Posted on by Danna Johnson

Rediscovering Your Voice After a Long Pause

It’s so quiet in here

I’ve been absent from my writing practice for a long time. And, as we know, the longer you step away from something the harder it is to step back in.

I stepped away for so long that I barely remember the woman who used to write regularly — the one who wrote from a place of pain and loneliness, of uncertainty and confusion. Writing when you’re lonely is easy, because you’re writing to connect. You’re throwing your words into the world in hopes that someone else will read them, and feel seen and understood. 

It’s why so many songs are written about heartbreak. It’s why so many books have tragic turning points and underdogs. It’s why Taylor Swift has a catalogue, and it’s why country music exists. 

Writing when you’re happy? Writing when you’re healthy? Writing when you have mental clarity, are securely attached with rich friendships, a good job, and well-adjusted children? 

Not only is that boring, it also seems boastful. Barf. Shut up, already.

Our appetite for disaster

Scrolling on Instagram the other night, I laughed as a content-creator mom detailed her social media wish list this holiday season: Keep your matching jammies and picture-perfect cookie-decorating reels, she said. Give us your disasters – nobody wants your curated Christmas perfection. 

Folks love a good disaster. As much as we say we want good news, I worked in the news business long enough to know that we don’t, really.

People want to watch us fail more than they want to see us succeed. And they want reassurance that that same disaster isn’t about to overtake them.

So I detailed my disaster. I shared my mess. And then the storm passed and I spent years quietly sweeping up debris and replacing broken windows.

Now my life is tidy, quiet and boring. 

Naming the grief

It turns out that while I was sweeping up, I was grieving, and it’s only lately that I’ve given myself permission to use that word.

It felt indulgent to call what I went through ‘grief.’ Nobody died. I have friends who lost their husbands forever; mine decided he wanted someone else, and now they live just down the road.

But it was grief. I grieved the life I thought I would have and the future I worked so hard for. I grieved the childhood my children wouldn’t get, the holidays and celebrations that were simple and are now complicated. And as much as I hate to admit it, I also grieved the loss of what had been at one point, my closest friend.

A story still worth telling

The other day, while out walking the dog and looking for a new podcast for my journey, Oprah’s name popped up. Her podcast was about the rise of the ‘grey divorce,’ the term given to those who divorce after the age of 50. The subjects being interviewed were mostly women. Some had initiated the divorce, while others were blindsided. 

The episode reminded me that I still have a story to tell and connections to make. That I remain a writer, even when my keyboard collects dust; even when I’m quiet. 

The words are still there, and lately they’ve been bubbling up, putting lumps in my throat that a cough simply won’t clear.

I was reminded that even if there’s a greater appetite for stories of heartbreak and disaster, there are still those who might wish to read about the boring bits. About remembering who you are when you come up for air. About the depth of friendships, about parenting teenagers who have a complicated relationship with their dad, and about accidentally falling in love again when you have every reason to steer clear. 

And even if there is no audience, that’s no reason to sit on my hands.

I have a story to tell.

Posted on by Danna Johnson · 3 Comments

Frozen Middleschoolers

My middle schooler wore a coat today 
So, maybe you think I won?
But the outerwear battle is many-layered
And winter’s only just begun.

My middle schooler wore a coat today,
But will he keep it on? 
Will he zip it? Who’s to say?
“It’s only -17 degrees outside, MOM!”

His pants are short, as are his socks
And his boots gather dust.
But I’ll fight shoe fights another day, 
No need to push my luck.

My middle schooler wore a coat today, 
But unzipped coats come off.
He trudges home, coat under arm,
Safe to say I lost.

Posted on by Danna Johnson

The ‘lasts’ of childhood

I’m afraid to write it down, as though by acknowledging it, drawing attention to it, making figurative eye contact with it, will make it disappear.

My children, my teenager and my pre-teen, still want me around. And not just around to provide snacks and drive them places. But actually around. And in public, too.

There’s a tweet that circulated a while ago that punches mothers in the belly by reminding us that there’s a last time you’ll pick up your child. And there are one million tear-jerking poems on the same subject. And what’s worse is that like so many finales that life throws at us, we won’t realize the last time is the last time, so we don’t even notice it. We’re not even given the option of holding the moment and etching it into our mind’s eye.

While I got a lump in my throat thinking about it, I refuse to cry. There are a lot of “last times” in motherhood. There’s a last time your child asks for help wiping his bum, and you don’t see anyone sobbing about that. 

And what’s so great about picking up a kid, anyway? They’re all sharp elbows and knees by the time we put them down for the last time.

