A mosquito and a gnat are suspended in silver threads that neither of them saw.

She knows what she is doing.

Geometries are woven well, the tethers are strong, and through her hard work and creativity, she has crafted something that works for her while she rests.

Resilient. Strong. Formidable.

She will feast today, and I have observed how it is to be done.

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Perhaps I could just… do a little more to “catch up” at work. To “get ahead.” Jump back into that unresolved problem now, so that I don’t have to worry about it on Monday. To “feel lighter.” To “make space.”

There’s the lie, right there: the “making space.”

In physics, we are taught to treat systems as nearly isolated. Allow energy exchange between the isolated system and its surroundings, but never matter. Never the actual stuff that systems are made of. Matter is to remain inside its perfect little box. We do this so that we can understand, because when we treat systems as they truly are—as permeable to the flow of matter and energy—they get too hard to evaluate, calculate, quantify, and predict.

How do I get the stuff in my little isolated box, my ideal, closed system, out without removing a partition? And what do I expect when I remove that partition and let the stuff out?

I can’t allow this anymore.

I know that if I let the current stuff out, other stuff moves in whether I like it or not. Always. There is no void that remains a void. The natural order requires that something fills the void.

When we “make space,” we don’t always get to keep it.

We make our best plans, those rigid little systems, and then we observe the natural world do its thing. Nothing is truly impervious; sometimes, your appendix gets angry, or it rains, or a job that you’ve permitted to take up too much space just spills over the edges, and these things must be dealt with first. We must have the surgery, accommodate the weather, and cut out the job that does not want to remain contained within our boundaries.

The walls must have windows, doors, and vents. We must let matter and energy in, and out. This is how we integrate.

I should stop trying to swim upstream, to prevent the flow of matter and energy into and out of my life. I am the damper. I am the valve, the flow regulator.

The natural universe is fluid, and so, this new life system I’ve constructed must do a better job of accommodating this flow, and I should too.

Death, rebirth, scab, death, rebirth, scab.

Evidence of it all on your clothes and towels and shower floor.

In the end, the last rebirth remains, and purple lines persist where there were once none. Discolorations denote what happened there: skin once severed is sealed, but never again the same.

And this is the ugly truth of healing: you are new, and you will never be the same.

👋🏻 Hello, Substack friends! 👋🏻

It’s been a couple of weeks since my last post, and my. goodness. a lot has happened.

1️⃣ My job has been… exceptionally stressful. I don’t want to give that too much energy, but I will summarize this with: I’ve been trying to force a fit that isn’t good for me, for too long; I need a change of pace; I need more mental bandwidth and physical energy to live my life and be my best, creative self.

Highlights: I have put in my two weeks, I have something lined up that fits my values as a person (in an industry I care about, and with women in leadership), and I will fully transition jobs by the end of March 2026. I have promised to not mix work with writing too much here, so if you’re curious about my current career and next moves, I’ll update my LinkedIn at some point in March. Watch there 👀

2️⃣ I attended the San Francisco Writer’s conference! So much to say about this too, but I’m short on time this evening. I’ve got a local film industry mixer to get to!

Highlights: I pitched my written screenplay (The Woman’s Order) and another story I have planned to Hollywood management execs, they loved both, and I have a handshake on representation so long as they think they can work with me.

Given those major shifts, I’ve also decided that I’ll be deliberately shaping my Substack into a few focus areas: film, flash fiction, and reflections. As part of the focus on film, I’d like to announce…

📣 🎥 Coming Soon: Feels from Reels

This will be a movie review series where I watch a movie, and then I record the feelings and thoughts the story brings out of me, without giving too much away. I’ve had this on the back burner for a while, but I’ll be sending my first article in this series this weekend. As a screenwriter, this helps surface and explore the emotions that good character arcs should make the audience feel, and incorporate that into my own writing. Stay tuned!

💝 Thank you, reader!

If you read this or anything else I’ve written, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Best,

Becky Steele | ladyofsteele

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Roy is a small spider that inhabits the passenger side corner of the dashboard in my car. He’s been there for over two months now. I haven’t seen Roy in nearly two weeks, because I haven’t driven my car since my surgery.

I’m going to drive my car again today, and it has me thinking about Roy.

He and I have a special arrangement: he keeps my car free of unwanted bugs, and I give him the real estate to be a custodian, and drive him all over my beloved new-to-me-home state, California.

We have been to West Hollywood, Paso Robles, San Jose, the beach (many times), the forest (a few times), the airport, running errands, the library… you get the picture. I haven’t seen an ant, fly, or insect of any kind.

When I parked my car for surgery, I told Roy I’d be going away for a few weeks, and that I hope he can hold down the fort until we can resume our adventures.

I do have some concern that I won’t find Roy when I go to my car today. If he’s gone, I’ll know it soon enough; he always comes out of the corner to greet me when the car starts. If he’s there, I’ll debrief him on what the coming week holds: our usual excursions (beach, forest, time with my partners), and a special trip to San Francisco for the San Francisco Writer’s Conference.

