What More Can I Say?
Note: I’m publishing a day early this week because I’m heading off the grid for a weekend camping trip. No Wi-Fi, no Sunday publishing—just trees, stars, and hopefully no surprise bears and clean (enough) showers.
For 38 weeks, I’ve sat down and made an offering. A story. A memory. A question. A prayer. Each week, I opened a blank page and tried to tell the truth as best as I could access it that day.
I didn’t start this newsletter with a grand plan. It all began as a quiet commitment I made to myself when I moved to California last August for a fellowship. It felt like the right moment to carve out time for writing, so I promised myself I’d publish an essay every Sunday as a built-in form of accountability.
Initially, these essays were just long Instagram captions paired with photos from the week, never more than 2,200 characters. But within a few weeks, that space wasn’t enough. I had more to say, more to feel. And without much thought, a newsletter was born.
Sometimes, this project has felt indulgent. Who am I to write every week as if the world is waiting for my thoughts? But I learned quickly that Future Tense wasn’t about offering certainty. It was about making space for grief, joy, transformation, the mundane, and the miraculous. In doing so, I found more of my voice and a deeper understanding of myself.
One of the themes that emerged early and returned often was the idea of sacred spaces. In one of my favorite essays, “God Is,” I wrote about my grandmother’s lap being my first altar. It was warm, safe, and holy. That essay reminded me—and hopefully reminded others—that sanctity isn’t reserved for steeples or scriptures. It lives in memory, in touch, in everyday rituals. I kept returning to that idea. I found the sacred in early-morning walks, a friend’s embrace, a hard-won gym session, even in the act of letting go.
And letting go became a recurring guest in this house of essays. Sometimes it was about surrendering control. Other times, it meant releasing old narratives, outdated identities, or the illusion of certainty. In one piece, I wrote about how my body had changed and how learning to live in that body, stronger, more capable, and more tired, was an act of grace. In another, I explored what it means to lead and to know when it’s time to pass the baton. Whether personal or professional, the throughline was clear: release is not failure. It is an act of faith.
If Future Tense has a thesis, it might be this: In the absence of knowing, we tell stories, we lean into community, we remember who we are, and we grow.
This playlist is the soundtrack to my newsletter Future Tense. Each weekly essay takes its title from a song—some classics, some deep cuts, all meaningful. These songs aren’t just titles; they’re moods, memories, and messages. Press play and read along, or just vibe with the music that’s been echoing in my head as I write.
Community is, perhaps, the unexpected heartbeat of this project. Though I often write alone, I never feel alone when I hit “publish.” Responses come back like echoes—sometimes loud, sometimes faint, but always affirming that connection is possible, even in the digital dark. I’ve heard from friends, strangers, old colleagues, and new readers who saw themselves in the words. Sometimes, they noticed things I hadn’t even realized I was saying. That’s the magic of writing in public: it becomes a shared mirror.
Some weeks, the essays came easily, like water over smooth stones. Other times, I had to wrestle them into existence. I’ve written from hotel rooms, airports, and kitchen counters. I’ve written through exhaustion, delight, heartbreak, and wonder. But I kept showing up. Not because I had something profound to say each time, but because I had made a promise to myself. It also made a significant life shift, much less scary because I had my words and you, along with me, on this journey.
Now, 38 weeks in, I can see the arc—not just the arc of the newsletter but the arc of a person in motion. I see a woman learning to trust her voice more fully. I see someone unafraid to change her mind, revisit old wounds with new wisdom, and sit in the tension of becoming. I see someone growing.
My fellowship ended this week. So what now?
I don’t know exactly. And honestly, that feels like a good place to be. Future Tense was never about having the answers. It was about making room for the questions.
But I do know this: I want to keep writing. I want to keep listening. I want to keep building altars—on the page, in community, in the spaces between us.
Thank you for sitting with me here.
As my life shifts over the following months, I’ll likely make some changes around here. Stay tuned.
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