No, not all ‘last times’ are sad. And while I can’t pick up my biggest child anymore, I can get him to help me reach the high shelves and move the living room furniture, so there’s a bright side.

But there are a couple of ‘last times’ I will cry over. One is the bedtime routine, including the tucking in. I get up way earlier than they do these days, and throughout the summer my youngest took to tucking me in occassionally as a result. The other is the last walk to school. I figured it was coming. In fact, I figured I’d gone on the last walk to school at the end of Grade 5. But last week when Grade 6 arrived there he was, my 11-year-old, waiting by the door telling me to hurry up or we’d be late.

“Oh! Yup, I’m coming,” I shouted as I raced down the stairs, afraid to make a big deal about it, afraid that he’d suddenly realize he’s too old to walk with me, or that I’m too embarrassing, or my shoes are too noisy, or that I talk too loudly and about the wrong things.

I tiptoed around him like I might a racoon that I’m trying to tame; desperate not to seem too eager, or to move too quickly, or to act too excited.

And so off we went, walking in the sunshine, chatting like a whole summer hadn’t just passed, as though he’s not the oldest kid in his school this year, as though I’m not having the best morning I’ve had in months and feeling slightly intoxicated and giddy at being unexpectedly included. 

They still want me around and I’m not sure why.

When I took them back to school shopping at the mall, I asked if they wanted me to leave them alone and show up later with my credit card. They looked at me sideways.

“No. We can shop with you.”

Certainly, kids still need their parents, but I expected them to drift away. I expected them to treat me like they treat their coats in winter and pretend I don’t exist.

Whatever is happening, it’s a surprise and a joy. I’m managing, somehow, to be both parent and friend and I’m clinging to it all while trying not to look too desperate, giving away my hand.

When this school year ends, when he stops about 100 metres from the field, turns, says, “goodbye mom, love you,” and runs toward his friends I’ll know it’s the last time.

I see it coming.

And I’ll cry the whole way home, gutted but grateful that I snuck another year in. 

Posted on by Danna Johnson

Lunch Break

What if

I just took my lunch break

If I sat down to eat

A bowl of soup

Or two scrambled eggs on toast

What if I opened a book

And with it propped against a pillow on my lap

I sipped a hot cup of tea

And disappeared for an hour

What if I just stopped

Trying to fit in a quick run

Or a trip to the grocery store

Or an unloaded dishwasher

What if I just quit

Prepping dinner

And folding laundry

And wiping toothpaste off mirrors

What would happen

Would it be OK

If I just took my lunch break?

Posted on by Danna Johnson

Love is a loaded word

Who doesn’t love love?

It’s been awhile since I was “in love,” to be honest. But I’ve dabbled in falling in love–in catching those first heady feelings you get after a few dates that don’t go sideways, or that aren’t spent intentionally ignoring the red flags that so often show up in the periphery.

And oh my gosh does it feel good!

This isn’t love, love, certainly, or at least not the kind that would have you make bold commitments or pronouncements. This isn’t the kind of love that you’d call up on your hardest day, or the kind that sits with you through an ugly cry. This isn’t love born of time, trust and certainty, and it’s not the kind of love that you’re even ready to talk about; you know it’s probably fleeting and so this is the kind of love that doesn’t get a name. It’s the kind we whisper about only to ourselves; the kind we tuck in at night, and wake up smiling about in the morning.

Is there another word for this? We could call it a “crush” but we’re grown ups now. Is it OK to call this a kind of love, too? 

Worth a listen: The way you make me feel–The science of love

SEX AND PSYCHOLOGY PODCAST

Surely, we can’t call what this is “love,” not when I use that same word to describe how I feel about my children. The love I feel for them is endless and life altering. The love I feel for them is heart-making and heartbreaking and so intense it’s terrifying. It’s the kind that keeps me up at night, that makes me wring my hands; it’s the kind that grounds me, makes me who I am and keeps me striving to do better, be better and want more.

Surely what I’ve been dabbling in lately is not love. Not as defined by those terms. The kind of love that I’ve been courting is fun and light. It’s smooth and it sparkles. It gives me funny stories to tell my friends over lunch, it gives me new experiences and new perspectives. And it doesn’t take much in return.

While we use the word “love” to describe the thunder-cracking moment in a movie that confirms a deep romantic connection, we also use it liberally. I love cheese, for example. And fresh pineapple. I love the satisfying release you feel when pulling a carrot out of the garden, or the way it feels to sink your hands into a bucket of bird seed.

But I also love connection. I’m hardwired for it, as most of us are.

And even these small bits of love are bold, and a bit frightening.