No words have ever been spoken between us, but I have a deep knowing that we support one another as we try to coexist and (re)build our worlds.

Last Saturday, pain and Discomfort in my lower right abdomen. Last Sunday, visit to the urgent care clinic. By midnight on Monday, appendix removed.

Discomfort, mostly, until it was more.

Discomfort. A word and feeling I’ve only gotten to know very well since quitting alcohol in 2024. Discomfort is a dimension of intuitive knowing—that something is wrong, that something is “off”, that something is about to happen—which resurfaced early in sobriety. And now, I use Discomfort as an indicator, a way finder. It is a beacon that indicates where there is trouble, it takes up space and blocks the way when something needs clearing, and it lets me know where the boundary exists between routine life and expansive life.

One week after surgery, I feel Discomfort very strongly. Today, it’s letting me know that the things I must do when I “clock in” on Monday are too divergent from the things I’d otherwise choose to do with my time (rest, write, plan, create and live an expansive life). It’s saying, “Do what you must there, but only do the bare minimum, and bring your best back home.”

Heard, Discomfort: loud and clear ❤️

I just checked into my hotel in West Hollywood.

It’s clean, inexpensive, has a parking garage (rare), seems safe, and upon first inspection, seems like it stands some chance of being up to code, but that’s all I can say about it.

Sleepless, in West Hollywood.

I’ve been a member of the Write LA community (remotely) for nearly a year. That competition was the first one I entered, and I was happy they’d extended the deadline because the Screencraft competition (the whole company, really) folded the day before I was set to submit The Woman’s Order for the very first time. I paid a bit extra for written feedback with the founder, but after placing in a few other comps and not his, I felt his direct feedback on my first draft and a subsequent rewrite would be invaluable. So, I sprung for the full package where he reads the first draft, offers feedback, and then does the same for a second draft.

We met and discussed his feedback. I learned a lot, enough to start a rewrite. But I haven’t made it beyond the first few pages of the second draft.

Last year was… a lot.

Even so, I’ve been consistent with writing something throughout the year, and I’m really proud of that. It’s mostly been short form, but the first time (ever), I did not stop writing when life started life-ing pretty hard. But, I lost my long form creative self somewhere in the shuffle.

In part of the book “Big Magic” by Elizabeth Gilbert, she talks about seducing your creative muse. Drawing it back to yourself. Putting on something nice for it. Lipstick. Perfume. Showing up and putting in some effort, to attract it back to you.

Enter, the grand gesture.

Today was the first grand gesture I’ve made towards wooing my muse. When Write LA shared that there were free seats available for a live read of a screenplay (someone else’s, not mine), on the Monday that was my holiday in West Hollywood, I got loving support from my partners and committed to the trip and the as-advertised hotel. The drive was meant to be 5.5 hours. It took nearly 9 hours. I had to delay and ultimately skip lunch with my sister on the way through, and only made it just in time.

But it was worth it.

I found her here, my muse. She was waiting for me on Melrose Avenue, in the second story of a building filled with rooms, and those rooms, filled with people, performing and spectating and applauding. When I walked into Studio E, she was there in the front row, and she saved me a seat.

In that room, I saw how dreams were made. I saw another writer see his screenplay come to life, read by live actors and watched by the crowd, my muse, and me. I got to meet the Write LA founder and his partner and family, and after some mingling, my muse and I left for the hotel.

After we checked in, I told her all about the new rental house in a much more peaceful, safe home; about my sister getting through kidney cancer; about how often we’ll go to the beach and the forest and the movies; about the new keyboard and oil lamp on the writing desk and the hard line between work and personal time.

I’ve made space for her to move in, and I think she trusts me again. I can’t wait to come back to screenwriting, together.

I went sober almost 14 months ago. One of the things I noticed (almost immediately) was that without the influence of alcohol clouding my mind, I found clarity.

All of the sudden, I was standing in a land that I knew was mine, but most of it was dark and forgotten. You know those video game maps where you only get to see new parts when you complete some quest? It was like that, and I wasn’t completely back at the start, but I was close to the beginning.

Three months after going sober, I interviewed therapists. The first two didn’t seem like they would make good companions as I unlocked the maps of my inner world, but the third? He was the perfect exploratory companion.

Since then, we’ve unlocked much of the map. There are archetypes we’ve met along the way, each one being a manifestation of some part of myself that I’d long forgotten or deliberately silenced. All of them were part of myself, and each one would need reintegrated.

I’ve (re)met Wanderlust, Warrior, Inner Child, Naysayer, Joker, Savant, Creator—so many parts of myself, all reunited and activated in the Land of Inner Me. They were like cogs of a machine, lying in a pile that I could only offer my attention to once I stopped dulling my focus. With my therapist’s help, and increasingly on my own, I’ve assembled them into a machine. Each cog would be capable of turning in its own direction, with its own function, size, and speed, but nothing was in motion yet.

