Author: Katie Carlson

Intertwining Beneficence

~ Katie Carlson ~ 2 Comments

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.

An Invitation into Reclined Suntanned Warrior Pose

~ Katie Carlson ~ 5 Comments

I set an intention for a simple summer. More specifically, I set an intention to get a good suntan. Something so simple, and seemingly free, seems like it would be easy to accomplish. And yet, the past several summers, I have lamented the lack of contrast between my tanned and swimsuit-covered skin… the kind of contrast my friends and I would joyfully compare as girls during our long summer days at the pool.

All of a sudden, it seems, the sun became “bad for our skin”. Around the same time I started thinking about wrinkle prevention, a friend my age (exactly my age – we were born the same day) died of skin cancer. 

Since then, I’ve been wearing hats in full sun, making sure my beauty routine included SPF, and the SPF 4 bottles of Australian Gold were replaced with SPF 50+ Sport.

The only time I really wore the SPF 50 on my body, however, was for a day by the ocean, lake or pool. And considering I don’t have regular access to any of those things, those days were few and far between.

I’d exercise outdoors early in the morning, and limit the amount of time spent in the sun during peak hours. I’d spend time outside in the shade with friends and boyfriends, but I daydreamed of opportunities to lay in the sun, somehow thinking I needed to go somewhere to do that. As if the sun in which I now soak lazily in my backyard is bad, but the sun by a pool is good.

Before accompanying my Mom on a 7 night trip to Florida, just before turning 40, I made my first appointment with a dermatologist. I felt guilty for waiting too long to see one. But she looked over my entire body, kindly called the sun spots all over my arms “wisdom spots”, and didn’t see anything cancerous or precancerous. The part of me that had always feared the sun shining on my face through the car window felt considerable relief.

The trip to Florida with my Mom was the longest vacation I’d taken in… ever? Slowing down was hard. But there were a few hours a day, from about 10:00 am to 1:00 pm, where I would lay out by the pool, and that time would fly. Sometimes I would contemplate the busy season of life in front of me, but the rest of the time, I’d listen to podcasts and read. With the confidence of my dermatologist’s report, regularly applying SPF 50+ and wearing a hat, I’d let myself bask in the warmth of the sun and glow in the shine of sunscreen. I’d take “thirst trap” photographs (and post them!) and I felt happy. By intentionally lying there in the sun, doing seemingly nothing, I was doing something… for myself. In addition to resting, I was rebuilding my connection with the sun, the giver of life on this little planet of ours, shifting our relationship from one of fear to one of nourishment.

Shortly upon my return from Florida, that busy season of life I’d been contemplating came and went. And at the end of it, feeling like I’d been slowly and painfully dragged into June, I pulled my outdoor lounge chair from the deck to the sunniest part of my backyard, and promised myself that this summer, I was going to get a suntan. 

It’s funny to me that historically nobility would pride themselves on their pale skin, a sign that they did not have to work out in the fields. As I lay out in my backyard, watching the same breeze that’s brushing past my skin flow through the peace flags adorning my fence, I daydream that if I were nobility, I’d do this very thing, but perhaps next to a pool, completely surrounded with tall pines for enough privacy to avoid having any tan lines at all.

That’s how I feel when I lay out in the sun, though, as if I’m nurturing my own inner nobility. A nobility that reminds me that I don’t have to be busy all the time, and I don’t always have to be doing something. Basking in the connection I feel to the sun, to the Earth, to the weather, to my home, and to myself… It feels luxurious. And while it is reasonably accessible, it’s still not a luxury afforded to all.

The activist Audre Lorde said: “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”

And in her book “Real Self Care”, Dr. Pooja Lakshmin argues the differences between faux self-care and real self-care. Faux self-care includes retreats and cleanses that are out of reach for all but a few. Faux self-care is a narrative that is dominated by a capitalist society constantly reminding us how flawed we are, and that by buying this or that, we can come a little bit closer to being perfect.

Real self-care, on the other hand, is something that no one can give you but yourself, like time to yourself, and setting boundaries. And still, sadly, time to lounge, even at zero cost, remains inaccessible to people like sole caregivers and those struggling to resource themselves and their families with basic needs.

So while my goal of getting a nice suntan this summer may sound flippant, it is not. While women are losing bodily autonomy regarding choices for their own health care, safety, and economic circumstance, as dictated by the highest Courts, doing what I want with my body, even if it’s sprawling out on a lawn chair, is an act of political warfare. 

As I lay out under the warm blanket of the sun, I look at those “wisdom spots” on my arms and notice new patches of stretch marks on my thighs. I know that somewhere a group of people is inventing a new, shiny solution to this non-problem. And another group of people are preparing the marketing for this shiny solution. And the minute I pull the trigger on trying to fix this problem, another will pop up. And hard as they try, the people in these rooms will never get to the root cause of their problems with my body… that it is just getting older! Laying out in the sun, carefully enough to be cautious of skin cancer, but without any shits to give about my non-cancerous sunspots or the weird, pale line on my belly from where my skin folds together to form a miniature ravine of SPF 50+ Sport… is an act of political warfare.

And that tricky fawn response to trauma, to people pleasing, over-achieving, and social media inundation reminding us that even if we try to do everything, we will never be good enough… Though my sights are aimed high in a career I love, choosing to spend as much time as possible in the sun this summer, tapping myself out of a competition to produce and do as much as possible, listening to podcasts and music, and allowing my attention to rest on the activity of bees buzzing amongst my flowers, is an act of political warfare.

All that said,  if it’s a sunny afternoon this summer… you’ll know where to find me.

“Never to Suffer”: Unfinished Business in Baltimore

~ Katie Carlson ~ 6 Comments

I had unfinished business in Baltimore… or rather… my Dad did. So when I learned that I would be presenting at a conference there, I knew I had a second, unrelated mission.

