My feet hit the pavement. One. Two. One. Two. I was running down a two-lane highway in the New York countryside, lake on one side, farm land on the other. It sounds serene, and it is, but cars whoosh by along with horse drawn buggies, and you’ve gotta be careful where you step as roadkill and horse dung are equally prevalent.
It’s a boring run. As long as I pick up my feet and watch for wayward cars, it doesn’t require much of me mentally. I run this stretch on purpose when my mind needs the freedom to wander.
Over the past few months, I’ve been engaged in an internal excavation. My natural instinct is to call it a “wrestling match”, a “battle”, the “spin cycle of the washing machine”, all of which have more violent and dramatic connotations than what this has been. This has been frustratingly gentle, a slow climb towards a realization that has eluded me for my entire career.
It started when I pulled down my website. Yes, it was old, the pictures still relevant enough to pick me out in a crowd, but the content entirely reflective not prospective. The site showed all that I had done but none of what I am doing. Initially, I thought I’d just spruce it up, hire a friend with a side hustle to make it sparkle. Resume builder for them, reduced cost for me. Win-win. Except, I didn’t. Instead, one day I logged in to Wix and hid the whole thing. I felt better immediately.
Old me would have launched in to plans to build a new website using the jessgwrites moniker. I already own the url, why not jump on establishing a revised digital presence?
This me did the opposite. This me took a hard pause. Because I couldn’t articulate what I actually do to myself, and it seemed relevant to figure that out before I decide how to represent myself online or anywhere else for that matter.
And so began the twisties I’ve been experiencing ever since. I say “the twisties” because I’ve been watching the Simone Biles Rising documentary on Netflix, and her description of what happened to her at the Tokyo Olympics feels so familiar, so common, so close to what it feels like in my head right now. Biles talks about getting “lost” in the middle of her skills, creating a confusing and, in her case, dangerous situation. There’s fortunately no physical danger associated with my twisties, but the mental prison of being suspended mid-twirl, uncertain of where I will land carries its own fear.
Like Biles, I’ve found that the only cure is to rebuild from the ground up. To take the time to go slow, start with the basics, and layer complexity and difficulty from there. Oh, and get help. Help to create new neurological pathways, address the fear of failure, and deal with the grief that may come from letting go what was.
I’ve shared some of this process in my writing. From identifying that it was time to dig for the taproot, to wondering what it was that made me want to tell stories of women leaders on a podcast, to finding my superpower. Each of these pieces commentate another twistie, a mid-air rotation as I come closer and closer to landing my feet on the ground.
It’s work, this waiting for words to come. It’s active waiting. I’m fully engaged in the process, muscling back the anxiety that tells me to figure it out faster and diving in with my subconscious when its ready to go deeper, treading water when we all need to come up for some air. The guides I’ve engaged to help navigate this untangling have given selflessly of their time, their expertise, and their own experiences. I needed their voices, the space they created for not knowing, and, frankly, their reassurance that I would ultimately get there.
And I did.
During the run, I could feel myself about to land. My feet were still alternately flapping forward, but with more force and faster frequency, as if my body knew it had finally found home.
I go after the story.
That’s it. That’s what I do.
“I’m Jess Greenwood, and I go after the story.”
Whether its a problem, a product, or a person, what has always fascinated me is the story, the one underneath the surface, the one that has meaning and relevance and explains both the truth and all attempts to hide it.
As a clinical genetic counselor, I wanted to know the diagnosis. How did the symptoms, the family history, the ultrasound findings help us understand what was actually going on with this couple, this pregnancy? The “what” may have been visible, but the “why” almost always wasn’t, and that’s what I wanted to dig for.
In biotech and then in product, I wanted to craft the story. What is this test actually telling us? Why is it better, safer, more accurate than another test? What can this product do for you, your company, your culture? How can any of these things make your life easier, safer, or more enjoyable? And once the story was solid, how can we tell it in a compelling way?
With memoir, there is no need for metaphor. I want to know what happened to you…period. And why it matters, to your life and future, and to the lives and futures of our readers. Don’t tell me the story you’ve told everyone else your entire life. Tell me the real story, let me gently tug it out of you, let’s examine it together, and then I will help you put words to it.
The thread. The commonality I’ve known was there all along but couldn’t communicate. I was getting stuck on it being about one thing, but its really about both the story and the tenacity it takes to uncover it. That’s what makes what I do unlike what anyone else does. That’s my secret sauce.
I go after the story.
It’s not passive. It’s persistent.
It’s a passion, but I can see now that its also my profession.
No clue what this means for me right now other than abundant relief.
I want to rest with that for a bit. I’m not exhausted. In fact, there is a growing energy inside of me. But, I want to pay homage to the realization and allow it to fully reveal itself before acting. In other words, I want to think and feel before doing. Not my natural orientation, but an important shift to a healthy space if I want to figure out what the fuck to do with this other than just yell “Eureka!”
I know there needs to be a seismic shift across all my spaces. For the first time, maybe ever, I want everywhere my work is represented to look and feel and sound and say the same. Sameness usually scares me as I find safety in being all the things. The more I say I can do, the less I ever have to worry about being without a job, without an income, without a way to support myself.
But, if I’m honest with myself, I’m never going to invest in SEO optimization, cold call lists, or LinkedIn ads. I invest in relationships, and I trust that my work will bring me repeat customers. So, shouldn’t the spaces those customers visit reflect what they can expect from me - honestly, succinctly, and without apology or equivocation?
I think so.
That’s going to take more time. And more help. And more running.
I’m off next week, not because I expect to figure it out in two weeks, but because next week is dedicated to sleeping in, grilling out, and lighting fireworks. But, when I return, I want to dedicate some time to going after the story here, on The Joy Luck Club. What is the story I want to tell, and the stories you want to read? Where should we go next…together?
Think about it. I will too.
In the meantime, go get yourself some joy. In this run in with the twisties, I’ve gotten away from joy. I see her sitting on the side of the road watching me pound it out on this boring stretch of highway, but I’ve been too head down, too stuck in my spins to stop and chat. As a result, though, I can feel that my breaths are more shallow, the inhales fast and forced, the exhales exhausted.
It’s time for some air.
Joy and I are going to go get some ice cream today. I want to tell her about my discovery. I expect we’ll clink cones. And then I’ll take a breath, a big one.
And smile.
Wow, Jess. This is a powerful, kimono opening, utterly trusting your readers piece. Thanks for sharing.
Lovely piece, Jess! Savour the truth and story that you have uncovered now...