This last one though: she’s incredible. Turns out, I called her in sometime in late 2025. I have seen her rising up, and in the last month, she has become the front and center archetype. Going into my last therapy session, I asked how I could promote her. Give her a board seat in the executive panel of my mind. Give her some fancy title and authority, like Chief Archetype Officer or Badass-in-Residence.

Instead, we picked her up—that mighty cog—and we put her into the machine. And do you know what happened?

It turned on.

Her place was on the throne in the Land of Inner Me. From there, she and I maintain a Bluetooth connection as I explore the land. My land. She was as important as the other archetypes, but no more dominant. She was the switch to powering on the machine. I was the source.

Turns out, I didn’t come here to compete with anyone or anything. I am here to rule, with each of my archetypes at-the-ready, and my Empress on the throne when I need to call in my power.

Together, we reign.

I was awakened when a wave of heavy rain swept across the roof. I greeted our cat and engaged in our daily ritual. The sky wept like the depth within me did last night. A heavy residual left me feeling more of that today.

Affirmations were interrupted by the song of a duck, whose voice echoed in the valley, alarm and dread carried in between the rain drops.

“Good mourning,” she said, and then she disappeared into the mist.

I sipped my coffee, certain that the world would return tomorrow, as would all that comes with it. Mourning, indeed.

Spock: "Computers make excellent and efficient servants, but I have no wish to serve under them." (Star Trek: The Original Series, Season 2, Episode 24)

Watching the rise of AI in American industry has felt a lot like a long drive on the highway. For years, I saw them there, the bots, in their own lane. At first, they were clumsy student drivers, chaperoned by highly skilled engineers while they learned the rules of the road. They were the ones you’d honk at as they started to veer into your lane, but they course-corrected faster and faster each time, politely waving to apologize. They drove 10 mph slower than the rest of us for safety—and in some places, due to regulation. For me, they were almost forgettable, because a future where the bots would be behind the wheel alone was decades out. I trusted the process of engineering ingenuity, and for some reason, I trusted the industry.

Then, once they were given their licenses to drive, the companies who manufactured the cars and the bots started removing the drivers—those engineers who served as chaperones, guides, and regulators. I watched this, too, from my lane. The bots learned they could use their turn signals to merge into any other lane. The difference? They were not only signaling their intent; they were entering our lanes whether we liked it or not. All of the sudden, we needed to accommodate them or risk causing a pileup on the highway, or worse.

Dramatic? Maybe.

My designated lanes spanned two highways: the software industry and the writing industry. At first, I thought I could learn to surf the waves with AI as it overtook the software industry, while I turned to the writing industry as an AI-free refuge.

But there is no avoiding the bots. And we are not in control.

AI’s influence on society has never been more pronounced, according to The 2025 AI Index Report produced by Stanford University’s Human-Centered Artificial Intelligence (HAI) group.

Some highlights from the report:

1. AI is increasingly embedded in everyday life

2. Business is all in on AI, fueling record investment and usage, as research continues to show strong productivity impacts

3. Governments are stepping up on AI—with regulation and investment

   1. About this one: the stats in this highlight are from 2024 and represent laws and regulations passed by the US Government at the time. The current regime (I said what I said) leveraged an executive order in January 2025 to rescind the former administration’s safety and compliance regulations on AI)

This year, Big Tech in the US has laid off at least 54,000 people (this is the figure from those companies untouchable enough to be able to cite AI as the reason). That figure is likely much higher, and AI being the real reason? Also likely BS, and here’s a piece that does a much better job of explaining why companies are using AI as a scapegoat for corporate greed, mismanagement, and allegiance to shareholders (only) than I ever could. I said what I said.

There’s much more to say on the topic of why our current adoption of AI is not sustainable, including:

• The plundering of environmental resources by semiconductor manufacturers, data centers who run that high-energy consumption hardware, and model providers who leave the faucet wide open

• Creating and training models that exhibit the worst of human biases (because they can’t NOT), which means we’re seeking information from sources that possess all of our -isms (racism, sexism, ableism, etc)

• Increased AI use linked to eroding critical thinking skills

So what are we to do? Are we the bug, or are we the windshield? Is there something in between? My first inclination is one of flight: stop the car, get out, and not go on this journey altogether.

But what would Roddenberry do?

I love Star Trek. I’m a Voyager gal. I didn’t start watching Star Trek until my late 20s, starting with Voyager, I’ve been rewatching Voyager ever since (I’m in my 40s now, counting at least 8 full rewatches to date).

Gene Roddenberry’s stories represent the best of human potential, especially in tech. We recognize technologies in the world today that were first depicted in Roddenberry’s stories: hand-held communicators, tablet computers, replicators (if we count 3D printers, and I can’t wait to order “Coffee, black”).

Now enter: the Computer. We interact regularly with the machines. We ask them what the weather will be, we use them to send texts while we’re driving, and we use them to generate code that modernizes legacy systems. Even translation devices are here (universal translator, anyone?).

Star Trek gives us hope for a Utopian future, believing that the human potential would be “remarkable,” yielding a better, fairer world — “a world with no hunger, poverty, prejudice, or greed.”

