On Letting Go and Holding On

Approximately three days ago, my daughter Madelyn was a boisterous and fancy-dress-loving two year old. She would wore through not one but two (in growing sizes) Tigger costumes, bringing light and bounciness to her preschool, the grocery store, the library story hour, and daily walks. She would sing and dance (usually in her underwear and draped in all the scarves she could find in my drawers), splash in puddles, cuddle up to me for hours a day, and she taught me everything I know about patience and the importance of staying present in the moment you’re in.

Today we’re getting the keys to her apartment, in Leeds, UK, where she’ll be attending University. Thousands of miles away from home.

Away from me.

And I knew this day would eventually come. I just didn’t think it would seem like three days worth of time, squished into 18 years. Getting to be next to her as she grew up through her boisterous youth, to her unsure and difficult middle school era, to the renaissance of her bloom where she came into her own thoughts, and opinions, and power in the last few years has been, hands down, the best adventure of my life.

Honestly, I don’t know how I managed to steer her little boat down this great big life river to where we’re at today. She’s such a sturdy and reliable vessel, that I often wonder if someone else raised her. Because on this day, and for the past few months really, I’ve been a wreck of a dingy.

Her resilience and perseverance are the only reasons I didn’t lock her in her room and tell her she could pick a nice online program to attend instead. For someone who has worked so hard to be self sufficient, patient, kind, hard working, and just in an unjust world…it would be a grave disservice to not let her spread her wings into this world that so desperately needs her. As my grandparents and parents have always said. We don’t raise them to stay at home and need us. We raise them to go out into the world and be good humans. So I’m learning to let go, I am leaning into embracing this time of her. Because it is. It’s her time now. And how amazing that she gets to spend it, invest in it, experience it, with me still as her mom?

There will be, inevitably, a lot of letting go and holding on in our lives. Family, jobs, relationships, loved ones, hopes, dreams…change and flow with the actions and inactions of the world. Learning when to loosen your grip and when to hold tighter is a difficult dance and the choreography is always changing. So this week I encourage you, as a writer, a human, and a soul…to think about what you’re holding on to. And ask you if it serves you…If not, why are your fingers so tight? What would happen, if you let go of something meant to fly? Not everything is ours to keep, after all.

For me, and Madelyn, letting go is an act of love that tells her I trust her, and I believe in her. It tells her that I’m excited for her life and for what she’ll do out there in the world. It tells her that I know she has brighter (and probably darker) days ahead and that both with teach her about life and finding her purpose. It tells her that I know she’s got this. But it also tells her that I am here and I will hold on to her in my heart, where she’ll always have a home. A big old oak tree to sit beneath when the world gets too loud and too busy. My roots will be there to sit within. My branches always here to give shelter. I will hold on to the bright memories and the endless giggles and curiosities, to remind myself that we are all borne as stardust into this universe and we are all born knowing. We are all, always, undeniably connected. Only the world makes us doubt these undeniable truths. I will hold onto this knowledge for her, in case the world makes her doubt it.

Hug your kiddos, hug your loved ones, hug yourself. (I’d caution against hugging strangers…best not to unless invited and both consenting) Remember you are stardust, glowing and bright. And that means, in terms of the vastness of the universe, that we’re never, really, very far away from each other even when we’re miles away.

Poetry 7-31-2025

Hey there. Last week was a series of battles between work, life, and a newsletter. It was a growing time, a time of transition and time to try and wrap my head around the growing responsibilities in my life and what that means for my writing. It was also a time of softness. Moments of respite, and fostering some connections that felt good and expansive to my heart. Life is a wobbling balance act, and lately I’ve felt more wobbling than balance. So here’s some poetry, from both ends of the spectrum.

