Runways

 Life Update

If you know me well, you know I go about 100 miles a minute.

I’ve never really known how to operate in slow mode.

If I’m interested in something, I tend to go all in. If I have an idea, I want to build it. If there’s a challenge in front of me, I want to figure it out. And if I somehow find a little extra room in my schedule, I will almost certainly fill it with something.

That was basically my summer.

I wrote a lot of music.

Like… a lot of music.

I spent the summer writing, creating, experimenting, revising, rearranging, listening, changing my mind, changing it back, and somehow ended up with several music projects lined up in various stages of completion.

At the same time, I knew I was preparing to start my doctoral program.

What I didn’t fully understand was what that experience was actually going to demand of me.

Now I do.

And there really is only one way to describe what comes next:

Academic Lockdown

For the next four years, I’m in a lockstep doctoral program with essentially no real breaks.

Add a full-time career and regular life responsibilities to that equation, and I’m beginning to understand exactly what I signed up for.

So if you don’t see or hear much from me sometimes, I haven’t disappeared.

I’m probably reading.

Or writing.

Or researching.

Or staring at something I’ve read six times and wondering why the words have suddenly stopped making sense.

And most definitely praying:

“God, please give me the strength to make it through this.”

Because I already know there will be days when determination alone isn’t going to be enough.

For someone who naturally goes 100 miles a minute, maybe the challenge of this season isn’t learning to slow down.

Maybe it’s learning where those 100 miles an hour need to go.

Apparently, I Was Building a Runway

The funny thing is, I lined up all of these music projects over the summer without really knowing what my doctoral schedule would look like.

Now I’m incredibly grateful that I did.

I’m currently working through the final mixes on another album that should be dropping in the next few weeks.

And after that?

I already have the next four albums lined up for edits.

Yes.

Four.

Because apparently this is what happens when someone who doesn’t know how to operate in slow mode gets a summer full of creative momentum.

But those projects mean I don’t have to keep creating at the pace I did this summer.

The songs are written.

The concepts are there.

The stories have been captured.

I can work through them when I have space. I can finish them. I can release them as they’re ready.

Past Me unknowingly did Future Me a huge favor.

I didn’t know what was coming.

But somehow, I built myself a runway before I knew I was going to need one.

Twenty Years in the Making

There’s another part of this that I’ve been thinking about a lot.

As intimidating as the next four years feel, there’s also something strangely familiar about where I’ve landed.

Because when I look backward, it feels like the last 20 years have been preparing me for this.

Not in a perfectly planned, straight-line kind of way.

Definitely not that.

There were career changes.

Different roles.

Different degrees.

Things I learned because I wanted to learn them and things I learned because life or work demanded that I figure them out.

There were opportunities I understood at the time and others whose significance I couldn’t see until much later.

There were detours that didn’t feel connected to anything.

And yet, standing here now, so many of those pieces make sense together.

Healthcare.

Business.

Data.

Analytics.

Technology.

Process improvement.

Decision-making.

Years of asking why something works the way it does and whether there might be a better way to do it.

None of those experiences seemed to be pointing toward one specific destination while I was living them.

But from where I’m standing now?

I can see the thread.

And maybe that’s why, underneath the intimidation, there’s also a deep sense that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Not because I know what the next four years will look like.

I absolutely do not.

But because I can look backward and see how much of what came before has prepared me for what is in front of me now.

Creativity Isn’t Going Anywhere

Academic lockdown doesn’t mean creativity disappears.

I don’t think I could turn that part of my brain off if I tried.

Writing and music have always been part of how I process life, faith, change, joy, frustration, grief, growth—all of it.

So there will still be songs.

There will still be writing.

There will still be random ideas that arrive at completely inappropriate times.

There will probably still be moments when I should be sleeping but suddenly decide something absolutely must be written down before morning.

I know myself.

But the pace will probably change.

An idea may sit in my notes longer.

A song may take months instead of days.

The blog may occasionally get quiet.

And music may become the place I go when my brain needs a break from research, informatics, implementation, decision intelligence, and whatever academic rabbit hole I happen to be living in that week.

That’s okay.

Not every season is supposed to look the same.

So, Here We Go

Four years.

Full-time career.

Doctoral program.

Academic lockdown.

A ridiculous number of songs waiting their turn.