Bots are included. Here are some characteristics of Computers and AI-interaction in Star Trek that I do believe are realizable for humanity:

• A trusted partner in the ship’s computer: It’s a living database that manages the ship's complex systems, navigation, and environmental controls. The computer provides the facts and physics, while the human officers provide the intent and ethics. This. More of this, please.

• Androids with a practical function (Lieutenant Commander Data!): Instead of replacing the crew, Data acts as a force multiplier. During the night watch, he stays on the bridge while others sleep, ensuring the ship is always under the care of a sentient being. In emergencies, he interfaces directly with the ship's computer to stabilize systems faster than humans can. For me, however, Data provides more heart-centered lessons in the storyline than expected. By treating Data as a peer, the crew learns to re-examine their own human prejudices, which is something we could certainly use more of today. The key here was that Data is inherently bias-free. Our bots have inherited our biases. Perhaps it’s not too late to regulate and retrain some of this away?

• Programmatic interfaces that evolve from tools (medical, scientific) to sentient beings with ethical subroutines. “Please state the nature of the medical emergency.” One of my personal favorites, the Doctor from Voyager, and the ship’s Emergency Medical Hologram (EMH), begins as a simple tool but evolves into a fully realized individual. Because the EMH is a computer program, he can download every medical textbook in the galaxy instantly. However, his relationship with the crew forces him to develop bedside manner and ethics. This demonstrates that even a job-focused AI can become a beneficial member of society who protects life rather than just serving its function.

Yes, I know: this is the glass-half-full view. Many episodes also emphasize how AI, under the influence of malicious creators and void of ethics, can cause more harm than good.

Computer, RED ALERT!

I don’t have solutions to offer up in this piece. What I do have, though, is the willingness to stop at the next Rest Area, and join a think tank of individuals to come up with solutions for human-centered world, accentuated by the bots.

But, we must do this now. For those who are unwilling to join the think tank or correct their reckless behavior, we must implement regulations—barriers, rules, laws—that ensure we allow innovation within limits. Will we go slower? Possibly. Will we reach our destination equitably and with the least harm done possible? I sure hope so.

If you’ve made it this far, I do confirm that I used AI to generate this piece’s image. I did it because I knew AI would get that Vulcan gesture wrong. The bots are increasingly good at some things (generative code, for one), but they are so bad with hands. Did you notice? I believe this trait, and many others, can be coached and guided, but we have more work to do on ourselves before the bots can ever live up to their full potential, as helpers and tools, but not as our overlords.

Please like, share, and subscribe 🖖 Live long, and prosper.

Home, is where I want to be

But I guess I’m already there

I come home

She lifted up her wings

I guess that this must be the place

—David Byrne, Talking Heads

Long time no see (and write), Substack. A lot has happened since my last post.

In two cars and with three cats, my partners and I drove from Kentucky to California in March 2024. We’ve each already moved once since we got here. We’ve come across bad people and good people, bad luck and good luck, bad days and good days.

“Life got better, but not easier,” she said. It’s true.

In all the uncertainty, one thing is certain for me: this must be the place.

I’ve done the unthinkable. Nearly twenty poems, six short/flash/micro fiction stories, and one finished screenplay later, I’ve stayed consistent with my writing in 2025.

In 2026, I’m looking for Community with a capital C. Is that you?

It’s officially too painful for me to stay in that daily grind. I don’t know what that means yet, but it means something. Profound. Motivating. Terrifying.

Let’s meet here again, soon.

—B

I did what I came to do, flushed, unlatched the door, and stepped out into the short hall leading to the sink station. American Fiction had been playing on without me for several minutes, and I was in a hurry. Just before I got to the closest of the two double sinks, I saw a girl standing in front of the mirror. When I saw what she was doing, I stood still.

She must’ve been between 8 and 10 years old, with long chestnut hair held back by a purple headband. Her left hand switched from pose to pose as her right hand held the her phone. She snapped selfie after selfie — a closed mouth smile, a toothy smile, hand on hip, fingers twirling hair — and I just stood there, waiting.

Each still frame was only a snapshot, a second of time, but that time didn’t belong to me anymore. Every second of that time belonged to her.

She turned in shock and hid her phone when she noticed that I’d been standing and waiting for her to finish taking photos of herself. In moments, her smile faded into an embarrassed frown. She was shutting down.

I noticed, and didn’t want her to feel like it was anything to be embarrassed about. I gave her a quizzing smile, raised both of my thumbs and made a motion without words, asking, “Are you good?”

She smiled again, also without words, she said, “I am good.”

I focused only on washing my hands for a minute, and then looked back up in the mirror. She was still standing at the other sink, grinning with a huge smile, and making eye contact.

She was good.

I turned to dry my hands as the person she was waiting for approached the sink station. She started to speak to the little girl in Spanish, and they left the restroom.

American Fiction came to an end, and I was happy to have experienced the film tonight. The movie and its cast deserved all of the acclaim (and Oscar nominations) they received. Surprisingly, however, it was the little girl that I couldn’t stop thinking about hours later.