They’re not scary because they might ruin you, but because they expose you. You’re out there. You’re living. You’re trying. You’re going to screw up and overthink and second guess. You’re going to be not enough for some folks and too much for others. You’re going to get passed over and passed by just like any brave adventurer. 

But it’s addictive, this bravery. The more you risk, the more you want to keep risking. The more you introduce yourself to others, the more you learn about yourself–about who you are, what you want, what you like and what you have absolutely zero interest in: Nope. No sir. Hard pass. 

Staying home and staying safe suddenly feels boring. Where’s the story in that? 

Love. We reserve this word and gift it to those who have walked through hoops and jumped over obstacles with us and for us. 

But I love the process of love and loving. I love the learning that comes with it. The knowing and the failing. I even love the short love stories; the places your imagination jumps to, the futures that will never take shape but are nice to think about for a brief fantastical moment all the same.

And what I love most about this love is when you step out and step forward onto a stone that’s unsteady due to distance or disconnection or just plain old bad timing, there are familiar loving hands that reach out to grab you before (and sometimes moments after) you fall in the muck and get all wet and weedy. 

And what do we call that act? That act of saving you from a face plant, or from behaving like too much of an idiot? 

We call that love, too. 

It’s our word, and it’s free to use. Whether we tuck it in close, say it too soon or too loudly, give it away too early or hang on until it’s too late, it’s really just a string of four letters that together wouldn’t even make a Wordle. 

Four terrifying, amazing, loaded letters. 

Posted on by Danna Johnson · 2 Comments

Don’t pity the single people

I want to apologize for all the things I said when I didn’t know any better.

When I was trying to get pregnant, and failing, a part of me died inside every time someone asked when we were planning to have kids. I wanted to shout from the rooftops that I was trying really, really hard, or tell people that I cried in my car sometimes when I watched moms wobbling under the weight of their growing bellies toddle into the grocery store.

And in those moments I learned never to ask a woman that question. 

Years later I’d meet folks who never felt compelled to have kids. They didn’t feel the same urge that I felt, and they cringed inwardly (sometimes outwardly) when asked: “So, when are you going to make me a grandma,” as though none of their other achievements had meaning if they didn’t also procreate.

Thanks to those people I learned never to approach that question by assuming parenthood was everyone’s end game. 

Parking our biases

We all thrust our biases on those around us —  if I naturally gravitate to the idea of motherhood, then I assume you must also. If I love being a wife, love coming home to my spouse every day, and am unable to imagine a life without him, then I assume you want that, too, and so I might ask you: “Are you seeing anyone interesting? Do you have a boyfriend yet?”

What we fail to recognize is that when we’re shoving our own limited world views down the throats of others they experience that interaction very differently than we intend — as pity.

ingredients for a ‘happy’ life

For the longest time I was on the ‘right’ cultural trajectory. I had the career, the house, the spouse, the kids. If our Western culture compiled a recipe for happiness, I had all the main ingredients.  

And I was happy, for a bit. But even with all the necessary ingredients, everything started to sour.

Single is actually a beautiful thing to be

I’ve learned that there are worse things than being single. What’s worse? Being in a relationship in which there’s no trust and no security. Being in a relationship that requires walking on eggshells, or sneaking glances at text messages. Single is better than feeling like you have to hide or change part of yourself to make it work, and that no matter how successful or beautiful you make yourself, you’ll never be quite enough. Single is better than knowing that no number of delicious meals prepared, family vacations planned, or Instagram-worthy photos taken will work to fix all the broken things. 

Being single is easy, and believe it or not, some of us choose to be single, sometimes forever, or sometimes for just a little while.

So when someone says: “It’s going to be OK! You’re beautiful and young! You’ll find someone special, and you’ll be so happy,” I cringe and suddenly feel as though I have to defend myself and my situation. Suddenly, I feel pitiable.

When we assume people can’t be happy without a partner we’re doing them a disservice. I’ve never been happier, and I don’t know how to convince you otherwise, or even if I should bother trying. I know blogging about it won’t work, because there are those who will read this and still shake their heads and whisper: “Aww, that’s sad. Pretty girl. I hope she finds someone soon.” Adding insult to injury, they’ll respond with a “caring” reaction or throw a hug emoji in the comment section.

But it was worth a shot at least, because honestly I’m fine.

Posted on by Danna Johnson · 3 Comments

Happiness is…

Just a little while ago I was helping a friend move and I stumbled upon the book, Happiness is a Warm Puppy, by Charles M. Schulz.

And it got me thinking (as all good books do), about what happiness looks like to me, and if it’s very different at all from what happiness looks like to you, or to anyone for that matter. 