I’d only been to Baltimore once before… as a kid, and the experience was underwhelming. The internet may have been invented, but not MapQuest and surely not Apple Maps. If you wanted to get from Point A to Point B, you really needed to know where you were going.

On a family vacation to Washington, D.C., we took a detour to Baltimore. Point A was the National Aquarium. Point B was the burial place of Edgar Allan Poe. While I have no memory whatsoever of the Aquarium, I have vivid memories of trying to find Poe’s resting place… emphasis on the word “trying”. 

We walked the streets of Baltimore as a family of four, so it was unusual that my Dad was solicited twice by sex workers (did that work on other Dads?!), but we proceeded onward with the rigid determination of a man who did not want to admit he wasn’t sure where we were going.

Eventually, we entered what looked like a housing project, and a couple of ladies shouted “we wouldn’t go any farther that way if we were you”. Dad finally relented and turned around, although his disappointment was palpable.

As the one year mark of Dad’s death approached and passed, I was busy planning and preparing for my trip. I was not worried about whether or not I would find it. I Googled it once, and knew that I would take an Uber to eliminate any guess work. The rest of my energy was devoted to creating and practicing the presentations I had been selected to present.

But as I packed, I threw a black dress in my suitcase, a dress I thought dark, romantic, and mysterious enough for the mission at hand.

First, I thought I would go on Tuesday night, but there was a busy agenda for the conference. On Wednesday night, I had dinner plans with friends, but thought I’d be able to visit it before dinner. As I sat in the Uber, I looked up the location on Yelp and it said “closed until 8:00 am”. I proceeded. It was only 5:00 pm. How can a graveyard be closed? I arrived, and it was locked. I took a few photos from outside of the gate, thinking “could this place be any more freaking elusive?” Eventually, I walked back to the hotel and figured I would try again in the morning.

After a fun night of dinner and dancing with friends, I put on the same dress as I ventured back in another Uber. I was hoping that it wouldn’t be too touristy. I knew I wanted to take a lot of photos, and getting the right photo would take some time. When I arrived, there was one other couple in the vicinity, but they moved on to several of the other historical figures entombed in the area. I had the time I needed to get the photos I wanted… photos mostly intended to accompany this essay. 

A woman walked up and placed four carnations around the large monument, “one for each of the family members buried there”, she shared. She was sullen, and dramatic, and seemed very invested in what she was doing. So even though I don’t often talk to random strangers, I tried to engage her. I asked if she was a fan, and she said she was a graduate student. I asked “Of Poe?” and she said “yes”. I didn’t know you could get a Master’s degree in Edgar Allan Poe, but I was in Baltimore.

In all honesty, my intention to engage her was probably selfish. I wanted to tell her why I was there. I wanted to tell her about the time we’d tried to come before. I wanted to tell her about my Dad. That he was a beloved writer, who, though mostly known for his humor columns, had also been a published mystery writer. She wasn’t interested.

Before leaving for Baltimore, I had to drop off my (sweet, perfect) dog to stay with my Mom in Muncie. After I left Mom’s house,  I thought “oh shoot – I should have taken a smidge of Dad’s ashes to take with me”. It was a nice thought, but I quickly realized that I didn’t need his ashes. He was going to make it. I am half him, after all. He was even going to get a column out of it. 

While I sat at the monument, I didn’t feel any sort of magic or eeriness. More than anything, I felt in a hurry.  But there had been magic and it had been there all week. The magic remains in the undeniable connection to my Dad that I feel every time I write. And it will remain as it’s shared with the world, or whoever cares to read it. 

This magic, however, could also be described as grief. And the feeling of grief seems to go hand in hand with love. And what is love if not magic? 

In the words of Edgar Allan Poe, “Never to suffer would never to have been blessed.”

My life is beyond blessed.

As I rushed back to the hotel to change from the gothic dress I’d danced around in the night before into business clothes, and then raced, late, toward the convention, I turned a corner to run into two of my closest people, Brittany and Kallan. They were the last people I was expecting to see in Baltimore, but they’d flown out because, unbeknownst to me, I was about to be honored with an award. Both of my presentations were successful and engaging, as well… a HUGE relief after several months of preparation.

I leave Baltimore finishing this essay on an Amtrak to visit my dear friend Kristen and her family in Philadelphia. Behind me on the train lies one of the most significant weeks of my professional life to date. Behind me lies the proper ending of a story that started in Baltimore almost 30 years ago.

I wrote the presentation proposals that I presented this past week in deep grief. But there’s nothing that could convince me that grief (love) can’t propel you towards your wildest dreams and the infinite possibility that lies in the greatest mystery of all… the future, the unknown.

The Miracle in Memphis (and the Subsequent Duck Tattoo)

~ Katie Carlson ~ 9 Comments

I

At nearly 40 years old, I’ve recently gotten a couple of tattoos. I had wanted tattoos for years, but always told myself that I could get them once I lost a certain amount of weight and kept it off. Thank goodness my older, wiser self eventually said, “Whoa! Way harsh!” So inspired by the winter solstice, last year I decided that I wanted to get a star tattooed on my right arm.

The process of finding a tattoo artist was not easy. The people my friends would suggest all had notes like “not taking new clients” in their Instagram profiles. I’d cold email others and never hear back, or people would reply asking me to describe in detail what I wanted (“a star tattoo in a Swedish design pattern”) and THEN wouldn’t email me back.

Some friends suggested the Salty Siren in Greenwood, Indiana. I emailed a few people, and one emailed back… Anna.

She told me that she also has Swedish roots that she’d been really interested in exploring, and that she’d love to work on this design. So that was that. On March 31st, a few days before my 39th birthday, I went in to get my tattoo. I loved the outcome of the artwork, and didn’t think it hurt that much, so an overall success.

On a high from my first tattoo, I called my Mom to check in. My Dad was in the hospital, as he sometimes had been over the last 10 years or so. But this time Mom said, “I don’t think your Dad is going to come home from the hospital”. Thus began the week of his death. And, thankfully, he did get to come home, for four days of hospice care.

