March 2017, 6:30pm. It’s pitch black and sleeting — spiky, gray slush flying through the air. I curse this oh-so-Rochester night as I drive to teach a novel-writing class.

I’m used to weather like this. I grew up here, after all. But tonight, it almost brings me to tears. “I have to get out of here,” I think. “I’m so sick of being cold and wet.”

After class that night, I begin casting around for ideas. Where can I go? Where else can I live? I don’t know exactly what I want, but I know some of its aspects: “Warm. Near the ocean. A vibrant downtown. A community of interesting people.”

Three months later, I pack up my Corolla and drive 8 hours to Colonial Beach, Virginia. There, I will work on an organic vegetable farm for the next two years. I’ll fall in love, write my second novel, belong to a community of warm and fascinating people—and live out a completely new and integral chapter to my life.

❄️

Looking back, I recognize that night in Rochester for what it was: the discomfort that precedes a big change.

At the time, it felt like confusion and restlessness. In hindsight, it was preparation. A beckoning to step into the unknown.

I don’t fear that discomfort anymore. Now I recognize it, and sometimes even embrace it—with curiosity, excitement, or at least, a little more serenity than before.

That’s the gift of memoir writing, or any honest reflection.

We begin to see patterns that weren’t visible while we were living them.

Once we name those patterns from our past, the present becomes less frightening.

They may not get easier, but they do become more familiar. And we become more equipped to handle them.

To live with a little less fear, and a little more trust.

If you’d like to do that kind of reflective writing in 2026, get in touch.

I’m Kimberly, a ghostwriter and book coach specializing in memoir with themes of spirituality, mental health, and relationships. I’d love to see where your writing will take you.