Meditation on Old Wounds

See how turbulent winds
blow sweet words away
sand on black top
sand on black top
clouds in blue sky
the blue sky where nothing good sticks
where every promise comes with
an emergency life vest,
and when I get scared,
I can pull the cord
explode the meaning
dismiss it for a lie
another half-truth
sugar sweetness to
worm their way in
and nothing is true
but the stink of my rejection and
love is a dark cloud
I must constantly clear away
clear away
to empty blue skies
lest I be caught in the storm
once again battered
sand on black top
why do I continue reaching
for the chance to be seen
to be known
in all my stormy dark
when I am unknowable
I will wiggle my way out of any noose
of supposed love
it only hurts
it only hurts
it only hurts

except
when
it doesn't


Reawaken

Feel this ancient rumbling
shake and tremble
below what was once
barren ground
the river springs to life
from the soft and patient rains
bubbling up from
the forgotten cradle
soaking the ground
feeding the forest
until it overflows
warm and crashing
over banks
mountainous peaks above
hardened in cold breaths
and warmed
with praise, of god-like hands
and the land settles
into its rhythm
of pulsing
electric
joy

Poetry 7-3-25

Travel leads to thoughts. Interesting new connections and inspirations do too… Travel also leads to not a lot of time getting to sit down and make up blog posts. So I hope you’ll forgive me for posting two poems in a row. This is an older one, not in my current headspace, but always, somehow, tattooed beneath my skin.





Remember Your Lines

What does depression feel like?

Like I want to sleep forever

but every time I fall into that

blissful unconsciousness,

I hope I never come back out

that it’s just a peaceful send off

So long…have a good flight

Don’t call when you get there.

Because…that would be weird

And freak everyone out…

It feels like…

I can’t feel

sunshine, or joy, or pride, or hope

I’m a slab of granite,

wavering on two crumbling pillars of sandstone

stuck in quicksand and sinking

and I don’t care if I go under

in fact, I welcome it and hope

it suffocates me

with calm commands,

breathe in…breath out…and hold

like an MRI of your final moment

but it never tells you

to breath in again

Depression feels like

I have no energy in my synapses

and even if I did, nothing I could do with it

would be worth anything to anyone

least of all myself

Depression is a gray, weighted blanket

only not for comfort, it’s for the unsurmountable load

that life gives you to carry

and you just can’t find a good enough reason

to carry it anymore;

but you can’t find your way out

from underneath it either

Depression is seeing through eyes

that are a movie screen

to an audience that lost its will to care

lacks empathy, doesn’t recognize

Art

or love

or fleeting time

or beauty

Depression is a cage that I shout meaningless words out of,

fake platitudes

in hopes no one else falls into the cage next to me

I’m fine!

You’re fine,

you’re fine, baby girl

you’re fine…

I love you

it’ll be okay

It’ll be okay is tattooed beneath my skin

so that I don’t forget these

lines to a play that I rehearse and repeat,

back to the world that asks

Are you?

Okay?

I look down to the scars I once cut

but can’t cut again; they’ll see

Children learn from watching

so I don’t show,

I tell…

I tell lines

I tell them the lines I need to tell

I tell them,

Though the world is burning around us

and women will never be safe

and human lives don’t matter

cattle for the breeding grounds or

simply to slaughter to the gods of capitalism

Stop!

don’t say that…

don’t project the hopeless…

Read the line

Read the provided line

not the truthful line

of scars….

It’ll be okay

I’m

Okay

You’ll be…

… will you be?

Okay?

Depression is lying to loved ones

so you never have to worry that you’ll be

their downward spiral,

the same scythe of your mother’s loss

that cut you down

Cause we’re all Ok

we just need to…

I just need to

Remember my lines

Poetry 5-22-25

I’m in a weird mood today. This is the season of transitions, of pressures and demands, and I feel like I’m shutting down in the face of so much of it. Here’s a weird poem to align the inner workings of my mind to the outer life, relentlessly attacking.

Sweater

I put your memory on
like an old sweater
in all the little winters
of my despair

Here the arms pull through
to hide the stinging cuts
Here, ribbed neck fraying
to protect from the noose of loss

Here the cabled warmth
falling over my eviscerated belly
Here your memory tucks my vital pieces
back together, safe and warm

The woolen comfort of words
I will never hear again
from nights you probably don't remember
a softness in the dark, held briefly

I am a lint fuzz on your shoulder
but you are my favorite sweater
the one I cannot sleep without
the only thing that offers relief

Purpose and hope exist
in the scratchy bulk
of a garment I once borrowed
but was never mine to wear

I put your memory on
like my favorite sweater
in all these winters
of self-imposed despair.