She was good.

In those short moments, she captured how good she was. She was unashamed, she was proud, she was pure, and she was free. But when she was “caught,” she was ashamed, she was embarrassed, and she was no longer free.

It was a small and brief encounter, but I am worried about her. I am worried about everyone who dared to admire the way they look, and ended up embarrassed or ashamed for being caught feeling themselves.

I don’t take as many selfies as I used to.

Maybe we should all take more selfies, like nobody is watching.

Going inward was not a discipline of mine when the year began. On the contrary, the three or four years leading up this one were spent with limbs fully extended, exhausted and exerting great effort, pushing outward so as to not get crushed by what felt like millions of pounds of force pushing inward from all directions. I had to fix the pressure, and that fix came in the form of a much needed career change.

On this side of that job transition, I feel that I’ve been able to participate in a reciprocal, beneficial, and fair exchange of my time and energy in a fulfilling new role, in exchange for having mental and physical energy for myself once again.

Making this transition meant that I needed to preserve what little energy I had after focusing on “the fix” to rest and recharge—to be selfish with my time and energy and resources. I said “no” to a lot, either because I knew I couldn’t commit for fear of being paged by my job on nights and weekends (before changing jobs), or because I simply had no energy to give after meeting my commitments to myself and my partners. I missed a lot of time with friends, family, and my respective communities (tech, beer). For a time, I sacrificed these things so that I could end the year as my best whole self for myself, for my partners, and for the people in my life.

Part of being my best whole self for me was coming back to my first and favorite form of creative expression: writing. I set unrealistic writing goals in 2023 which, in hindsight, were especially aggressive considering I didn’t get to recalibrate my work/life energy expenditures until September.

I did not write what I came to write, neither in the timeframe in which I wanted to write, nor in the quantity.

But I have written.

I have written my intentions. Thanks to a powerful coaching session with the wonderful Jess Amburgey, I crafted an affirmation about my intentions with my writing, and I wrote that affirmation at least once per week for every single week this year. It will come with me into 2024. Quick plug for her: invest in yourself, and get coaching with Jess. She’ll help you sort through all the mental bullshit and get straight to identifying your multipassions and setting useful intentions.

I have written down what I intended to put out into to the world: writing, career coaching, public speaking, and STEM mentorship. I have done each of those things in 2023. The writing is here to stay, as is the public speaking. After taking on six career coaching clients this summer and having a blast working with them, I’ve decided that neither career coaching nor STEM mentorship will come with me into next year (at least, not explicitly or with much time commitment).

I have written love letters to my body. A lot of work has been done to heal the disconnect between my body and me. We gave up alcohol for over a month this summer and have since kept our consumption way down. We have run, cycled, and walked nearly 500 miles this year, and spent nearly 200 hours doing it. We have slept when we needed sleep, for as long as we needed it. We have taken better care of our skin and our self-image. All of this comes forward with me.

I have written love letters to my inner child. We have done the damn work this year. I’ve written about a tiny slice of that here, while the largest portion of those words have been spent in my journal and in my therapy sessions. We have healed, and we’re taking that healing forward.

I have written over 60,000 words across 12 Substack posts, 22 poems on my personal and anonymous Instagram accounts, 3 unpublished Substack articles that healed me so much that I decided I didn’t need to put them out into the world, and 1 historical horror fiction novel (in progress).

I am a writer.

Thank you for reading, and for your love and support. My gratitude for that comes forward, too ❤️ see you on the other side.

According to RS.a (the first version of myself), this is (was) me.

I’m struggling with body image today, so reflecting on RS.a’s depiction of the way she looks is… timely.

I am (unapologetically) larger than life.

The Me Book is made of eight beige sheets of construction paper cut in half length-wise, bound with red yarn between two yellow sheets of half-length construction paper. The “This is Me” self portrait was drawn onto a separate, full size sheet of off-white construction paper, stapled onto the assignment page and folded in half to make it (almost) fit into the book.

I am not at all surprised that RS.a would not be limited to the size of the original page when drawing herself. Not only did she take liberties with scale and proportion here, but she also made it work by stapling it to the original sheet, unapologetically. I love this about my childhood self. She was unashamed, inventive, and always thought outside the box. She found her own way in her tasks.

I am monochrome, genderless, formless, and my hands are weird.

The first art prize I ever won (same elementary school, maybe a few years later?) was for detail and accuracy when I drew multiple stick people gathered around a flag pole. Each one of them had their right hand over their heart in salute to the flag. At some point, these details mattered, but apparently not this early. My left hand has the correct number of fingers, but the right hand looks like something that ChatGPT would conjure up. Almost every other page in The Me Book has a drawing done in at least three colors, but in this one, RS.a chose only the color brown. I wish I could ask her about this.

