During COVID, I made this sweatshirt with a group of moms I bonded with amid the chaos of e-learning with our kids. I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve, so apparently, I decided to go ahead and dye it there permanently.

I love falling into new art forms. I get obsessed, buy all the supplies, convince myself this is now who I am, and then, just as quickly, get bored the second I feel like I’ve figured it out. It’s less “hobby” and more “intense, short-lived identity crisis.”

But writing has never been like that.

Writing is the one thing that never lets me go, or maybe I never let it go. I started writing books as soon as I could form sentences. I’ve written songs for bands, wedding ceremonies, websites, funeral tributes, grocery lists that read like manifestos, recipes (I never follow) cards, notes, anything that will hold still long enough for me to put words on it.

I have four tattoos, and on the last one, I debated adding a word to the image. I sat there thinking about it way too long before realizing the problem: I can’t pick one word.

That feels like choosing one version of myself. One mood. One story.

It’s like being told to pick one type of cheese for the rest of your life, which is not only unreasonable but also frankly offensive.

So I left it as is.

Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s this:

I may wander through every possible medium trying to understand myself, but I will always come back to words.