And me—still moving about 100 miles a minute, but learning to be much more intentional about where I’m going.

If I get quiet for a while, just know I’m somewhere reading, researching, writing, learning, questioning my life choices, and praying my way through it.

And probably still making music somewhere in between.

Because while I don’t know exactly what these next four years are going to require of me, I do know this:

I didn’t arrive here overnight.

In so many ways, the last 20 years have been preparing me for this moment.

So I’m going in grateful.

I’m going in excited.

I’m going in knowing it’s going to be hard.

And I’m going in trusting that the same God who brought me all the way here will give me the strength, wisdom, and grace I need for whatever comes next.

Academic lockdown begins.

Here we go.

The Stories I Have the Right to Tell

I’ve been thinking about the ethics of writing lately.

Not grammar. Not style. Not whether something makes a good song or an interesting blog post.

The ethics of it.

Because when you write from your actual life, eventually your story intersects with someone else’s.

Marriage. Family. Friendship. Faith. Work. Grief. Conflict. Disappointment. Reconciliation. Almost every meaningful thing that happens to us involves other people.

I write about those things.

I write songs about them.

Sometimes I post about them.

And over the years, I’ve developed a pretty tightly guarded framework around what I will say, what I won’t say, what I’ll publish, and what will stay forever in a folder somewhere.

That framework isn’t limited to writing. It’s really an extension of how I try to operate in life.

I’m not perfect at it.

But there are some things I hold pretty firmly.

At the top of the list is something that followed me home from healthcare:

Do no harm.

First: Do No Harm

I’ve spent a significant part of my professional life in healthcare, so do no harm isn’t just a nice phrase to me.

It’s an ethic.

My sister is a pharmacist, and she and I talk about this principle a lot.

Healthcare teaches you—or at least it should—that what you do can have consequences for an actual human being on the other side of the decision.

So the question can’t always be:

Can I do this?

Sometimes the more important question is:

Should I?

What happens if I’m wrong?

Who could be affected?

What unintended consequences could this create?

What is the least harmful way to accomplish what actually needs to be accomplished?

Somewhere along the way, I realized I had carried that thinking into the rest of my life.

Into relationships.

Into conflict.

Into writing.

Into songwriting.

Into what I choose to put on the internet.

Because the question isn’t simply whether something is true.

Or whether I have the right to say it.

Or whether I can prove it.

There’s another question:

What could happen to another human being because I chose to put this into the world?

That’s essentially a healthcare question applied somewhere very different.

And I think it’s worth asking.

But do no harm does not mean never make anyone uncomfortable.

Those aren’t the same thing.

Truth can be uncomfortable.

Accountability can be uncomfortable.

Boundaries can be uncomfortable.

Being told no can be uncomfortable.

Finding out that your actions affected someone differently than you intended can be uncomfortable.

Sometimes reconciliation requires incredibly uncomfortable conversations.

So when I say do no harm, I don’t mean keeping everybody comfortable at the expense of truth.

I mean harm should never be my objective.

I don’t want humiliation to be the point.

I don’t want revenge to be the point.

I don’t want exposure to be the point.

And I don’t want my words—whether spoken, posted, blogged, or sung—to become weapons simply because I’m angry enough to know exactly where to aim them.

Having the ability to do something does not automatically mean doing it is the right course of action.

That principle sits over almost everything else.

An Assumption Is Still an Assumption

One of my strongest personal rules is that I don’t treat an assumption as fact simply because it makes sense to me.

I can have a theory.

I can notice a pattern.

I can have a very strong suspicion.

That doesn’t make it true.

So I ask questions.

A lot of questions.

I investigate.

I look for context.

I go back to documentation.

And when possible, I ask the person involved.

I’ve learned that there can be an enormous distance between what something looks like from where I’m standing and what is actually happening.

I try to give people the benefit of the doubt, especially when I care about maintaining the relationship.

Sometimes people communicate badly.

Sometimes they make mistakes.

Sometimes they’re dealing with something I know nothing about.

Sometimes I’ve misunderstood.

Sometimes I’m simply wrong.

I’d rather ask than assume.

Intuition can be a starting point.

It isn’t a verdict.

Discernment Is Not the Same Thing as Proof

There’s another layer to this for me because I believe I have the gift of discernment.