Happiness is a warm blanket, and a warm puppy; happiness is finding someone you like at the front door.

But happiness is also the first sip of hot coffee after the kids have gone to school. 

Happiness is finding someone who looks really grouchy and making them laugh whether they like it or not.

Happiness is having some juicy news to share and a good friend to share it with.

Happiness is waking up, rolling over, and realizing you still have hours left to sleep.

Happiness is a concert ticket.

Happiness is realizing that you can have a crush on someone again after you thought for sure that part of you had been pummeled to smithereens.

Happiness is a hot lunch day.

Happiness is stepping on a barely frozen puddle on your morning walk and hearing that loud “crunch” under your boot.

Happiness is finding someone who looks really grouchy and making them laugh whether they like it or not.

Happiness is a really yummy bottle of wine that only costs $12.

Happiness is watching your clumsy dog catch the ball mid-air; extra happiness is when other people see it, too.

Happiness is when your son takes the garbage to the dumpster without being asked. 

Happiness is finding a song with the perfect beat that makes you run faster than usual. 

Happiness is watching snow fall for the first time all year knowing that you’ve got a warm blanket, a warm puppy, a cozy bed, and snow tires.

Happiness is overhearing someone say something nice about you when they don’t realize you’re in the room.

Happiness is being missed. 

Happiness is bravely telling someone how you feel and having them reply: “Me, too!”

Happiness is waving to the elderly lady in her kitchen window as you walk by with your dog every morning. 

Happiness is reading a good book and realizing it’s the first one in a series. 

And finally, happiness is a penis-shaped bookmark. 

Posted on by Danna Johnson

Show me your toolbox

I hate gender stereotypes.

But this week all I really wanted was a dude with a big shiny toolbox to take up space in my life. 

The mental fog that took over during my separation has lifted. I don’t miss my marriage, and I sure as heck don’t want it back. But then I needed new snow tires, my car started leaking oil, and my washing machine broke. 

Using a friend’s connections I got a great deal on snow tires and felt like I was winning. I booked my car in for maintenance, and it doesn’t appear the problem is a difficult one to fix, but the washing machine? 

The washing machine brought me to my knees.

One sunny Sunday afternoon it filled with water and then just quit, and to be honest I wanted to do the same thing, except, of course, subbing out water for wine. 

I checked the breaker, unplugged the machine, plugged it back in. I moved things around, and bailed out some of the water. Next, I called my dad who lives 300 kilometres away.

“Jeez, Danna, I’m not sure,” he said, before asking me to try all of the things I had already tried.

And then I called my friend’s boyfriend–the handiest guy I know apart from my dad. He showed up. Tried all of the things that I tried and a few more, then turned to me and said, “sorry, looks like you’re going to need a real repair guy.”

And he left, and I had the biggest, longest sob I’ve had in months.

I wasn’t crying about my washer. I wasn’t crying about the money it would cost to fix. I wasn’t even crying about my half clean sheets.

I was crying because it was just me. There was nobody with whom to commiserate. There was no one to take this one crummy thing off my plate and deal with it so I wouldn’t have to.

I am solely responsible for making all of the decisions, and it’s amazing, but it also SUCKS!

I get it. In the grand scheme of things these are not big problems. They’re actually super small problems with super simple solutions. A repair guy showed up within 24 hours and within 10 minutes of his arrival my washing machine was cranking away. 

(And yeah, the repair man is happily married. I asked.) 

Truth is, I tackle MUCH bigger problems every single day, and do so without even thinking about it. 

But dammit that washing machine spun me, and I feel like a crummy feminist for saying so out loud.

Posted on by Danna Johnson

Giving thanks

Thanksgiving is my favourite holiday. Like most things, though, this year I’ll be celebrating slightly differently. 

Instead of piling into my childhood home with my brother and sister and their spouses and children, I’ll be spending the holiday with friends, hiking, laughing, and eating great food, while my kiddos spend the weekend with their dad and his girlfriend.

Funny, then, that change, growth, and the clarity that comes on the other side of it is what I’m most thankful for this year. 

A long list

I’m grateful for soul-filling moments that become frozen in time. Just a few nights ago I convinced my son to come for a run with me. It was a short run — hardly worth the effort from an exercise point of view — but at the end of our run he spotted a patch of dry leaves, grabbed a handful and let them crumble between his fingers. 

“You’ve got to try this, mom! It feels SO GOOD!” 

And so I did. And we stood there, four steps away from the car and for five solid minutes, crumbling leaves in our fingers and covering our shoes in leaf dust. Our cheeks were pink, our hands smelled like fall, and I’ll never drive by that spot without smiling. 

