For the past three days, I’ve been heads down finishing my book, “Staying Grounded in the Middle of Chaos.” In the last 30 minutes, I sent the draft to the editor and reached back out to the cover designer to let him know that we are rounding third base and heading for home. I’m sitting here with my eyes closed typing, feeling into the good feeling of completion. Breathing in ‘yes’. Letting go on the exhale.

My boss calls this the “Polish Vacation.” That’s where you take PTO from your first job, to work on your second job. From Friday morning until this morning, I reread every poem I’d written over the last three years. I use poetry to process emotions. I stopped hiding that I write poetry and there are 75 poems and one Eulogy in the book. It gives me goosebumps to claim that I write poetry. I am a poet. Not in the Robert Frost, Walt Whitman, Maya Angelou way. My way is, well, my way.

Poems pop into my head, especially while I’m walking Oshie. I’ve started carrying my phone so I can ...