I take that seriously.

I notice patterns.

I pick up on inconsistencies.

I can sometimes sense that something isn’t quite right before I have enough information to explain why.

But I work very hard not to weaponize that gift.

Because discernment can become dangerous when it gets mixed with ego, hurt, fear, suspicion, or the need to be right.

So I’ve built a boundary around it:

Discernment is not the same thing as proof.

Something registering strongly with me doesn’t give me permission to declare my interpretation as fact.

I test it.

I ask questions.

I pray.

I investigate.

I look for evidence.

I talk to people I trust.

And when appropriate, I go directly to the person involved.

Sometimes what I discerned turns out to be right.

Sometimes I had part of it right and part of it wrong.

Sometimes additional information changes my understanding completely.

I’m okay with that.

I don’t believe having a spiritual gift makes me infallible.

If anything, I believe having a gift creates a greater responsibility for how I use it.

A Gift Is a Stewardship, Not an Arsenal

That principle extends beyond discernment.

I’ve been given certain gifts.

I’m analytical.

I ask questions.

I see patterns.

I remember details.

I document things.

I know how to research.

I know how to communicate.

I know how to build an argument.

And I know how to write.

Put all of those things together and, if I wanted to, I could use those abilities very differently.

That’s exactly why I work hard not to weaponize what I’ve been given.

Discernment can become accusation.

Intelligence can become manipulation.

Documentation can become ammunition.

Communication can become humiliation.

Writing can become retaliation.

Even truth can be wielded in a way designed primarily to wound.

I don’t want to operate from that place.

There is a difference between using what I have to protect myself and using what I have to punish someone else.

That distinction matters deeply to me.

I Can Tell My Story. I Don’t Automatically Get to Tell Yours.

This may be the most important rule I have as a writer.

I can tell you what I experienced.

I can tell you what was said to me.

I can tell you what I observed.

I can tell you what I thought, what I felt, what I believed, what I questioned, what I got spectacularly wrong, and what I learned somewhere between there and here.

What I have to be much more careful about is telling you what was happening inside somebody else.

Why they did something.

What they intended.

What they were thinking.

What they were afraid of.

There is a difference between writing:

This happened to me.

and writing:

Let me tell you who this person is.

I try very hard not to confuse the two.

If You Tell Me Something in Confidence, It Stays There

If you come to me about a situation, another person, or something happening in your life, I don’t consider that information mine to redistribute.

You told me.

You didn’t tell everybody I know.

Unless you’ve given me permission to bring someone else into the conversation—or there is some extraordinary safety reason that requires otherwise—I treat what you shared as confidential.

People should be able to talk through something without wondering whether their conversation is going to become tomorrow’s group discussion.

I’m especially cautious about gossip because gossip is a slippery slope.

It can begin as concern.

Then become speculation.

Then interpretation.

Then repetition.

Eventually nobody remembers which parts were actually known.

I don’t want to participate in that.

If I’m Saying It About You, I’ve Probably Said It to You

This is another standard I try to hold myself to.

If I tell someone I have a particular position regarding another person, it should not be news to the person I’m talking about.

I’ve probably already had that conversation directly with them.

That doesn’t mean every private thought requires disclosure.

It means I don’t want one version of a relationship to someone’s face and another version in rooms they aren’t in.

If I said it, I’ll own it.

And usually I’ll tell you exactly why I said it.

I may discover I was wrong.

I may owe you an apology.

I may change my position after hearing your side.

But I’m willing to be accountable for my own words.

I Don’t Do Subliminal Messages

That also means I’m not interested in posting something “subliminally” because I hope one particular person sees it.

A quote.

A lyric.

A carefully worded post.

Something vague enough to maintain plausible deniability while knowing perfectly well who you hope reads it.

To me, that’s passive-aggressive.

If I have something I need to say to you, I’ll make the opportunity to say it to you.

Directly.

Not every disagreement requires confrontation.

Not every feeling requires a conversation.

Sometimes wisdom is letting something go.

But I’m not interested in using an audience as a proxy for a conversation.

My blog isn’t where I communicate with someone I’m unwilling to call.

My social media isn’t a message board for people in my personal life.

And my songs aren’t coded letters designed to punish somebody publicly while allowing me to say, I never said it was about you.