II

It had been less than two months since our family took a trip to Memphis to celebrate our Mom and Dad’s 40th Wedding Anniversary… less than two months since we – my Mom, my brother Johnny, and my sister-in-law Stephanie – witnessed a miracle.

My Mom surprised my Dad as we entered Memphis City Limits with the news that he was to be the Honorary Duck Master at the 5:00 pm marching of the ducks, from the fountain to the elevator in Memphis’ famed Peabody Hotel. Dad was elated, which was a small relief to us all, because he had been relying heavily on his favorite cane (a gift from his dear friend Jennie DeVoe) for mobility, and he’d expressed a little bit of nervousness about the trip.

As we arrived at the hotel, and checked in, we were met by Kenon Walker, the actual Peabody Hotel Duckmaster. Kenon began to give Dad the run-down for the duck march. Dad was dazzled by him – we all were – which was evident in the column he wrote about the experience.

We were seated at a special table in the Lobby. Dad received a Duckmaster cane, a rubber duckie, and an official Duckmaster certificate. When the time came and the children gathered along the red carpet, the Duckmaster introduced the Honorary Duckmaster, John Carlson. Then the ducks exited the fountain, and the two Duckmasters escorted them to the elevator, where my Mom was gleefully waiting to accompany them up to the Duck Palace on the top floor. 

It’s as if Dad floated down that red carpet with confidence and a boy-ish grin. With all eyes on him, there wasn’t the slightest trip or stumble. 

I captured a picture of this moment, of course, though I was scolded by a southern not-so-gentleman for blocking his view. I just looked at him, and said nothing. He probably didn’t realize that that was my Dad, and that that moment was Dad’s last big hurrah.

But Mom, Johnny, Steph and I were all overcome with joy.

We went out on Beale Street that night, and Dad took a pretty big fall. 

The next day, we were having family portraits taken. The portraits were an Anniversary gift from Johnny and I. Up to that point, we’d been more of an Olan Mills kind of family, and had never arranged a formal photo shoot. But thank God we had these photos taken. And with the loveliest photographer, too, Adonis. 

Dad had to ride in a wheelchair to get around the Memphis Botanic Gardens for the photo shoot. He had to ride in a wheelchair to get around the National Civil Rights Museum. We stuck around the Peabody for dinner that night (which was perfectly okay with me). The next morning, we ate breakfast and headed home.

Dad would go back to the hospital not long after that trip. I saw him one more time at home before hospice. In one sitting, Mom, Dad and I watched the entire miniseries “Bad Vegan” in which the main subject had a tattoo of a duck on her arm. I probably wouldn’t have noticed it so much had I not been sitting next to the Duckmaster himself.

III

I cried on my way to Muncie on April 1st. I cried because my birthday was in a couple of days. I cried because I felt stupid for caring about my birthday at all. I cried because I’d been signed up to take classes with a visiting teacher at Cityoga – one class on the 1st and one class on the 3rd (my birthday). I’d really been looking forward to it, so when I called to give up my spot and hope I wouldn’t lose my money, the sweet person on the phone held space for me as I cried that my Dad was dying. And there was a waiting list so I didn’t lose my money. I cried because when I called to cancel the 1st, she canceled the 3rd, too. It was the right thing to do, but I hadn’t realized I was giving up on it yet.

Dad came home to begin hospice on my birthday. We’d made the decision not to mention it to him. We didn’t want him to feel helpless. But at one point he looked up on the board in his hospital room, noticed the date, April 3rd, looked at me and mumbled “Happy Birthday, Kate”. Around 10:30 that night, Mom, the nurses and I ate some cake that had been picked up earlier that day from Concannon’s Bakery.

The next several days were excruciating. There was nothing to do but watch him slowly die. And greet the line of his dearest friends coming to say their final goodbyes. 

He died the evening of April 7th. The next day, as I headed back to Indy for a couple of nights, my brother gave me Dad’s Duckmaster cane to take home.

In the days following his death, my Dad was remembered in so many ways. He was remembered as a local favorite newspaper writer, and as a pilot and aviation nut, nicknamed “Ace”. He was remembered for loving clouds and his long-standing membership to the Cloud Appreciation Society. He was remembered as a loyal friend and beloved bar patron. He was remembered as an amazing husband, father, brother, uncle and cousin. Among these many remembrances, there were none who called him “Ducky” or mentioned an avid collection of ducks. He loved all birds – certainly ducks among them – but they weren’t one of his trademarks.

Even before Dad’s death, I met Johnny and Steph downstairs at the hospital, and showed them my new star tattoo. In the same conversation, I told them that I already wanted to get another one, of a Swedish-styled duck. I didn’t have to explain to them why. The day after Thanksgiving, Mom and I were on a hike at Mounds State Park when she pointed and said “look, there are some ducks” on the opposite side of the White River.

The association with ducks may not have been life-long, but they would be forever connected to his spirit.

IV

Back to waiting until I was almost 40 to start getting tattoos… This time I had told myself that if I trained for and finished a half marathon, I could get another tattoo (man… old thought patterns die hard). Thankfully, this exercise-based mission was less about weight, and more about processing grief and directing excess energy.

After completing the half marathon, another appointment was made with Anna, and she brought my vision of a duck in a Swedish design to life. The duck tattoo was placed on the back of my arm which was significantly more painful, but I remain in awe of her work, and the one-of-a-kind works of art that now grace my body.

Still, I know some people wonder why I would get such obvious tattoos at a later age. Well, first of all, because it’s my body, and I can do what I want. Second, I don’t know when my Dad got his first tattoo, but it was well into his 50s. But mostly it’s because my tattoos tell a story. One tells a story about my proud Swede of a Dad, and the miracle we witnessed at the Peabody Hotel. The other side tells a story to me.

