I came across a Facebook post the other day from early 2020, just 6 months after Josiah was murdered and while his body was still missing. In it, I said something to the effect of, “You could ask me how I’m doing and I could give you 100 different answers and they would all be true.”

I remember that time well – the homicide fatigue, the missing persons fatigue, the ptsd, the grief, the despair, all of it, but I also remember the love and support of people who desperately wanted to help me. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of people who seemed to exclaim, “We’ve got you! We care! Your boy matters! You matter too!”, in a chorus that reverberated all the way to my tiny home nestled in the forest on top of a mountain in Northern California, the last home that Josiah and I would ever share space and a meal in.

Much of that statement about giving 100 different answers is still true, a fraction of it is anyways, at least in my current life. That cavernous loss broke me open to the complexities of what it means to be human, that we are not just one note, that we can experience – and generally are experiencing – a wide range of emotions at any given time whether we are fully in touch with them or not.

But what does this have to do with my writing? Well, of course it could affect my day to day level of productivity, at least that would make sense wouldn’t it? I suppose so, but the real trouble I’ve been having over the last week is that there is SO much to say, so much to tell you about what was going on within me and within the investigation that it is challenging to get it out in a cohesive way. I am currently 28k words into a manuscript I am proud of that I would easily share and am working off of a first draft of 70k+ words that I wouldn’t show you if you tried to pry it out of my cold, dead hands. So there is a lot that has been accomplished even if some days it doesn’t feel like it.

The good news is (for me, for all of you and most importantly, for the book, Remember the Birds), is that I am showing up to my writing everyday, generally in front of my computer screen, but always in thought and often in long conversation with my partner Brian talking about where I am currently, sussing out what it is that needs to be accomplished within any given piece or section and then heading back to the computer to write. As much of a beating as I take some days, nothing is wavering my commitment to tell this story in all of its complexities, with its 100 different answers and with the level of honesty and vulnerability that it deserves.

Yesterday, when I met with other Gold writers in the London Writers Salon for our weekly check-in, I expressed this issue, this frustration with where I’m at chronologically in the story and described it like this,

“I am having trouble because there were two parallel stories unfolding – my story, the one that was happening inside of me and outside of me with who was showing up in my life and who wasn’t – and then there was the story of what was happening in the investigation. One is more emotional and the other, more journalistic in nature – and I am struggling trying to figure out how to weave these two stories together.”

The coach leading our discussion said something to me that was simple yet profound, “Whether these two experiences seemed separate or parallel like you describe them, they were all happening to you. You were the one experiencing them, they all filtered in through your lens so ultimately they are the same. If they feel different, write about them separately and then figure out how they weave together later.”

Someone else in the group, another Gold writer, suggested that I write about the struggle I am having which is why I am writing this here, reaching out to all of you. Ultimately, without the support and community that sprang up around me during the first year after Josiah’s murder, I doubt that I would be here to tell you about it. My level of despair and dire desperation trying to find whatever was left of him got to a point where the loudest option seemed to be checking out. I am so glad that never came to pass.

I do so hope that wherever you are in life right now, treading high or somewhere near the bottom, that you reach out and find a community that can support you. We are not meant to traverse this life alone.

I will end here and head back to the book.

Thank you for following along and continuing to support me on this path.

In Gratitude,

Liz, Writer and Josiah’s Mom

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