I stand outside room 12 in the hallway staring at a picture of sea turtles. Three of them, blue and green, swim on a white canvas. The door behind me is shut. I’ve come to this office for seventeen years, my first visit was as a new mom with my three-day-old baby. On the other side of these doors are simple rooms, as familiar to me as my own coffee mugs—simple, practical, useful: a laminate desk, wood chairs with wipeable vinyl covers, and an exam table solid enough to hold a car seat—or—a growing teenager.
But the hallway? This is not my usual post.
My son, a young man an inch away from being as tall as his dad, is inside the room with our pediatrician. He, my son, has asked me to leave. I’ll be invited back in soon enough, so I stand here in my flip-flops and jean shorts and stare at the sea turtles and smile.
I smile because I remember this. This feeling. This separation. So familiar, I find it comforting, like being wrapped in a soft blanket.
Just a few years ago, when my oldest had shyly asked me to leave during her well-child visit, I stood on the opposite side of a different door while the same pediatrician talked to her. It felt like a right of passage, a differentiating—my child had created space and privacy and independence. An experience so significant to me, I wrote about it.
Too much of life rushes past us like trees on the side of a busy highway. And even when we do, can, will ourselves to pay attention, there are simply too many moments to keep them all contained and ordered for easy recollection. I don’t think I’d have remembered the experience with my daughter with such fondness, had I not written about it and shared it.
But here I stand, staring at the sea turtles, pleased in knowing my children are growing up healthy, that I am here with and for them, and that writing has helped me remember.
During my writing workshops, I often hear women hesitate about writing or sharing their writing publicly. They say things like ‘I don’t want to add to the noise’ and ‘no one cares if I write or not.’ And to be honest, to be fair, I agree with them wholeheartedly.
But we must answer the questions: who gets to decide what is noise and what isn’t? Do you get a say?
If you care about writing, is that valid reason enough?
My younger two children pull out their viola and violin every morning. Sometimes twice a day. One has just started, the other’s a year in.
Neither one is particularly good, by professional standards, yet I don’t mind the screeching and scratching. It’s important to them, and their efforts and willingness are important to me.
“How do you stand it?” my oldest asks, referring to their practicing. Part of me blocks it out, I tell her. But honestly, I could listen to their music all day.
We write for practice.
We write to remember.
Neither one seems very much like noise to me.
The door opens and the doctor welcomes me back in. My son gives me a small smile and it’s hard for me to put into words how this moment feels. And yet I try. It’s like revisiting a memory, reliving the entrance into a new phase of life, and knowing that if I hadn’t written about it already, I would write about it now.
P.S. I’ll be leading a Micro-Essay workshop (as in nothing longer than 500 words, see above for an example) starting November 6th. Click the link for details, it’s a great workshop for those who don’t have a ton of time but want to keep working on their writing. Ask any questions you have, I’d love for you to join us!
“We write for practice.
We write to remember.
Neither one seems very much like noise to me.”
This feels like a pregame pep talk in all the best ways.
“And even when we do, can, will ourselves to pay attention, there are simply too many moments to keep them all contained and ordered for easy recollection.” 😭😭 Going to from my car (rainy morning) to my desk, pick up the pen and write... thank you, Sonya. 💛