I took an entire, full-sized sheet of construction paper to draw a large scale version of myself, and I have no torso, no legs, and no feet. I have no clothes, no hair, and no accessories. I am almost featureless. This drawing could speak to a lack of awareness about my appearance at such a young age. It could also speak to me not calling out the things that made me look unique because I did not enjoy standing out. At this age, standing out resulted in getting noticed by a few bad young men who caused me a great deal of trauma. I’m not sure I’ll ever discuss that in greater public detail than in this one mention. I’ve had the same big, bright eyes and long, red hair my whole life. My unique features should’ve shown up here, but they didn’t. This might be the first documented case of me downplaying the good things about my appearance.

I am smiling, but not genuinely.

I do have a smile, but I find it… unsettling. In the pages that follow, my smile is nowhere near as pronounced, even on the happy pages. When I look at the smile on this page, it does not feel genuine. It looks scarily exaggerated, like the ear-to-ear grins shown in horror films, when a perfectly normal face disfigures into a smiley, evil face. This smile looks like it was expected and not felt. It looks hasty. It looks like it was part of the assignment.

This is me.

I think The Me Book was done at a time when I started to become aware of my surroundings, of my feelings towards myself, and of how others made me feel. There’s a lot more of that in the pages that follow this one. It’s a lot to unpack.

RS.a, laid the foundation of who I am now. My addendum to this page in The Me Book would be this picture of me: multicolor, full form, and genuinely smiling.

Warning:

This post contains mentions of childhood abandonment and running away.

Rebecca Smith (who we’ll call RS.a per my prior post) loved adventures: reading about them, creating them, and experiencing them. She was never keen to share them, though. To this day, I prefer to adventure alone.

RS.a lived in a small house on what seemed like a huge piece of land in Dempseytown, Pennsylvania with her mother, younger sister, grandmother, grandfather, and always one-to-two uncles at a time. The tract of land was relatively narrow but extended deep into the woods between our house and her first school. Pulling into a gravel driveway, the house was on the immediate left, and the driveway ended at a wooden, seemingly hand-built garage. There aren’t any memories of cars fitting in the garage, but to RS.a, the garage was a treasure trove of fishing gear, tools, and unidentified machines and parts. It was cool and smelled of damp earth and lake water, an aroma that seeped into life jackets and nets from years of fishing trips with her grandfather and uncle. The back of the garage was lined with a stack of cinderblocks, spanning the entire width of the garage, and on top of that was the upside down metal boat, stored carefully after each fishing trip.

Beyond the garage was the clothesline, where her grandmother hung the freshly laundered clothes to dry with wooden laundry pins and clips. I don’t remember my grandmother using a laundry dryer while I lived there.

Beyond the clothes line was the apple tree. I think that tree was planted shortly after RS.a was born, and so, it was her first childhood companion until her sister came long. She picked apples so that grandmother could make apple pie, or so that grandfather could cut them: one for me, one for him, one for my sister, and always with a paring knife. Sometimes, the apples would overnight and rot on the ground. Rotting apples were some of RS.a’s first exposures to death and decay, along with the skeletal remains of fish that littered the back porch. Food for the stray cats, of course, and a smell that would become synonymous with returning home. More on the house later, though.

Beyond the apple tree extended a field that went all the way back to tall grasses that lined the edge of a deep wood. I don’t remember much about the property to our immediate right, other than they had a caged enclosure and that often housed a peacock. RS.a would go observe the peacock, feeding it with bits of food that had escaped its enclosure. She often drew the peacock, although none of those drawings have survived. The giant, elegant birds must’ve been from the other side of the world: vibrantly colored and majestic and short tempered. The neighbor’s peacocks were RS.a’s first exposure to captivity. One pecked her hand hard once, drawing blood. She didn’t cry; instead, she felt empathy for the caged creature. They could never leave, and although they were apparently kept for someone’s enjoyment, only the neighborhood children seemed to pay them any attention.

It was the trail into the woods that RS.a frequented on her solo adventures. The trail started at the property and led all the way to the elementary school. She took that trail often and enjoyed playing baseball and tetherball at the school on weekends and during summers. But that’s also another story for another day.

For RS.a, the trail was mostly for escaping. Little me would pack my backpack full of everything she needed to survive: provisions from the country store (beef jerky, salt and vinegar chips, Swedish fish but only the red ones), a blanket, at least one book, a flash light, a jacket. In a small bucket, she’d collect all the tools she’d need to build her shelter: a hammer and all of the rusty nails she could gather from the decrepit garage, bindings and cordage, an oil lamp and oil for it.

RS.a left home countless times with the intent of building a shelter in the woods, deep and far away, where nobody would find her. Over the years, she’d managed to build a decent structure. At one point, it even had a portion of it covered on three sides, with overhead shelter provided by an old tarp she’d dragged back there. After what seemed like a full day’s work, she’d stop and examine her work. Acceptable. Stable. Hers. She’d flip her bucket over, sit on it, light the lamp (even if it was light outside), and read and snack for hours.