I saved an earthworm…

To be exact, they were what I would deem a “nightcrawler”. On my rainy walk, with my rescue dog River, and her distaste for the wet (I think it’s the pit bull in her mix) we encountered the large under-dweller, struggling against the asphalt. I watched for a moment. Remembering, that as a child growing up in a dry state (Wyoming), we rarely saw worms that size. If ever you did, was a good omen to gardeners and those were the ones you never took fishing. I bent down lower than my 45 year old knees liked and gently picked up its twisting body, and placed them gently in my palm where it squirmed for freedom, even from a small safety. The rain poured down around us and I let myself feel all of the tickling, wriggling, slightly slimy motion of a life in peril. I took them tenderly towards the grass and out of the space where tomorrow’s sun on the blacktop would bake them, and set them down.

“There you go buddy, good luck.” I said and a woman walking her dog on the sidewalk, moved carefully away from me.

Why don’t we care for things anymore? When did we become so crass? How is it we have become too busy to save even the smallest of consciousnesses? I’ve been thinking a great deal about ‘modern’ life these days, and how less like actual life it feels. “Life” is suddenly something we are fed, by those who control the information. Life is on screens, and filtered to be pretty, it’s reductive, or ridiculous. Competitive and unrealistic. It’s shallow and degrading. When was the last time you held something in your hand that was real? A worm? Your child’s hand? Dirt from your garden? A pen? An apple? Someone you loved (known or in secret) arms wrapped tight and trying to stop time, just for a minute? When did you notice last, a being in struggle? Did you stop? Did you help?

I no longer want to be part of an unreal world. I don’t have years to waste on anything not authentic. What is the point? If I only have so many days, why would I spend them sucked into an algorithm? I want to hear my friend’s voices. I want to read their handwriting. I want to see them across a table or next to me on a walk. I don’t want to be force fed advertising, and told that I need wrinkle cream. As though the natural progression of my body is not something to rejoice in and enjoy. I don’t want to be told in spiraling doom scroll what this world amounts to in the number of likes or angry faces it has. Watch the volley of hatred and hurtful ignorance between neighbors be slung around like poisoned arrows. See artists reduced to fodder for machines, and the brainwashing of it all being NECESSARY, take us over, as though we have no choice in the matter. How can we really justify, as artists, “needing” a platform that abuses and misuses our hard work? I can’t. I never had any big hopes of making it in the industry anyway, so I’m not going to keep buying into a system of false promises, while it robs me of my creativity and passion.

We haven’t always been this way. Don’t you remember?

I know I will miss out. Your faces, your lives, the beauty of your progression in the world. I will not see you. I won’t get to laugh at your memes or comfort you in times of loss. But I will think of you. Just because I’m not there, posting weird writing shit, or poetry, or my bastard of a cat…I am here, thinking about you. Whether we’ve been friends since the fourth grade, or you just joined my writing group, or you read my books, or you gave birth to me…I love you. You don’t need the algorithm to tell you that. You don’t need Facebook as a go-between to keep us connected. I’m here. Loving you. Hoping good things for you. Wishing you a day better than you thought it would be, every day. Each one of you. No likes necessary.

I feel a bit like Neo. Taking the pill. To wake back up to what is real. And it’s scary. And I don’t know if I’ll just be forgotten. Maybe I will. But I suppose the hearts that forget me, I never really had residence in to begin with. Today’s the last day and I’m a little scared. The connection it offered was wonderful, the addiction it’s brought me to and the worry it sustains, is not healthy. For any of us. Here’s where you can find me:

  • BlueSky: @sereichertauthor
  • SubStack: @sarahreichertauthor
  • Website: https://www.sarahreichertauthor.com
  • email: director@writingheights.com
  • Address (I love letters and will send you one if you provide a return address): NCW, 4128 Main St, #144, Timnath, Colorado 80547

I hope I see you in the real life. I hope you find the balance you need. I hope you don’t give in to the idea that you’re data points and not a living, breathing, squirming, fighting, good-omen of humanity. I won’t be there anymore, but I’ll be around.

Photo by Grafixart_photo Samir BELHAMRA on Pexels.com

Poetry 4-10-2025

The Other Half Lives

She breaks the silence
with the crack of a match strike
instant whirl of smoke
and snap
open jumps the flame

She’s Magic on dark nights
when I need reprieve
from myself
when I yearn
to slip into someone
else’s skin and be
the one my parents
warned me about

The kind who lives truth
through match strikes
and bared teeth and
hard, dirty alleys
rough brick scraping
backs of thighs
and halting breath
that never begs

Unleashed from boredom
She carries the burning ember of strife
at the end of her cigarette and
coaxes the glowing cinder with
deep inhalations
Blowing out sinuous tails
through lips
split by love

Back again for more?
Quirked eyebrow, pierced and dauntless

yes, again
pray unbroken lips
with underground currents
of tightly wound desire.