Art can absolutely come from conflict.

It shouldn’t become a weapon for avoiding it.

I Have Accountability

I don’t appoint myself the sole judge of whether I’m operating within these boundaries.

I have accountability partners.

I have people I trust who will tell me the truth even when the truth isn’t particularly convenient for me.

They’re not there to automatically take my side.

That’s not accountability.

Sometimes I’m too close to something to see it clearly.

Sometimes I’m angry.

Sometimes I’m hurt.

Sometimes my interpretation needs to be challenged.

Sometimes I need somebody who loves me enough to say:

You’re right about what happened, but you’re wrong about how you’re handling it.

Or:

Have you considered this?

Or even:

Girl, no. Don’t post that.

I also use other tools to challenge my own thinking and examine what I’ve written.

Am I telling my story or somebody else’s?

Am I stating something I know or assigning a motive?

Have I validated my assumptions?

Am I sharing information entrusted to me privately?

Am I processing—or punishing?

Am I seeking resolution or validation?

Is this reflection, or am I building a case?

That applies to blogs.

It applies to posts.

And it absolutely applies to songwriting.

My Husband and My Accountability Partners Are Different

There are people with whom I do air things out.

My husband is one of them.

My accountability partners are others.

But the purpose isn’t entertainment.

It isn’t character assassination.

It isn’t building a coalition.

Usually I’m trying to figure out how to move forward.

Am I seeing this correctly?

Am I being fair?

What part belongs to me?

Do I need to have a conversation?

Do I need to apologize?

Do I need a boundary?

Do I need to let it go?

What is appropriate here?

There’s an enormous difference between seeking counsel and gathering an audience.

I try to know which one I’m doing.

Some Things I Write Will Never Be Published

Sometimes this framework does exactly what it was designed to do.

It stops something at the door.

There are blogs I’ve written that will never be published.

There are posts I’ve drafted and deleted.

There are songs that may never leave my files.

And I’m okay with that.

Because writing and publishing are two different things.

Writing can help me process anger.

Grief.

Confusion.

Disappointment.

Conflict.

Something I don’t yet understand.

It can help me discover what I’m actually thinking before I’ve even decided what I believe.

That doesn’t mean anybody else needs to read it.

Sometimes writing did its job simply by being written.

Not everything I write is owed an audience.

Yes, I Keep Receipts

I am notorious about documentation.

Emails.

Messages.

Dates.

Screenshots.

Notes.

Context.

Some of that is simply how my brain works.

Some of it comes from past experiences I have absolutely no desire to revisit.

I learned that documentation can protect me.

So I document.

Not because I’m waiting for an opportunity to use something against somebody.

Because memory is imperfect.

Circumstances change.

People remember things differently.

And sometimes establishing what actually happened matters.

Documentation also protects other people from being unfairly represented by me.

Before I state something as fact, I can go back.

Did that really happen the way I remember it?

Was that actually what was said?

What came before it?

What came after it?

Did I miss something?

Sometimes the receipts confirm exactly what I remembered.

Sometimes they complicate the story.

Both are useful.

Because the goal shouldn’t be winning the narrative.

The goal should be telling the truth.

Having Receipts Doesn’t Mean I Need to Dump Them on the Table

There are stories I could tell with an uncomfortable amount of supporting documentation.

I could dump the whole box of receipts onto the table and say:

Here. You decide.

But that’s not my MO.

And this is where that healthcare ethic comes back around.

Can I?

Probably.

Should I?

That’s an entirely different question.

Possessing information doesn’t mean I need to expose it.

Knowing something doesn’t automatically make it mine to publish.

Being able to prove something doesn’t mean the world needs to see the proof.

The receipts aren’t necessarily ammunition.

Sometimes they’re simply assurance that I haven’t rewritten history.

They can stay in the box.

I’m Not Interested in Airing Dirty Laundry

There’s a difference between vulnerability and exposure.

I can be transparent about my life without giving everybody a front-row seat to somebody else’s worst day.

I don’t need to publish screenshots.

I don’t need to name names.

I don’t need to provide enough breadcrumbs for everybody who knows us to solve the mystery.

And I certainly don’t need to turn somebody else’s private struggle into content simply because I happen to be a writer.

That’s not authenticity to me.