Dusk was always the decision point. The country store provisions never lasted long enough, and she’d have to decide: stay overnight in the makeshift shelter, or venture home, where nobody but her sister would notice she’d been gone all day. Home, where grandmother would fall asleep upright at the table after a long night shift at the pizzeria, her lit cigarette still burning until she nodded forward hard enough to startle herself awake, take another drag, and put it out. Home, where sometimes her mom would be, and sometimes she wouldn’t. Home, where grandfather would fall asleep watching The Weather Channel or a late game of the Pittsburgh Pirates. Home, the fallback plan.

I won’t place much of a filter on what RS.a’s solo adventures were or why they were: she ran away with the intent of never coming home. She ran away often, and she was not afraid of anything but running out of food and of the creatures in the woods at night. Coming home was always admitting defeat, but little by little, RS.a built upon a self-sufficiency that other versions of myself heavily relied upon over the years.

She is the reason that I feel comfortable on all of my current solo adventures, the most exciting of which involve me sleeping in the woods, unafraid.

Previous Post:

Warning

This post contains a mention of rape (with no details).

Behold: the first book I’ve ever written. The first cover art I’ve ever created. The first record of expressing my feelings. The Me Book.

I’m not sure if I was exactly five years old when I wrote this, but I do know I was less than seven years old, so we’ll go with it.

This book came from a treasure trove of memories kept in a cedar chest, owned by my mom. She’s carried that aromatic, cedarwood box around ever since I can remember. She calls it a “hope chest.” According to Wikipedia, the same sort of chest has been around since the 15th century, and also goes by the names “dowry box” or “glory box.” Apparently, this was where a girl coming of age (and her family) would store handmade items, clothing, and trinkets, keeping them safe and preserved in anticipation for married life. I’m not sure when my mom started collecting memories, crafts, photos, and other things in this chest, but I doubt it had anything to do with a dowry or marriage. Learning things like this about women of past generations makes me feel grateful to be a woman living in this generation. Well, for the most part. My generation still has a lot of work to do.

Note the name: Rebecca Smith. Maybe that’s a great place to start — all my names.

To date, I’ve been Rebecca Smith, Rebecca Bean, Rebecca Mann, and now, Rebecca Steele. The breakdown of who I was for each name is as follows:

• Rebecca Smith: family name, inherited from my mom, inherited through a series of men who get to keep their names and women who were required to inherit their names. We’ll call her RS.a (since my current self is RS.b). RS.a was born in Oil City, Venango County, Pennsylvania, to a 14-year-old mother who was “taken advantage of” by a much older man. RS.a lived in the same house as her grandparents, and at times, her uncles and her mother. She was my favorite version of myself, and she was the girl who most resembles my inner child. More on her in the next post.

• Rebecca Bean: Sometime between the ages of 8-11, RS.a became RB, having inherited a new name from a new man, my stepfather, the man my mother chose to marry. This was part of a formal adoption process. It was the first time any version of myself had ever been to court. The much older man who “took advantage of” my teenage mother was there. For a reason that is completely unfathomable and twisted and unforgivable to me, my mom’s rapist had his name on my birth certificate in spite of the means by which he became a “father,” and RB required this vile human’s agreement to “release” her from being “his.” RB was the version of myself who navigated the unsteady and (mostly) unguided path from girlhood to womanhood. More on her in a subsequent post.

• Rebecca Mann: At age 21, RB became RM, inheriting yet another name from another man: the man she chose to marry (well, the first man she chose to marry). RM was my least favorite version of myself. She spent many years deviating from who RS.a and RB had been, and I’m still working to forgive her. More on her in a subsequent post.

• Rebecca Steele: finally, at age 24, RM became RS.b, inheriting the last name she will ever inherit from any man. This man is a good man, the man: my life partner Shawn. RS.b is my favorite version of myself, and I’m so proud of who she has become. More on her in a subsequent post.

Let’s come back to The Me Book. I think I read this for the first time 3-4 years ago, just when I was getting deep into therapy and the work of healing my inner child. At first, I set out to heal my inner child, but what I’ve discovered is that each one of the girls/women who held each name above requires some serious therapy and healing, for very different reasons.

RS.a was succinct, and she did not hold back. I cannot wait to share what she wrote with you in these pages, transposed into this series of posts and prompted by the memories they conjure up and the stories they have to tell. These posts will contain funny stories, difficult stories, and encouraging stories. My aim is to help each version of my inner self heal by writing and ongoing therapy. Maybe you can draw some healing from this too.

Thank you for your love and support as I go down this road. Buckle up.

Michael Scott, The Office

Before I ever worked in an office, I watched The Office. I loved the show. A lot of you did, too. The Office humanized working “for the big guy,” and we loved to laugh at undesirable, yet necessary, interoffice relationships and greedy corporations and bad bosses. When I did enter the workforce, I felt like The Office had prepared me for a working world that was often not fiction: undesirable, yet necessary, interoffice relationships and greedy corporations and bad bosses.

The show first aired its American series in 2005, and as of the time of this writing, not much has changed. Most of what The Office had to say about the workplace is not fiction, and especially not the last two points: greedy corporations and bad bosses. The quote above was delivered after Stanley had a stress- and overall health-induced heart attack. In that episode, instead of addressing the workplace stress and anxiety that causes poor health and encourages unhealthy habits, Dunder Mifflin offered company training and never addressed the root cause. Well, the Big Tech industry is having one giant heart attack and the Michael Scotts of the world have run amuck.