S.E. Reichert

One Month Away! Book Launch and Deals

Ya’ll, I haven’t been so excited about a book coming out since…well ever. I started this book a couple of years ago at a writing conference. It was a rare and beautiful madness, where the characters would regularly interrupt me on my morning commute to the kids’ camps, my Peloton rides, my hikes, in line at the grocery store, with little snippets of their life. Like I was a radio that would pass by their frequencies and catch conversations. Notes were drawn up on my phone, scraps of paper and notebooks. Eventually landing on my screen. Only I didn’t write it as one novel. This book started out as two separate novels, one from each perspective that I then had to go back and merge into the finished project. It was messy and strange, (and an absolute headache for my editor I’m sure) but through it all, I’ve never gotten to know two characters more intimately.

It’s safe to say, I’m in love with them both. I need a Charlie in my life. I think we all do. I think we all need a Meg too. Someone to remind us what’s worth living for. To kick us in the pants when we feel too sorry for ourselves. To be in our corner, no matter what.

So, I hope that you’ll preorder it. Preordered sales count in the total number and it can really help an author to be seen in some of the bigger markets. Its not so much me that wants to be seen. It’s Charlie and Meg. I want the world to know them. So pre-order if you can! But if you want a little something more, I’m running a special book package for No Words.

If you chose to buy the book this way, you’ll be sent a signed copy of the book and some goodies, hand selected by me. The price will include the shipping cost. More details will be released in a couple of weeks, but if you’re interested now (I like to start making my list) shoot me an email (with the subject line No Words Special) or DM me on my socials.

I will also be crowing about the book launch and book signings that are currently getting hashed out, so please stay tuned for those and if you’re in the area, stop on by! I’d love to talk books and writing with you, and sign some copies. Dates and places to be announced soon.

Here’s a little excerpt:

Charlie asks me to meet for coffee the morning after Bradley’s departure. I, of course, comply. Coffee with Charlie always breaks me out of my mood. If there’s anyone crabbier at the world than me, it’s him. Plus, I love to hear him talk. About anything and nothing. I love the way he sits back and listens, discerning brows pulled together, as though he’s contemplating my words. As if I matter. I’m curious as to why he asked me and didn’t mention Gina coming along. Her birthday is coming up soon, and I’m sure Charlie, in his old-school romantic way, has devised a plan he needs help with.
What a man to find, I think as I put on my worn red boots to navigate the slush-deep sidewalks. It’s ten blocks but I don’t have enough for fare today. When I arrive, Charlie is there, already seated, readers on and mouthing answers to the crossword. I watch his lips count through the window. The spaces, the letters, making it all fit. He looks up, a graying curl on his forehead. He waves me in.
He looks pale. Paler than I’ve seen him in a long while and his bright blue eyes pop against his skin. His mouth is downturned, like he doesn’t want to talk first. He rarely does.
“Hey!” I puff out and the breath feels hot on my cheeks.
“Did you walk all the way?” he scowls.
“It’s a lovely fall day.”
“It’s twenty degrees out, Meg.”
I shrug and take off my coat, I settle in, nod for coffee and don’t allow even a moment before I dive into the dramatic end scene of Bradley. Charlie remains a statue as I recount the far-too familiar episode.
“And that’s how I ended up with all the rent and none of the sex.”
Charlie’s scowl deepens. “Well, thank God. The guy was a grade-A moron.”
“He got into Cats.” I say over the menu.
Charlie rolls his bright eyes over his readers and levels them on me.
“He couldn’t get into a bag of chips with scissors. The man was a talentless hack and you shouldn’t have paid his rent as long as you did.”
“You’re just saying that to be sweet.” I sip my coffee and looked out over the busy city street outside. The cloudy morning spits gray flakes against people’s faces as they walk by. I set aside the menu. I can’t afford toast, let alone breakfast.
“When have you ever known me to be sweet? Go to hell.” Charlie studies his puzzle again. I watch him from across the table. I love looking at Charlie. His wild and curly hair, unkempt and disrespectful. His face a map of a million laughs, handsome but in total, unrefined.
“Thanks,” I whisper. For the moment of stability, for reaffirming my faith in men. He reaches out, without looking up from his puzzle, and places his warm hand over mine with a squeeze.
“How is Gina?”
Charlie pauses, and with him, my heart. He never pauses when talking about Gina, he’s over the moon in love with her. There is always some news, some show, some smash hit that she’s working on mastering, filling up their brownstone with repeated notes and lines, and the sparkle that is Gina. There is no pause to a life so full. Charlie clears his throat.
“It’s back.”
The words are like a double hit to my chest. I don’t have to ask what ‘it’ is. It’s only be five years since it took root in her the first time. Now it takes root in me, with the kind of despair that steals words.
“Charlie, no.”
“Yes… It’s bad, Meg.”
I ache with anger. I want to throw my fist into something, but I’m stupid and weepy instead, so I take his warm hand in mine.
“What can I do?”
“Be here,” he says.
I sniff and look up to staunch the deluge. My crying doesn’t help any of us, and he certainly doesn’t need to feel worse for my tears.
“Ok. How is she?”
“Tired,” he shakes his head, tucking the paper beneath his plate. I watch him take off the readers and rub his eyes. “This time is already worse.”
I’m at a loss. What the hell do you say to that? I’m a fuck up, not a doctor. I have nothing to give him, even after they’ve given me so much. My heart aches and I’m desperate to do something.

