All I Wanted

Reflections on making room for joy

This story was going to be about growing up without a dad. I’ve been stepping around this particular wound for a long time, wondering what sharing it might look and feel like.

So many of us have abandonment stories. Upon reflection, I realized I was ready to write about mine.

I sat in front of my computer screen and waited for the memories to rise. I ran my hands along the father-shaped hole I grew around, feeling its rough edges, resting a warm palm on the scar tissue.

It’s hard to shape words around so much emptiness.

My birth father’s desertion scooped something out of me. All these years later, I’m still not sure what it was.

That’s the Grief Casserole I was preparing for you.

But something happened: Weeks ago, I’d written a note about my husband, Toby. It said, in part, “Everything I write—every keystroke, every slash of ink on paper—is in honour of you, Toby. I miss you.”

For reasons I still don’t understand, it took off.

Don’t worry—this is NOT a story about going viral or hacking the algorithm or growing your Substack. That’s not what I’m here to write about. Ever¹.

This particular note was weeks old. Maybe you saw it sitting there, idle; other stories and posts pushing it to the back corner of the cyberspace parking lot.

That’s where I assumed it would stay. But when I wasn’t looking, it rumbled to life.

Suddenly, thousands of people were engaging with the stories and notes I’ve written and shared here over the past 11 months. Excitement swirled around me, but I struggled to fully experience it. Happiness and joy were also present, waiting to be felt. I reached for them, but something inside me said Don’t... Don’t allow those in. You know better. This is nothing.

But that voice was wrong. This wasn’t nothing.

I watched my writing gather momentum like a rolling jet heading toward a runway. I stood on the tarmac as it sped past me, lifted its wheels off the ground, and shot through the sky.

In awe and confusion, I waved goodbye to my little note as it flew around the world.

Here’s what you had no way of knowing: It was my birthday. More than once, I heard someone ponder aloud, “Maybe this is Toby’s birthday gift to you.”

Toby. Photo by Ashleigh Wells Photography.

I didn’t know people like Toby existed. I trusted him and what we had unreservedly. Being with Toby was the only time I’ve felt truly seen by a partner. His guileless, attuned presence told me it was safe to relax into the joy and magic of being in love.

And that’s all I wanted.

But the world can be a hard, mean place. By the time I met Toby, I had already learned that visitors like joy, excitement, and happiness were worthy not of acceptance, but of suspicion.

Here, in the house of my nervous system, hypervigilance is a permanent resident. It sees everything through the lens of alarm. When you’re used to looking at the world this way, even good things can seem dangerous.

When good feelings do come knocking, I know how to meet them at the door, but I don’t know how to let them in. I don’t like this about myself.

When something truly good happens, I don’t want to leave it outside. I don’t want to inspect it through the peephole until I find something amiss. Or until the moment is gone.

I want to open the door slowly and say, “Welcome. Come in. Please meet my worry and my grief and the family of things that live here.”²

I want to learn how to make room for it all.

So many of you found me because of a note that took flight.

Waking up to all your hearts, shares, supportive comments, and subscriptions was an experience I will never forget. And it’s not about the numbers (although metrics are important for writers who are trying to make a living).

It’s about honouring Toby and his dream for me. It’s about holding that dream in my hand and on the page and seeing it start to come true. Writing was my dream too—I’ve wanted to be a writer since childhood, but it felt so big and impossible.

Toby’s belief in me allowed me to risk believing in myself.

I wept as I stood in the centre of your support. I wept as I felt your hearts, received your encouragement, read your words.

It was almost like Toby was speaking through you.

I wish so much that he was here to see how you wrapped your warmth around me. I know he’d want me to soak in your kindness, to sit with this wonder and gratitude without worrying about how it could be dangerous.

What you gave me, I’m still not sure how to take it all in.

But I can promise you this: I’m not leaving it outside.

1. I have no idea how or why my note took off the way it did, but I am grateful.

2. “Family of things” here is a nod to poet Mary Oliver.