It can be a little awkward, but people sometimes ask me to explain what the tattoos mean. To say “oh the duck is for my Dad” is simple. The star is a bit more complex. 

The star is about finding light in darkness. It’s about allowing yourself to take up as much space as you need. It means that you don’t have to shrink your body down to a certain size to be whole and be loved. It means that you don’t have to make yourself small or dim down your light to get approval from anyone else. It means you deserve to be where you are. And that your stories deserve to be heard.

And that’s good, because I’m a storyteller (and proud Swede), like my Dad. The star is there to remind me of that.

The Reticent Traveler: On Naming Your Fears Then Facing Them

~ Katie Carlson ~ 4 Comments

In the world of dating, it’s probably the most “uncool” thing about me. 

For the approximate ten days (over several years, and not currently) that I have been able to stomach Bumble, it’s clear that travel is hobby number one for eligible bachelors. A scroll through their profiles will tell you this much. “This could work if… You have more stamps in your passport than me” or “My ideal date is… A last minute trip to Croatia”.

Even on real life dates, my lackluster approach to travel has sealed the deal on my potential.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy doing new things, and visiting new places, and appreciating cultures other than my own… I do!

There’s no fear of flight involved. In fact, I love to fly. The daughter of a recreational pilot and aviation nut, I have such fond memories of sitting next to my Dad on planes, so excited for the take off and landing. In fact, if given the opportunity to ride as a passenger with the Blue Angels, I’d do it.

So what was stopping me? 

Money is a factor. As a public servant, I have a job I adore, and an income that I’m grateful for, but as a single woman paying all of her own bills, there’s not a ton left over. And I’ve always just assumed that travel wasn’t a big priority for my discretionary spending.

But the bigger factor has been my dogs, or now, just one dog, OkeDoke. She and her sister HATED being boarded, so travel required securing a dog sitter and incurring those expenses.

But it’s me with the separation anxiety. I hate being away from Oke. I hate missing our morning routine. I hate worrying about whether or not she’s going to get outside in a timely manner. I hate feeling like she’s wondering when I’m going to come home. She will turn 12 this year, and she’s slowing down. I lost her sister so suddenly that I’m terrified that Oke will get sick or hurt while I’m away.

For these reasons, primarily dogs, and secondarily money, I wasn’t very interested in travel and really hadn’t thought about it very much. Until the past year.

My Mom wanted to take me on a trip for my 40th birthday. She was down to go anywhere I wanted. My first thought was the Greek Isles. One of my best friends has gone multiple times, and it just looks like a dream… not to mention one of my favorite cuisines. So it sounded like a great idea.

But as the planning began, I could feel myself tensing up. There was so much distance between this person I wanted to be, who could dart off on an adventure, and the person who was actually there.

I noticed it the most when I started to feel angry and unseen by my friend for giving me the travel advice I had been asking her for, especially when she suggested that a week wasn’t enough time and that ten days would be better. I thought “does she not realize how hard this is for me!?”

That’s when I called my Mom and threw the brakes on the Greek Isles. I said “it’s too much and it’s too long”. My Mom, who has taken a number of international trips in recent years with her sisters, said: “Katie, you have travel anxiety. It’s common.”

At that moment, I felt a shift. I felt less alone. “It’s common.” 

I know a thing or two about anxiety. I have carried the diagnosis of General Anxiety Disorder for many years.

Researcher and author Brene Brown, particularly in her wonderful book (and HBO Max series) “Atlas of the Heart”, discusses how important it is to be able to identify our emotions, and how misidentifying our emotions can prevent us from seeking or accepting the support that we really need.

Once my “travel anxiety” was named, I could start to get the support I needed and begin to truly process it.

I called my friend back and said “turns out, I have travel anxiety” to which she replied with love and humor “yes, we all know”.

She had moved to Philadelphia almost 9 years earlier, and I’d never gone to visit. I’d made another friend feel rejected at times when I’d turned down her requests to go on a trip here or there. None of it had been purposeful or particularly conscious, especially not to me.

With awareness of my travel anxiety, I could begin to take baby steps. I have loads of energy and drive, and generally allow nothing to hold me back, but especially not myself.

Without plans for international travel, I applied for and received my U.S. Passport, so that’s out of the way.

Part of the reason I was hesitant to take the longer trip with my Mom is because the two of us were already planning to go to Florida for a week this Spring. That full week will easily be the longest time I’ve been out of the state in over a decade. I’d already been nervous about it, but it’s a vacation that my Mom had booked with my Dad before he died last year, so when she asked me to go with her, my answer was “of course”. It turns out that travel anxiety is no match to a daughter who wants to be there for her Mom.

But as far as my 40th birthday trip goes, already having planned to be away for a week in Florida, I wanted something lower key. So we made plans for a long weekend in Savannah instead and I’m looking forward to it.

I’ve been coming to realize, as I advance and excel in my career, that more travel to conferences would become necessary.

Last winter, as I was attempting to break through the writer’s block I’d encountered after the death of my father, I wrote two presentation proposals for a conference. A couple weeks ago, I learned that BOTH had been accepted, and I began the process of planning yet another trip, this time for work, for four nights in Baltimore. It’s a little ironic, isn’t it, that I’m more nervous about leaving my dog than giving two separate presentations in rooms full of strangers!? Apparently my travel anxiety is also no match to the passion I have for my work. 

But how could I go out to Baltimore and not visit my best friend an hour or two away in Philadelphia?! So I’m tacking two more nights on the trip, and after the conference, I’m taking the train from Baltimore to Philly.

The twenty nights I’m going to be on the road in the first five months of 2023 will add up to be more nights than I’ve been away from home (without my dog) in the last five years combined. And if I’m honest, I’m really nervous about all of it, mostly about leaving Oke. But I’m proud of myself, too, for working through my own fear and discomfort.