Poetry 3-13-25

HEART

She is a bore
and a lofty braggart
claiming forever
but following the newest smell
away from her leash

She is tender and full
a bag tensed, to burst
at the slightest slight
heavy with blood and the suffering of want

She is the doorway
to a thousand churches
and the carnal sacrilege
of all good, and wild things

She is latin
for courageous
and holds my breath and my breathlessness
in space between her beats

She is a pauper
always begging
and a selfless saint
giving away all of her compassion in bills
like she could not take it with her

She dances in the kitchen
with a baby on her hip
even when that baby is
long, gone
grown

She lights up like Christmas
and echoes in dark gothic hallways

She shudders and trips
beats steady and sound
she's the only one I can ever claim
is mine
And yet, so often
I still think her,
a stranger
in my chest

We couldn't live without each other.
I hope
whatever the next life brings
I can take her with me.

The Trouble with Love

Well, well, well, if it isn’t a day away from that ridiculous, capitalist exchange day. You know, the one where we exchange affection for $8 cards and a box of (probably last year’s) chocolates to prove we are enamored with one another. Valentine’s Day has become a symbol for showy displays and, in some part, single shaming. I’m always heartened when I hear of people celebrating in counter culture ways, because if anyone needs a big middle finger to the face, it’s capitalism and ‘traditional’ heterosexual misogyny.

So, I’m against love, right? Not in the slightest. Hell most of my writing career exists because I believe in and ache for, and get excited by love. But that doesn’t have anything to do with fancy jewelry or a hearty case of diabetes in a heart shaped box. Love is about connection. It’s about support and reliability. It’s about physical affection (not necessarily sex) and putting forth the effort to remember what they take in their coffee. It’s about hearing the exhaustion in their voice and ordering dinner in. It’s about sending silly memes that remind them of you. It’s a million different things that don’t necessarily have to put money into the corporate cesspool. If you’ve never read one of my books, the ongoing theme of them is that Love is something to be worked on and perfected. Love makes you want to be a better person. Love carries you past the hardships and centers you in the storm.

I’m not against love. I’m against my feelings being taken hostage and only released if I pay their fee. I’m against having to ‘prove’ affection with overpriced flowers or the anxiety of ‘choosing’ the right gift. Let me sleep in on a Saturday and bring me coffee in bed…that’s love. When I’m cranky and raging, kiss my forehead, tell me I’m right and the world is a fucking mess, and go take a warm bath, that you’ll clean up dinner. Be open and honest about your emotions and trust me enough to love you no matter what.