That’s airing dirty laundry.

And I don’t want to build an audience that way.

Reconciliation Is Usually the Goal

My husband and I generally try to preserve relationships where doing so is possible and healthy.

We don’t discard people because of one disagreement.

We don’t expect perfection.

We’re human too.

We’ve needed grace ourselves.

So we try to give it.

We will usually try to reconcile where reconciliation is possible.

But reconciliation requires participation.

There have also been relationships where, after a prolonged pattern of unhealthy or harmful activity, we’ve chosen to go no contact.

Those decisions haven’t been made casually.

They’ve generally come after attempts to communicate, understand, establish boundaries, and repair what can be repaired.

But I also believe there are lines you cannot simply uncross.

Forgiveness does not always mean restored access.

Reconciliation does not require recreating the relationship exactly as it existed before.

And neither family nor Christianity requires us to become somebody else’s punching bag.

I can love someone.

I can pray for someone.

I can forgive someone.

And I can still decide they no longer have unrestricted access to my life.

Those things can coexist.

Do No Harm Does Not Mean Accept Harm

This is important enough to say plainly.

My commitment to do no harm does not require me to accept harm.

It doesn’t require silence when something genuinely needs correcting.

It doesn’t require endless access in the name of forgiveness.

And it doesn’t require sacrificing my peace so somebody else never has to experience the consequences of their choices.

I can protect myself without trying to destroy you.

I can establish a boundary without needing to punish you.

I can end access without launching a public campaign explaining why.

I can correct the record without revealing everything I know.

Protection and retaliation are not the same thing.

Neither are accountability and punishment.

Neither are truth and exposure.

Neither are discernment and accusation.

Neither are forgiveness and unlimited access.

That distinction matters.

I’m Not Vindictive. But I’m Also Not Defenseless.

I don’t consider myself vindictive.

I’m not particularly interested in being the aggressor either.

Most conflicts aren’t worth escalating.

Retaliation is usually petty, exhausting, and expensive to your peace.

But restraint should not be confused with an inability to respond.

I know what information I have.

I know what I can substantiate.

I know what tools are available to me.

And if I genuinely need to defend myself or someone I love, I will.

My preference is always that it never reaches that point.

Because having an armory doesn’t mean you have to empty it.

Wisdom is often knowing what’s available to you and choosing to leave it alone.

My Husband and My Marriage Are Hard Boundaries

There are places where my boundaries become considerably harder.

My husband is one.

My marriage is another.

I’m fiercely protective of both.

That doesn’t mean we’re above criticism.

It certainly doesn’t mean our marriage is perfect.

But speculation presented as fact about my husband or my marriage will get a very different response from me than most other subjects.

If you genuinely care about me and have a concern, talk to me.

Ask me.

Remember that whole section about assumptions?

Use it.

But if you come speaking authoritatively about my husband or my marriage when you don’t actually know what you’re talking about, you’ve crossed one of the very few lines where my instinct toward restraint becomes significantly harder to maintain.

I will correct the record.

Firmly.

And without apologizing for protecting what I hold sacred.

Truth Does Not Require Maximum Disclosure

This may be one of the most important things I’ve learned.

I used to think authenticity meant telling everything.

I don’t anymore.

There are things I won’t write publicly even though they’re true.

Not because I’m protecting a lie.

Because truth and entitlement are different questions.

Is it true?

Have I verified that it’s true?

Is it mine to tell?

Does it need to be told publicly?

And maybe, because of that healthcare mindset:

What are the potential consequences if I do?

Those are five different questions.

Something can be true and still not be mine to tell.

Something can be mine to tell and still not need to be told.

Someone else’s vulnerability doesn’t become my content simply because their vulnerability affected me.

Someone trusting me with something doesn’t grant me publishing rights.

Someone hurting me doesn’t automatically revoke their right to privacy.

And having proof doesn’t mean I have to present the case.

The Question Is What I Do With the Power I Have

Maybe that’s ultimately what this entire framework is about.

We all possess different kinds of power.

Information is power.

Words are power.

Documentation is power.

Discernment is power.

Access is power.

Relationships are power.

A platform is power.

Knowing someone’s vulnerabilities is power.

And knowing something true about another person—particularly something they would rather the world not know—is an enormous kind of power.