While my travel anxiety mostly seems to surround my dog and finances, there’s one other element that’s been holding me back. Comfort and contentment. I’ll probably always be a bit of a homebody because I love my house. I love it every single time I come home and am met by Oke. I love my neighborhood and I love my city. There’s an adage that you should “create a life that you don’t need a vacation from”. And while I agree with that in terms of escaping our problems rather than confronting them, I now see how it can go too far the other way. The true essence of “home” is a place that you can always come back to, whether that’s a physical house, a certain town or city, an idea or feeling, even a person, or a pet. But to come back, you have to leave, and if you can’t leave, are you at home or are you stuck?

It is the Winter Solstice.

~ Katie Carlson ~ Leave a comment

Originally published on December 21, 2022 on Katie’s Facebook page.

Each year, I celebrate the Winter Solstice. It’s one of the most reflective times of the year for me. And I always like to celebrate and share my Solstice practice with others. Sometimes, like this year, it’s a formal class, other times, like last year, I’ll celebrate with friends.

But as I look up at the sun nearing its high point through the window shades of my office, I’m reminded of a conversation I had with my Mom on last year’s Winter Solstice. We were just getting moved into our new building at the Community Justice Campus, and it was a difficult adjustment from working downtown.

There were a lot of “quirks” with the new building, including tons of windows, but a complete lack of window shades. There wasn’t really food that was easily available if you didn’t bring it with you, which was a shock compared to the ease of grabbing a salad from Whole Foods or soup from Subito.

So that Solstice day, not having planned my lunch ahead, I went to a restaurant in Fountain Square, and ordered a salad to go. I was charged an “employee quality of life” fee (huh?) of a couple bucks in addition to tax and a 20% tip. I spent over $18 total.

Later that day, I called my Mom and said “I just need to complain”. She held space and listened to me as I rattled off the “quirks” of the new building, my $18 salad, and ended by saying, “and I have had the sun in my eyes all day long and it’s the shortest f***ing day of the year!”

That afternoon, before my friends arrived, the guy I’d been talking to told me he was no longer interested (he was super nice about it), but all I could do was laugh.

The rest of the evening was lovely and went on as planned: sitting around my fireplace with friends, setting intentions… you know… Solstice-y stuff.

The following day, an ache started to run through my body. At first, I thought it was soreness from my morning workout. But then I couldn’t lift up my head. I barely moved the rest of the day. The next morning, I felt much better, but thought I should take a COVID test. It was positive. Already knowing this meant that I would not be able to go home for Christmas, I was filled with shame as I texted the friends who had spent time around me, fearing their Christmas plans would be spoiled, too.

I’ve thought a lot about how I missed my last Christmas with my Dad because of COVID. I was grateful to spare him from getting it as his health had long been in decline. But I didn’t completely miss Christmas with him. He and my Mom drove down to Indy on Christmas Day to exchange gifts with me, each taking turns to place them on my sidewalk, and we talked on Facetime, me inside of my house, and them from their car parked in front of my house.

Anyway… over the past week, I have been trying relentlessly to put together inspirational thoughts to share about the Winter Solstice. Over and over, I get started writing about honoring the darkness within, moving onto shadow work (see Carl Jung), and then I get stuck on shadow work… which isn’t really the subject I’m wanting to broach.

The subject I really want to talk about is hope and possibility.

But you know the phrase “holding onto hope”? Maybe I’m holding onto it a little too tightly. Maybe in trying to force hope on all of you, I’m missing the point. Maybe that’s why my writing on this subject hasn’t come together. It’s not that we can’t all have hope, it’s that you can’t force it, on yourself or others.

So as I prepare to celebrate the Winter Solstice and to share my practice with others in a sold out class tonight, I wonder… perhaps I need to take my own advice.

I want the Winter Solstice to feel good, and warm, and softly lit, like the Scandinavian term “hygge”. This isn’t much different than forcing hope.

I want people to honor the Solstice by “embracing their inner darkness” by “shining a light on the parts of themselves that they don’t love” and learning to love themselves entirely. But maybe, I haven’t been doing the same for myself. I’ve been forcing this yoga and meditation teacher version of myself to show up, instead of the version of myself that’s actually here. The version that’s here knows that COVID is still around this Christmas, but my Dad’s not. The version that’s here wrote this thing instead of something inspirational about hope and possibility.

So, as a joke, I changed the graphic for this post as a play on the “Office” episode with the “It is your birthday.” sign. Before, it had said “Winter Solstice Blessings” in pretty cursive. That’s definitely not the version of myself that’s showing up today, the version I have to accept and start to love if I urge the same for others. This version of myself isn’t so bad though. She’s got a sense of humor, at least.

Anyway, maybe you’ll choose to celebrate today by doing some Solstice-y stuff, or maybe you won’t. But for me, the best way I can think of to honor it is to show up exactly as I am, and not some romanticized version of Winter Solstice Katie. And in doing that, it stokes my inner flame of hope and possibility that others can do the same. Happy Solstice, Friends.

On Not Writing: Untangling Creativity from Grief

~ Katie Carlson ~ 3 Comments

Originally (and graciously) published on December 12th, 2022 on my incredibly talented and life long friend Lisa Swander’s Blog.

After my Dad, a beloved local writer, died in early April, I had hoped that I’d be incredibly inspired to write. In his spirit, you know? 

My Dad was the biggest fan of my writing. In the last week of his life, he could recall back to me specific phrases that I’d written in a Facebook post at the end of February. This one in particular:

“Seriously underestimating the amount of mud we’d encounter on today’s walk, we had to navigate it, hopping from one side of the path to the other, like you’d navigate the wake behind a boat. But with a slow, plodding place, there were no falls… not into a puddle or off of a muddy ridge. Icicles fallen from the trees would catch my eyes like crystals, and the woodpeckers worked diligently as I’d look closely to spot hard buds on low branches… the very first signs of Spring. It’s one of my favorite times of year where just under the dreary deadness of winter, we can have faith that growth and renewal are preparing to blossom, in nature and in our lives.”

