understand it.
What did I miss? What didn't I know? What did I do?
And I thought maybe if I wrote some of it down, it'd be useful to somebody. Maybe somebody asks a question I never asked. Or has a conversation I never had. Or just notices something a little sooner than I did.
So I started something called CommonTruce.
And here's the funny part.
I thought I needed a business.
I didn't.
I wanted a blog.
I wanted somewhere to write.
But somewhere in my head, wanting to write didn't feel like enough on its own. It needed a name. A brand. Something around it that made it look like a real thing.
So CommonTruce became more than just a blog. There were conversations. Then social events. Community events. Travel. Meetups.
And before long, I wasn't thinking about what I wanted to write anymore. I was thinking about venues. Tickets. Attendance. Whether enough men were coming. Whether enough women were coming. Whether people were going to have a good time. Whether the space was right. Whether anybody would pay.
Whether all of it could eventually add up to something that justified what it was taking out of me.
I remember sitting at my desk one night answering messages about an event.
Somebody had a question about tickets. Somebody else wanted to know who else was coming. And I was going back and forth trying to work out whether the venue was going to hold everybody.
My notebook was sitting right next to me.
I hadn't written in it in weeks.
And somewhere in all of that... I'd stopped writing.
That part still gets me. Because the whole thing started because I wanted somewhere to write. And what I'd built around that place had gotten loud enough that I couldn't hear myself anymore.
I'm not saying CommonTruce was a mistake. It wasn't.
There were good nights. Good people. Things I only know because I tried it.
But I can look at it now and see something I couldn't see while I was standing in it.
I can take something I love and make it heavy.
I can give it a job. Make it responsible for making money. Or proving the time was worth it. Or landing well with people. Or turning into something bigger than what it was.
And then I can spend so long carrying everything I built around the thing—that I lose the thing.
And that wasn't the only time. There were other ideas after that. Other businesses. Other things I was sure would work.
And making them was always the easy part. I could see the whole thing in my head—what it could turn into, who it could help, how it would grow.
Then comes the part you don't control.
You put it in front of people, and sometimes they just don't want it. Or they don't want it enough to pay for it. Or the people you were counting on don't show up the way you had them showing up in your head.
Sometimes you give something months of your life... and the world doesn't notice at all.
And that doesn't feel good. Especially when you know exactly what it cost to make.
So for a long time, my answer to that was: work harder. Make it better. Add something. Change something. Make it more useful. More polished. Harder to ignore.
Because if I was going to give that much of myself to something, I needed it to come back and prove the time was worth it.
And I think that's part of why September feels different to me now.
Getting older hasn't turned me into somebody who understands everything. I still make mistakes. I still overthink. I still do the same things twice.
But at some point... you just collect enough evidence.
Enough years. Enough decisions. Enough times taking the long way around the same lesson.
And things that felt unrelated while you were living them start looking familiar once you set them next to each other.
You start recognizing yourself.
And you think—I know this. I've done this before. I know where this road goes.
And once you know that... you can't keep calling everything an accident.
That doesn't mean it stops. It doesn't.
I just catch it sooner.
Maybe that's part of getting older. Not becoming somebody else. Just recognizing yourself a little earlier than you used to.
And the strange part is that after all these years... I'm back where I started.
Writing.
Before CommonTruce became everything else. Before the events. Before the tickets. Before the businesses. Before trying to make every idea turn into something bigger than itself.
Even before all of that, that was what I wanted.
I wanted somewhere to put what I was thinking. Somewhere to make sense of things I didn't understand while they were happening to me. Somewhere to say something honestly... and have that be enough.
That's still what I want.
And I don't need to turn it into something else before I'm allowed to take it seriously.
I think I know the answer now.
I was writing.
That was the thing.
I still want to make good work. I want people to hear it. I want something I write to stay with somebody after it's over.
I just don't want to lose the writing underneath everything I want the writing to become.
So this September, I'm not taking inventory of everything I've done.
I'm paying attention to what I should know by now.
That I can take something I love and turn it into an obligation.
That I can make the response heavier than the work.
That I can wait for perfect when honest was already enough.
And that seeing the pattern gives me a choice I didn't have when I couldn't see it.
I can make something. I can make it as well as I know how. I can let it leave my hands.
And then I can come back... and make the next one.
Maybe that's what this birthday is. Not a reinvention. Not some promise that I've finally got myself figured out.
Just a little less distance between who I keep saying I want to be—and what I'm actually willing to do about it.
I'm still carrying things. I probably always will.
I'm just trying to stop turning everything I love into something heavy.
And this time... I'd like to keep writing.
If something stayed with you
What have you kept putting down that you still want to finish?
Stay a little longer
The questions, and the part that’s yours.
What have you made responsible for proving the time was worth it?
What would it look like to let the work be enough?
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