The ethical question isn’t simply whether I possess it.

It’s:

What am I going to do with it?

That’s where do no harm comes full circle for me.

It’s stewardship.

Having the ability to do something doesn’t automatically make doing it the right thing.

I may have the information.

I may have the documentation.

I may have the platform.

I may have the words.

I may even be completely right.

I still have a responsibility to consider what happens next.

That’s why I have accountability.

That’s why I validate assumptions.

That’s why I go directly to people.

That’s why I protect confidences.

That’s why I document.

That’s why some things I write never get published.

That’s why some songs will never be released.

And that’s why I work so hard not to weaponize the gifts God has given me.

This Framework Protects My Peace

Here’s something else I’ve realized.

All of these boundaries may sound like rules I’ve created to protect other people.

They do.

But they also protect me.

I don’t want to spend my life investigating everyone’s motives.

I don’t want to wonder whether every ambiguous comment was secretly about me.

I don’t want to maintain dossiers so I can eventually win arguments.

I don’t want discernment to become suspicion.

I don’t want boundaries to become bitterness.

I don’t want documentation to become obsession.

And I don’t want my writing to become a courtroom where I’m perpetually the prosecutor.

That’s exhausting.

So this framework isn’t merely an ethical restraint.

It’s how I maintain my own peace.

I verify because assumptions create unnecessary conflict.

I go directly to people because triangulation creates chaos.

I protect confidences because gossip destroys trust.

I document because I don’t want to endlessly argue about reality.

I establish boundaries because resentment grows when we repeatedly tolerate what we know is unhealthy.

I seek accountability because I know I’m capable of getting things wrong.

And I refuse, as much as I am able, to weaponize my gifts because I don’t want somebody else’s behavior determining how I use what God gave me.

My Writing Should Reveal More About Me Than It Exposes About You

This may be the best test I’ve found.

When I’ve finished writing something difficult, I can ask:

Who did I expose?

If I’ve told you everything another person did wrong but nothing about what the experience uncovered in me, I’m probably not writing reflection anymore.

I’m building a case.

And believe me, I can build a case.

I have receipts.

But that’s not why I write.

Writing, for me, is about making meaning out of experience.

It’s about examining what I believe.

Noticing where I’ve changed.

Admitting where I’ve failed.

Challenging my assumptions.

Asking questions I may never completely answer.

Figuring out where grace belongs.

Figuring out where a boundary belongs.

And occasionally discovering that something I thought was about somebody else was actually teaching me something about myself.

That’s a much harder story to write.

It’s also usually the better one.

Keep the Receipts. Don’t Build the Courtroom.

Maybe that’s the simplest way I can explain the framework.

Do no harm.

Don’t assume.

Ask.

Investigate.

Verify.

Give people the benefit of the doubt when you can.

Go directly to people when something needs to be said.

Protect what people tell you in confidence.

Seek counsel without turning counsel into gossip.

Own what you say.

Pursue reconciliation where it’s possible.

Understand that forgiveness and access are not the same thing.

Document what matters.

Establish boundaries.

Protect what needs protecting.

Defend yourself when genuinely necessary.

But don’t confuse having the ability to retaliate with having the wisdom to do it.

Don’t weaponize your gifts.

Don’t use an audience to say something you’re unwilling to say directly.

Don’t confuse processing something with needing to publish it.

And never assume that knowing something gives you the right to tell it.

There will probably always be things I write that nobody else will ever read.

There will be songs that never make an album.

There will be posts that never make it past my drafts.

That’s okay.

Writing did its job.

Publication doesn’t have to.

Maybe my sister and I are onto something when we keep coming back to that healthcare principle.

Do no harm.

Not do nothing.

Not accept harm.

Not never speak.

Not never defend yourself.

Do what needs to be done while remaining conscious that there are human beings on the other side of our decisions.

I don’t need to prove every point I could prove.

I don’t need to expose everything I know.

I don’t need to respond to everything I discern.

I don’t need to pick up every weapon available to me simply because it’s there.

And when I do choose to put something into the world, I want to know that I didn’t need to exaggerate, humiliate, expose, speculate, gossip, or recruit an audience to my side to tell the truth.

The receipts can stay in the box.

I know they’re there.

And most of the time, leaving them there protects something I value far more than winning.

My peace.