At the time, he commented: “Beautiful writing, Katie!”. But still he was still thinking about it as his heart and liver were failing him due to amyloidosis.

Upon his death, I knew right away that I wanted to eulogize my Dad at his funeral. By the grace of God, I knew exactly what I wanted to say, and delivered it, voice unwavering, with courage that came from the depths of my soul. The eulogy itself was about courage… courage to live with an open heart, and to bravely share yourself with the world.

Buzzing from the vulnerability of the eulogy, from what seemed a fitting tribute to my Dad, I felt the deepest desire to produce more writing that my Dad would love. The line between desire and self-imposed pressure blurred as I kept the goal “write and publish in honor of Dad” written where I would see it every day. But then there was… nothing. After all, what’s the point when you lose your biggest fan? 

I was far from alone in that sense of loss. My Mom and my brother lost their biggest fan too. It’s not that the three of us don’t all love and support each other tremendously. We do. It’s that my Dad’s exuberance as a fan was unmatched. He had the name of my brother’s band, Modoc, tattooed on his arm. And if Dad was a fan of yours… of your writing, your singing, your mission, your artwork, your restaurant… he made sure you knew it.

I wanted to write and I wanted to create, but I guiltily let Father’s Day and his birthday pass by without comment. The words just weren’t there. There was nothing to share. Nothing on grief, loss, or love.

I read and was inspired by Stephen King’s book “On Writing”. King’s methods and his mind… oh my. Yet for me, there was nothing.

I tried to stir creativity by giving myself a writing project. I would challenge my spiritual beliefs by taking a break from most of my spiritual practices, and keep a daily log of the results. I thought by taking apart my beliefs and putting them back together, I’d be moved to poetically uncover some deep, aching truth I could share with the world. But the results were dull. My beliefs and practices remained pretty much the same. I was hardly interested in re-reading my notes, let alone packaging it all up with a clever summary. There was just nothing there. Nothing my Dad would have loved.

In my professional life, however, hardly a day goes by that I don’t write to exchange information in a manner that’s kind, clear, and direct. I regularly communicate en masse about wellness-related programming and opportunities. Without struggle, I plan and write presentations that I give on a 6 week basis.

So I was writing… and doing plenty of it. It just wasn’t personal.

I really love the time of the year leading up to Santa Lucia Day on December 13th through the Winter Solstice on December 21st. It’s as if we’re being told by nature to rest, to turn inward, and to honor the darkness, both outside and deep within ourselves. But it’s also a time of hope, a candle in the dark lighting the way,  the bright, guiding star in the night sky,  and an eventual return to light and longer days. 

But after the Solstice, the contrary hustle and bustle of the holidays sends me right back into my usual winter blues. Feeling extra grief this year, I made a decision with my doctor to get started on a seasonal depression medication.

The week after Thanksgiving, armed with Wellbutrin and in a big burst of energy, even to my own surprise, I completed two proposals. Both were based on fresh ideas from scratch, thus accomplishing one of my biggest goals for the end of the year. Proposal writing, it seems, is a fusion of my two writing styles… the direct and the inspired.

Writing those proposals, I once again felt the buzz of having shared my words, ideas and vulnerable heart with the world… The buzz, a sign of hope, that my words might help even one person.

So I keep coming back to my computer intentionally and inspired to write. And all tangled up in this writing about not writing is the soft light of hope helping me find my words in the darkness of mourning, and a story about grief, loss and love.

John Carlson’s Bravest Act: Reflections from His Daughter

~ Katie Carlson ~ 1 Comment

Originally written in April of 2022, and delivered on April 19, 2022 at Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in Muncie, Indiana.

As kids, my brother Johnny and I could spend hours exploring our Dad’s relic-filled office, which was technically a garage, lined with books, and tobacco pipes. You couldn’t walk in that room without it feeling like a shrine to a bad mamba jamba. What fascinated me most were the photographs on the walls, mostly of Dad and airplanes, but what always stood out to me was the picture of a race car with a $1 bill in the frame… prize money.

Johnny and I would brag to our friends about our Dad… the pilot, the race car driver, the motorcycle enthusiast, and of course the newspaperman. But I know that I never really stopped. As recently as 2019, in a video recording of a professional race car driver taking me for a spin around the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, I made sure to mention to the driver that my Dad had raced cars as well, as if the thrill of a fast turn was my birthright.

Dad didn’t just display fearlessness, however, he savored it in others. Some of his favorite work was telling the stories of World War 2 Veterans. This subject was close to his heart as his own Father had earned a Purple Heart fighting bravely in the Pacific. He often recalled with pride a time that I, around 7 or 8,  jumped into a bush outside of our house in Yorktown to save our cat, Dusty, from a loose and threatening dog. 

But it wasn’t just death-defying acts or bravery on the battlefield that interested him, it was also the bravery that it takes to open a small business, or share your talents with the world. He loved telling stories about people who heroically put their heart and passion on display.

Beyond thrill seeking, his open-heartedness and vulnerability was the bravest thing about my Dad. He walked through this sometimes cruel, sometimes broken world without wearing any armor. He shared life’s ups and downs with readers, generating a sense that it’s all going to be OK as long as you can laugh at yourself a little. His heart was open and exposed to all whom he encountered. He poured out his love onto others. And he was endlessly generous. The motorcycle he loved so dearly? He sold it one summer so that our family could afford the expensive first year membership fees to the local swim club. 

And though Dad was confined to a bed in his last days, he marched triumphantly towards death with the same fearlessness that Johnny and I had known as kids. Without a single complaint, and with the child-like wonder that we all read in his final column, Dad spent his last days giving and receiving love from his amazing wife, his angelic sister, his two children, and lots of dear friends.