I urge you on the upcoming holiday to think differently about how you express your love. Write a poem, or if you’re not a poet-y type, find a poem and send it. Pick them up a coffee or tea on your way. Support a local book store and take them there for a date. Put on their favorite movie and sling a frozen pizza in the oven. Hold them when they cry. Turn off their light for them when they fall asleep reading. Give them the first cookie out of the oven. Clean up the cat vomit so they don’t have to…these are the things that make up love.

On a larger scale, I urge you to think more expansively about love. Stand up for others. Use your privilege and any means necessary to protect human rights, and the constitution. Protect science, and education. Fight for living wage, and lower cost medical services, adopt a rescue pet, donate to the food bank, donate blood, hell-donate a kidney, don’t allow disadvantaged voices to be silenced in any room you’re in. Fight for equal pay and stand between bullies without warrants and people just trying to live a better life. Join the resistance, support the National Park Service, and keep reminding Google that it’s “The Gulf of Mexico”. There are a million ways to show your love, that don’t need to put money into the pockets of corporations who’ve sided with a traitor to democracy. That makes up the larger love that we all need so desperately right now.

Happy V-Day.

Just For Today…

Hello writers, readers, and fellow stardust-filled meat suits,

This is a friendly and short reminder that this is the only day you have.

Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow is not promised. Today is what we get. This day, this hour, this minute, this breath. I hope you are up, ready to face it with a sense of calm purpose. What will you do today?

Not sure where to start? Here’s how I do:

  • Move your body: Go for a walk, do a little yoga, take a run or a bike ride, lift something heavy, find the quiet repetition of a lap pool, beat the hell out of a boxing bag. Whatever the motion, be grateful for the body you’ve been given and love it.
  • Write something. Anything. A grocery list, 2000 words on your next novel, a poem, an essay, a letter to your mom…a lunch box note. Put hand to paper (or keys) and share a bit of your soul out into the world.
  • Read something. Take in a few new ideas, challenge your knowledge, tease your curiosity. Learn something new, then sit for a minute and think about that something new. Can you related it to something you knew or thought before.
  • Breathe. Slowly. In and out. Do nothing but breathe, for at least three breaths, at least three times a day.
  • Eat good food. Whatever that means for you. I’m not talking latest diet fads or what you ‘should’ eat. But what’s good to you, your soul, your happiness, and your sense of fulfillment. If its green and leafy all the better, if its all crunch and salt, so be it. But let it bring you joy.
  • Devote time to your purpose. Maybe that’s writing. So sit down and write. Maybe that’s your current job, buckle down and find gratitude in the work. Maybe that’s taking care of someone else, find fulfillment in that. But give focused time to your passion, and your goals.
  • Do one thing…anything, not for yourself. Help a neighbor, take a grocery cart back, help a coworker with a project, give a ‘yes’ to something that lightens the load of another. Send a note, donate to charity, drop off food at the food bank, hold the damn door, offer a compliment. Say thank you and please. It really takes so little to be kind. So do that. In any way, big or small, that you can.
  • Rest. Maybe it’s a moment to stare off into space, or to do a puzzle, or to lay down with your snoring dog for twenty minutes. But rest. We’re not machines and its in those quiet times that our brain processes all the stuff we’re doing.
  • Tell someone you love them, or appreciate them, are rooting for them, or that they are important to you. Whatever and to whomever…tell them now. This is your only day.
  • Spend time with the people and places you love the most. At least a little time. Be present with them. Make a memory. Make it count. Make them laugh.
  • Laugh. The greatest punchline to human existence is that, despite all of our struggling, our toiling and effort, none of it really matters. We are an absurd little glitch in a vast and uncaring, infinite universe. We are ridiculous and short-lived, so find humor in all that you can. Because laughter is a bit of a middle finger to the whole pointless play, and at least by laughing, you’re enjoying the flash-in-pan ride.
  • Love. You can chose a lot of things in life. You can choose to get ahead, you can choose to keep it simple, you can choose to pull back or spring forward, you can make choices for your life and your goals. You can choose to hate someone and extend that. You can choose to love. It is our greatest power and our greatest folly that we get to choose how we radiate into the world. I ask that you choose love. Love your fellow humans. Love your planet and your world. Extend grace. Live compassionately as though that was an unending resource (it is). Forgive. Let go. This is your only day, so just for today, choose to love.

Try the list, then go to bed. And then…when and if (and I hope it’s when and not if) you wake up in the morning, be excited and ready because you get to do it all over again. Just for today.