I am thankful for my body, for the way it moves without pain (most days), and for how strong and reliable it is. I’m thankful for the scars that remind me that yes, in fact, I heal.

I’m thankful for clean sheets, floral wallpaper, scented candles (like these amazing ones that my friend’s niece makes), and pink, faux rabbit-fur throw pillows.

I’m thankful for all of the things I didn’t say, the secrets I didn’t spill, and the gossip I didn’t repeat. I’m thankful for the texts I scripted in anger and deleted, and for the ones I received, read, and left ‘seen’ and unresponded to. 

I’m thankful for remote work and videoconferencing, and for the side conversations that go on behind the meetings.

I’m thankful for all of the times over the past year that I’ve screwed up. I know there will be so many more screw ups in future, but at least those ones are behind me.

I’m thankful for the relationships that haven’t worked out, for the roads not taken, and for the lessons that saying goodbye have taught me about myself and the kind of person I want to be. 

More than anything, though, I’m thankful for the relationships that have worked out. For the friendships that are richer now than they’ve ever been. I’m thankful for the life-long bonds, and also for the brand new folks that show up unexpectedly. I’m thankful for the relationships that start off as a few shared gifs in a work chat and an eye roll here or there, and then before you know it, you can’t imagine a day without that bit of connection.

Tell me, what are you thankful for?

Posted on by Danna Johnson

Good morning, beautiful

When grieving the end of a marriage people tell you that the evenings will be the hardest part, but that’s not true. Not for me, anyway.

When you’re a parent, mornings rage in like thunderstorms, startling you from sleep and smashing you over the head with needs, wants, demands and expectations. Mornings are noisy and frantic. Despite how prepared you feel the night before, each morning brings with it its own new catastrophe. Someone lost something. Someone forgot a spirit day. Someone finished the last of the favourite cereal. All of the favorite lunchbox treats are gone. There are seeds in the bread.

At the end of my marriage I expected to feel at lose ends in the evenings. But, as is often the case in life, reality serves up unexpected hurt, and for me (even a year later) that hurt comes in the morning.

Let’s just make it to bedtime without killing each other

Since becoming a parent, the evenings have always been my goal posts. Children are fed and bathed. Whatever happened that day, good or bad, is behind you and the next day brings a fresh new blank page. The little arguments we had have been resolved – or they haven’t – but either way those children are safe and softly snoring, and even if you didn’t earn a gold star for the day, you at least get a checkmark. You may not have exceeded expectations, but dammit, you met them.

Evenings have a charm and a lightness. The quiet of evenings has a peaceful quality to it. The sofa is softer because you know that you can sit for more than a moment. The tea tastes better because you know you’ll be able to drink it while it’s still hot. TV is funnier and more entertaining, complete with sex and swearwords.

I expected that the evenings would be the hardest because of the dark, but it’s the bright light of morning that takes my breath away.

The sound of silence

Every other week I languish in the mornings. I lay in bed and listen to the silence for a moment and I find no pleasure in it. I yearn for the chaos that I always thought I hated and now crave.

I’ve never not had a human to wake up to – whether it was a partner rolling toward me with a stretch and a groan, or a child with his knees shooting daggers into my back. I’ve also always had a morning soundtrack: A television, an argument, cupboards and drawers opening and closing, and of course the sound of that epic morning pee and subsequent (if I’m lucky) flush.

So often these days, I wake up to silence, and now (thanks to the pandemic), I shuffle into work in silence. I don’t greet the neighbour as I get into my car because working from home I have nowhere to go.

Hey. How you doin’?

But not so long ago I rolled over in bed, grabbed my phone and spotted a text that had been sent five minutes earlier, which read simply: “Good morning!”

That was all. That was it.

The “good morning!” asked for nothing. What it gave, however, was a reminder that just because it sounds as if I’m alone, I’m not.

It reminded me that I’m not the only one living so quietly these days, and that this pandemic solitude can be breached through intentional and thoughtful connection.

In other words, good mornings are now on the menu. When you receive a “good morning” from me, here’s what it means:

I care about you. I’m thinking about you. I am happy because I know you. I am grateful that you are in my life. It is a privilege to be your friend, your mom, your lover, your daughter, or your colleague.

And what I realized also is that good mornings don’t have to be quite so explicit. Maybe they’re just a funny meme, or a news story that you read that relates to a conversation you just had. Maybe a “good morning” is just a gif, a joke you heard, or maybe it’s an in depth retelling of a super weird dream.

That’s all. And that’s so much.  

I can’t always hear the folks who love me, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. 

So, good morning, beautiful.