Dad loved poetry and in times of being broken-hearted, I find comfort in the words of the Sufi poet Rumi. Rumi said this: “The wound is the place where light enters you.” And he also said this: “You have to keep breaking your heart until it opens.” 

So for those of us who loved and admired John Carlson, we can honor his incredible life and legacy by using this heartbreak to soften our hearts, to bravely show the world who we are, and to love and be loved as much as we possibly can. But I think Dad would also appreciate it if we would all leave really, really big tips.

Light in the Dark: St. Lucia, The Winter Solstice, And Equanimity

~ Katie Carlson ~ Leave a comment

Originally written/posted on December 13, 2021, and published on Sivana East.

Since I’ve been old enough to balance a crown of (battery-operated) candles on my head and carry a tea ring pastry, I’ve celebrated St. Lucia Day. The holiday, and St. Lucy, are revered in Swedish culture, and though my Swedish heritage comes from my Dad’s side, my Mom, and our Lutheran Church, instilled these traditions in me.

Beyond the white dresses, red sashes, baked goods and candles, the meaning of St. Lucia Day continues to evolve for me personally, and remains just as important in our modern world.

St. Lucia was a martyr, executed for her Christian beliefs after angering a male suitor… a tale that remains uncomfortably familiar. But over the centuries, she has come to be associated with light. The feast in her honor, on December 13th, falls a week away from the winter solstice, and especially in Scandinavia, where winters are long and dark, St. Lucia is a reminder of the hope that comes from a light in the darkness.

The winter solstice is also a celebration of light and dark. That darkest, shortest day of the year is a turning point… from then on, each day will become a little longer until June. But the winter solstice is not just about the seasons. It’s an important time to shine a light on and embrace our inner darkness.

One of my favorite quotes sums up the request that the winter solstice asks from all of us. Brene Brown wrote, “Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.”

What is our inner darkness? Is it our shadow? Is it our shame? Yes, sure, it’s that AND it’s any part of ourselves that we deny.

Why is it important to explore our inner darkness? Because when we deny our truths, as imperfect as they may be, we deny our fullest selves from showing up in life. When we deny ourselves from showing up, we’ll deny others from showing up fully, too.

The Buddhist author Pema Chodron describes the traditional image of the word “equanimity” as a “banquet to which everyone is invited”. In other words, that space and openness is created for the existence of every person, regardless of their beliefs, their current or past actions, or whatever it is about “them” that keeps them separate from “us”.

But this equanimity can also be applied within ourselves. By shining a light on the parts of us we’d like to keep hidden, like the residual effects of past trauma, our own fear-based beliefs, our shame, we have an opportunity to invite and welcome those things to the table of our lives. This doesn’t mean those things take over control. It means we can live our lives in awareness instead of denial. And that if we can have compassion for those things in ourselves, we can find more compassion for others.

One of my teachers, Fleet Maull, describes the work of a meditation and mindfulness teacher as holding up a light in the darkness of an increasingly chaotic world. That simply by holding this light – this light of love, of peace, of acceptance, of grace, of equanimity – others can find you in their darkness.

And it is here we find St. Lucia carrying through the dark her candles and food to share with others. Because the thing about the light in the dark is that the light does not discriminate. It doesn’t light up only the people that agree with you, and leave the others in darkness. It will light up whatever is present. It will light up whoever is present.

In this seemingly darkening world, I hope you’ll take the opportunity to tap into the powerful energy of this upcoming week, to grow your inner flame of self-acceptance, and to shine the light of love and acceptance out onto others.

Karaoke Redemption

~ Katie Carlson ~ Leave a comment

By Katie Carlson

Singing and I have had a long, complicated relationship.

As a young girl, I loved to sing and I was good at it. I sang in the church choir, as well as school choirs and musicals, until a point in time came that I decided that it was no longer “cool” to participate in those activities. Still – in my car – I could belt out an Aretha Franklin or Etta James song like it was nobody’s business. I certainly couldn’t sing the songs with the same conviction as those ladies, but I’d hit all the right notes.

Once I turned 18 years old, I did the worst thing that a singer could do. I decided to show off my cool, slightly alternative, badass attitude by taking up smoking. And it wasn’t just a cigarette or two here or there, it was a pack a day habit – and eventually menthols. By the ripe age of 19, I recall attending church services with my parents, unable to hide my smoker’s cough, and I quit smoking shortly after. For a few years anyway…

As a young professional, I took smoking back up, and smoked anywhere from about ten a day, to a good year of smoking about two cigarettes a day, or as I would joke “just enough to keep the addiction alive”.

Finally, I was able to leave smoking behind. I didn’t quit, per se, because the moment that I say I can’t do something, it’s the first thing that I want to do, but I haven’t bought a pack in at least two years.

Still, all of those cigarettes over the years added up and did some damage to my voice. And though I cannot hit the high notes that I could when I was a girl, I still had my songs, my ever-expanding list of “go to” songs that I would sing at the top of my lungs. I’d nail every note, and felt confident that I knew all of the words, though it was hard to say for sure without turning volume all the way down, leaving me with no music at all. I would say to myself “I know this song well enough to sing it karaoke”, meanwhile also justifying that the music would gracefully guide me through the song, and that there were probably going to be back-up singers on the karaoke version.

Unfortunately, in the course of building my repertoire, a song or two made the “go to” list that had no business being on there. One of those songs was Stevie Wonder’s “For Once in My Life”.

I may never really understand why I thought I could sing that song. It’s Stevie Wonder for goodness sake.

When I learned that my dear friend Shelli, whose campaign I had once managed, would be in town to attend a karaoke fundraiser for a local political candidate, I decided to attend. I thought back to the many long car trips that we had taken together, both singing our hearts out as a way to relieve stress. The high point of our musical magic, and really one of the high points of a very tough campaign, was our duet to Debbie Boone’s “You Light Up My Life”, sung as we traveled back from Washington, D.C. to Indiana. We loved it. Our voices blended perfectly. And afterwards, we decided that once the campaign was over, we needed to go do karaoke and sing that song.