Big Tech has announced or followed through on laying off over 70,000 people. The entire city of Scranton, Pennsylvania, the fictional location of our favorite branch of Dunder Mifflin, has a population of almost as many people as Big Tech has laid off in the last three months.

By now, you’ve probably seen a post from someone in your LinkedIn network who lost their job, and if you haven’t already, you’ll surely read leaked emails from severed employees — more words from bad bosses who “know exactly what to do but have no idea what to do.”

There are four types of people affected by these layoffs:

1. Those responsible for these layoffs who may or may not be benefiting (read: profiting) right now

2. Those who got laid off

3. Those who work or live adjacent to someone who got laid off

4. Those who have never been privileged enough to work for Big Tech, whether we’re talking about actual privilege (socioeconomic and social injustice barriers) or exercised privilege (those who have the privilege but chose not to for any variety of reasons)

First of all, for those in Category 1: giant FUCK YOU. People (and I guess corporations are people too?) in this category often reap what they sow. This is worth a completely separate article and this is neither my area of expertise nor do those in this category deserve any additional energy. Moving on.

For those in Category 4: these corporations will start hiring again soon. If working for Big Tech is ever an option for you, beware of promises of “exponential growth” and “changing markets” that justify said future hiring. See how this one plays out.

For those in Category 2: I’m so, so sorry. I cannot imagine what you’re going through right now. You are the reason for this article.

Category 3: we are the village.

It takes a village.

The truth? I don’t know exactly what to do, but I do know that Category 3 people can do much better than Michael Scott when our Category 2 people need help. Here are the first two stages that we can go through together to help each other right now:

Stage 1: You (or someone you know) has just been affected by Big Tech industry layoffs

Category 2: Stop and feel what you feel. Grieve. Scream. Cry. Break something (but something that doesn’t harm you or others). Please don’t move on until you’ve completed the cycle of stress induced by these layoffs. Really process how you’re feeling, and do nothing with it but get it out — for as long as it takes.

Category 3: Be there. Listen. Offer support, but do not offer platitudes. Only try to offer solutions when the person/people directly affected indicate that they’re ready for solutions. Resist the urge to “fix it” until the time comes.

Stage 2: You’ve gone through Stage 1

Category 2: You’re amazing. No, really. By processing how you feel about the job you just lost, you can learn what you want from your next role, and equally as important, what they do not want. Now that you’ve completed Stage 1, Stage 2 asks you to reflect on your next steps and figure out what you want or need. I say “or need” because not everyone can immediately leave Big Tech to go back to school or take a bunch of time off or change industries entirely. Sometimes, we need to secure where the next paycheck comes from first, and then we can (maybe, not always) consider larger career transitions. Then, engage with people in Category 3. We’re ready.

Category 3: It’s go time, friends. Category 2 people need us. This looks like understanding what they want or need, and leveraging our resources to lift them up. If someone you know just posted that they’re seeking their next role, here are a few things you can do right now:

• “Like” that post and share it with your network, and include some words of your own when you share it. Keep it short, though; this is about the Category 2 person, so try not to distract from that.

• Look at your current company’s offerings, see if the person in Category 2 might be interested in applying for any of them, and then ask for permission to directly email your company’s HR or Recruiting team on that person’s behalf and, if permission was granted, DO IT. Connecting one human to another human directly is, by far, the best way to make a connection. As a hiring manager, I can affirm that direct referrals from good people can break down hiring barriers faster than bad bosses can spout Michael Scott-esque quotes.

• If your company isn’t currently hiring, examine your network (read: first connections on LinkedIn, people you frequently come across at industry events), see if you know anyone who works in an area that aligns with Category 2 person’s wants or needs, and reach out on their behalf (with permission first, of course).

• Consider offering to help with their resume and cover letter, write them a recommendation.

• Write them a referral and offer to be a reference for their next job application.

• Help them with any code reviews if they’re updating an online code repository.

• If you’re partnered or family with the Category 2 person and cannot do any of the above things for any reason, you have two essential assets at your disposal: your compassion and your love. Offer these freely, while maintaining healthy boundaries for yourself (that’s for my empathic friends in this category). What makes them feel happier, or feel more confident? Even short bursts of joy and laughter can boost a person’s mental health tremendously.

Everything beyond Stage 2 varies wildly. I have more to say on that, but right now, we need to help our Category 2 people get stable.

Category 2 people: job loss can seriously affect your physical and mental health. You are your number one priority. You have what it takes to see yourself in a better place in your work life and soon. Please lean on your Category 3 people. If you don’t have anyone, I’d love to hear from you and leverage my network too.

As a society, we need to put some major, unrelenting effort into figuring out how to not tolerate bad behavior in Big Tech moving forward. I don’t know what that looks like, but I sure would love to be a part of the solution.