I was nervous to go to the Midwest Writer’s Workshop. I had been looking forward to it for months, but then the unthinkable happened.

Deputy John Durm was killed in the line of duty on Monday, July 10th, 2023. From the earliest moments after the attack to the final moments of the burial, I had been involved in one way or another. But my biggest personal responsibility was overseeing the Peer Support Team’s response to a tragedy that struck the Marion County Sheriff’s Office in so many ways.

The whole time I felt immensely sad, and impossibly heavy, and sick to my stomach, but I had only cried a few times, and only one of those was a decent cry. The rest of the time I kept my face soft and my heart open to support other MCSO employees to the best of my ability.

I was prepared to miss the Wednesday or Thursday or both of the Workshop, should the funeral have fallen on either of those days. But it didn’t work out that way, and I was able to attend from the beginning.

I was nervous because I was already feeling like most people – other than my colleagues and friends in public safety and the friends that had been keeping close tabs on me – wouldn’t be able to understand what I had just been through. I was nervous that I hadn’t had time to process what had just happened. And wIthout having had time to process, I was nervous about what might be going on underneath my surface. (Sometimes it seems like it’d be easier not to know about stuff like trauma and just act out unconsciously in the good old fashioned way.)

From the moment Mom and I entered the Workshop, we were received with incredible, heartwarming kindness… after all, a lot of folks here knew and loved my Dad. Who didn’t? Would I even be there if not for my Dad, whose death inspired me to start writing more intentionally? I think not.

I did not bring my “A” game to the Workshop. My “A” game had been drained. After those first welcoming moments, I sat down, and felt like I had been hit by a train. Despite my credentials as a mindfulness and meditation teacher, the only thing I could think about was the week before. I knew that rumination is a normal reaction to a traumatic event. But being aware of it didn’t stop it. For most of the Workshop, I felt awkward and disconnected. Occasionally, I would try to share what my week had been like with a new acquaintance, but it came across as a stark contrast to the present activity of talking about all things writing.

The starkest contrast for me was shifting from that of the collective “we” I had been operating in since Deputy Durm was killed, to the individualistic nature of a writer’s conference. It being my first, I had no idea what to expect, but while this Workshop is an incredibly fertile ground of support for writers by writers, everyone there has their own story to tell, and if not books or other forms of their writing to promote, they have the aspiration to do so. Including me. But I felt so torn. I had come to promote the personal writing you’ll find on this website, but the story that was on my heart and my mind was that of the previous week, of the unimaginable pain, and of the tremendous honor, love, and service that was intricately woven into every moment by my colleagues, friends and the community.

But I felt too self-conscious to tell that story. To share my pain, which is nothing to that of Deputy Durm’s incredible family and brave friends, or my small contributions, when my colleagues at the Sheriff’s Office put their blood, sweat, tears, heart, and soul into ensuring that every moment of his visitation, funeral and burial were perfect.

I skipped out on the afternoon of Day Three for the Workshop. I went home to rest and could barely peel myself off of the couch until we went back that evening to hear the author Haven Kimmel. All I knew was that my Dad had been a big fan. I was enchanted by the entirety of her talk. She talked about the shadow and Jung and eros and compassion and I could have listened to her all night.

I skipped out on the morning sessions of Day Four, too. Guided only by intuition – which had been on point for the duration of the previous week – I visited the Beneficence statue, something I don’t know that I’ve ever done intentionally. I think I was compelled to do so by her name, meaning the moral obligation to do good to others, showing others kindness and mercy. I visited the Farmer’s Market at Minnetrista and bought a pair of earrings from a local artist (one of my favorite things to buy). I drove through downtown Muncie without intention, and ended up having a latte and a long visit with a friend from my teenage years at the lovely coffee shop and roastery he and his wife opened several years ago. This was my first visit as I’m rarely in Muncie in the morning, let alone with time to myself. But Dad was a fan of Frank and the Caffeinery. And vice versa. This little Tour de Muncie nourished my heart and rooted my soul with the essence of my hometown (something Haven had talked about the night before). I could feel the fog start to lift.

I went back to the Workshop for an early afternoon session with plans to head home to Indianapolis afterwards. On my way out, I visited again with Jama, the retiring Director of the Midwest Writer’s Workshop, who’d been so kind to me, specifically about my writing, as I entered. So I felt guilty when she suggested that I write about the Workshop on my way out, given that I’d played quite a bit of hooky (though for the benefit of my personal mental health). Mom kept reminding me that it was I who had paid for it, and looking back, both my attendance at the Workshop, and the time to myself, were well worth the price.

As I left, I thought the story was over, but I was wrong. Later that afternoon, my Mom, who had stayed for the duration, texted and then called. The Instagram post that I had made on Day One – a post that included a picture of Mom and I, a new photo I had added to my website, and a caption that mentioned both the “SUPER hard and challenging week” I’d had and that attending the Workshop felt like a huge pivot – had won an award for being the best social media post. Mom told me that the post was read aloud, in its entirety. So even though I felt isolated and misunderstood (which is a normal response to a critical incident), I was in fact very seen by this group of writers. Even in absentia. Mom said that someone in the crowd said “‘Katie Carlson’ is a great name for a writer”. Well done on that one, John and Nancy.

I didn’t have the words to tell these two stories – the heartbreak of Deputy Durm’s line of duty death and my experience at the Midwest Writer’s Conference – on their own. I didn’t feel qualified to tell either. But somehow they intertwined and synchronized with each other into a story I could tell, a story of beneficence – from laying down one’s life for their community, to properly honoring such an enormous sacrifice, from giving your all to support your colleagues, to giving yourself the support you need, to accepting kindness and support from others.