I went to the fundraiser with hope of finding “You Light Up My Life” on the list of songs. But it wasn’t there. Neither was “I Feel the Earth Move”, or “Something to Talk About”, or any Kacey Musgraves’ songs!  You know what happens next. My over-confidence and a couple beers got the best of me. I decided I would sing “For Once in My Life”.

I followed my friend Elise, who sang a sweet song by a 60s girl group and did a great job. She knew the song well. It was totally in her range. I danced and cheered on the sidelines as I prepared to take the stage.

When it was my turn, I got up, waited for the music to start, and immediately had no idea what key to sing the song in. I must have switched keys or entire octaves three or four times during the course of the three minute song. I knew I was failing hard in front of a room full of my political friends and peers. “Finally!” I thought, “The long musical break!”

So I did the only thing I knew to do, and started dancing around. I even got a few cheers and smiles from the crowd. But when I had to sing again, I knew I had failed the song so badly that Stevie Wonder himself would have been angry at my attempt. Does Stevie Wonder even get angry, I wondered? I was just dying for that song to be over. When it finally ended, I made a disparaging comment about myself into the microphone, something along the lines of “it sounded a lot better in my car”, and walked away embarrassed and in shame.

To my dear friends who told me that it was good, I shut them down immediately. I took the most comfort in my friend who said that the music was really loud, so you couldn’t really hear the vocals at all from the back. However, I have a feeling that the DJ may have made an adjustment, for which I was grateful. I really just wanted to exit the room, but due to the previously mentioned attitude, I stuck it out like I didn’t care. But my ego was near-mortally wounded.

Fast forward about a month and my neighbors are all gathering at the dingy, neighborhood watering hole for a pre-Thanksgiving chili cook-off and karaoke night. “I’m just being polite stopping by,” I told myself, “I’m being a good neighbor.” I had no intention of embarrassing myself again.

The DJ started off the night himself with a rendition of the country song “Rub It In” that gave me the creeps… He sang from behind the table with his equipment, “Rub it in, rub it in, I feel the tingle begin, you’re gettin’ under my skin, rub it in, rub it in.”

Even better, the equipment was set up in such a way that in order to see the words to the song, you must turn your back to the crowd.

Next up was a fellow who, when the DJ didn’t have Carole King’s “You Got a Friend” (or maybe the DJ did have the song, and the gentleman chose not to use it), he sang his own a capella version, on his own time, skipping around to the parts of the song he wanted to sing, singing them twice, and leaving out other verses entirely.

Another gentleman in the bar, who I can only assume is a regular, was very excited about the a capella Carole King song that his ears were feasting on, and joined the table of myself and a few neighbors. This man had an awkward smile, and leaned into everyone he was talking to, so as to press up against their shoulder. He never wanted to speak to me, but I watched him with interest as he moved around the room deciding who he would press up against next.

Over the night, the bar owner, a very sweet lady, and her friends, took turns singing classic country western songs, backing each other up on vocals and dancing as they each sang.

Another group of girls, closer to my age, came to the bar that evening for one reason, and one reason only, to sing karaoke. Like the older group of females, they each went up there with a great support system singing and dancing behind them. You could see how much fun they were having.

After a few more rounds of the DJ taking a turn for himself, and the man who sang sans karaoke machine, our neighbors started getting the confidence, one by one, to take a turn. That’s when I started to change my mind.

Once I knocked back one more beer, I marched up to the DJ, who didn’t a book of songs that you had to choose from, and asked, “Do you have ‘Mama’s Broken Heart’?”

“Yep. What’s your name?”

I said “Katie”, and walked away thinking “that was easy”.

A couple songs and sips of beer later, and he called me to the stage for my turn.

I took a deep breath. The music came on, the first lines to the song appeared, and I started singing. This time, I was nailing it. Well, maybe not completely, I stumbled once or twice, but I was feeling so confident with the song and the lyrics, that I even tried turning around to face the crowd and put on a show a time or two.

The man who sang a capella had the one seat in the entire bar that actually faced the singer, so from behind a bar top, and a sign leaning against a support beam, I could see him through a little triangle smiling and slapping his hand on the counter top.

This time, when it was over, I had a smile on my face. I’d had fun. The handful of neighbors that remained cheered on my performance, and the bar owner and I exchanged compliments.

After taking my seat, and watching the same folks perform on rotation, I declared that it was about time for me to leave. Then, one of two men who were sitting at a table behind me, neither of whom had said a word to me all night, said, “You’re leaving? We wanted to hear you sing again!”

“I have fans!” I thought to myself, “Well, I can’t disappoint my fans!”

Once again, I marched up to the DJ and said “Do you have ‘Me and Bobby McGee’?”

“Yep.”

“Are there a lot of people signed up to sing?”

“No. Not really.”

“Okay. Thanks!”

Once again, I walked back to my seat thinking, “two for two!”

I was next person they called up, as the DJ explained to the crowd that I was ready to get out of there.

This time, the younger girls, who must have been outside during my first song, were back, nearly doubling the crowd. This song, I knew I knew. I had been singing it – a capella even! – since I was a little girl around camp fires at the request of my cousins. They even had the song at the karaoke event where I totally flopped, but I didn’t want to sing it because it has kind of become a karaoke cliché. It’s always someone’s song, and that someone makes a really big deal about singing it. Well, on this night, I didn’t care about any of that, it was my song.

Knowing each note and word by heart, I was able to turn around and sing to the crowd. I danced during the musical breaks. I sang the crap out of that song. And the crowd of fifteen or so went wild. The younger girls I didn’t know were hooting and hollering along with the table of the remaining neighbors.

And while I was singing it, I felt the same way that I do when I sing that song or others to myself in my car: filled with joy and free to be exactly who I am, which is exactly how karaoke should be.