Jen Knox's Blog, page 5

On grabbing the mic & week 45 of 52

I want the young woman in the third row of my class to share her opinions. She’s brilliant and curious, but these things only come out if she’s invited. If she isn’t asked, she doesn’t speak.

Jen Knox reads at Busboys and Poets, DC, Photo by Octavio Quintanilla

This girl reminds me of myself when I was her age.

A poet once told me I should never pass up the opportunity to speak into a microphone. This stuck with me, but I wasn’t sure why. My first thought was argumentative: What if I don’t have anything to say?

But the more I’ve thought about this over the years, the more I realize that there’s a difference between having something to say and thinking our words matter. Perhaps my true thought was What if I say something others won’t like?

For some of us, the mic is the page, and I want to acknowledge every person who speaks up when it’s uncomfortable or when their mics are muted or grabbed.

It’s funny because after I wrote this blog about why I write and how I’ll carry on whether I get published or not …

… I got an offer on my essay collection. I think this is often how it works. We are reminded of our purpose and, suddenly, the thing we’d let go of arrives.

I’m thrilled to work with the University of Wisconsin-Sterling Point, which has a long-standing and highly respected publishing house that folds in students who support promotions and book cover art. The fact that my manuscript will be part of the curriculum as it transforms into a physical book and is hoisted out into the world makes my heart swell. And the good news is so welcome. A description of the book is below.*

I’m also humbled and slightly terrified that it will be my last book because, friends, I am not entirely sure what I’ll do next. But I realized this week that I have to do something.

The mic is there, so to speak, and whether or not I think I have something of value to say, I’m grabbing it.

Beginning without assurances is the order of the day. It means revisiting the spirit of every journey I’ve ever taken—the curious wonder of life. The awe that comes with noticing and trusting.

The platform is not guaranteed. But as an educator and woman who is morally opposed to much of what is happening in her home country, I have decided to begin to zoom in, rather than out. Because I know that to be spiritually and morally fit, I need to do something resonant.

I think about the girl in the third row. I think about all the students like her. I think about them a lot, and not just because they remind me of me but because they remind me of so many good people who do not trust themselves.

We need good-hearted people to share ideas even if they get smashed or ignored. Our work is a gift. We can share and celebrate and still be present for those around us, even if the mic is not there waiting for us.

All of us have something to say. So say something this week that you might otherwise not.

Writing prompt: Write about a time someone (fictional or real) on the right side of justice didn’t speak up or share an opinion. Now rewrite as though they had—what might’ve changed.

At Work, a collection of interconnected essays, traces a young woman’s journey from anxiety to curiosity as she seeks to identify herself through the lens of myriad working-class roles in the 90s and early 00s. Her experiences, from bussing tables to working factory lines, weave a tapestry of magic from the fibrous normalcy of repetitive tasks—so many clocked hours in such quiet corners of Ohio. It will be out in 2027.

On emotional nourishment & week 44 of 52

I wanted to walk to the small park near my house, maybe sit on one of the Leopold benches by the creek and write; instead, I responded to buzzing notifications on my phone.

When I glanced down, I saw a story about radical (and seemingly enthusiastic) cuts to inclusivity programs and investigations at my workplace where I am the president of a women’s leadership organization (with the redflagged word “woman” in the title no less).

This organization is mentioned in the very first of the 52 Weeks: AYTL post. At the beginning of this challenge, I had the idea that I wanted to live with more purpose. Writing, teaching, and leading were my aims this year, along with reconnecting with myself and my community.

Who could’ve imagined we’d have the world we have now? The dominant emotions in my life a year ago were excitement and enthusiasm. In March 2025, I’m finding more confusion and anger laced with sadness. I find myself reaching for hope.

While I believe deeply that we can find radical joy at this moment, I also feel compelled to acknowledge, that we should feel ALL THE THINGS. And if we deny ourselves our rage, sadness, and worry, we are not truly living.

Emotions are human, and emotions are supposed to move .

In emotional intelligence training, we learn that suppressing emotions means feeding them. They get stuck if suppressed or ignored, and over time make it feel like everything around us is stuck, too, or that we are stuck in whatever fate the environment is handing us.

We are not stuck.

So what is the role of negative emotion, and why not anesthetize it at every turn, rationalize it away, or say that we’re happy until we are?

“I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you, and that you will work with these stories [...] water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom.”

―Clarissa Pinkola Estés

How can I be creatively nurtured with each experience, each emotion?

AYTL experiment: Find a way to nourish yourself with difficult emotions through physical release (scream, run, dance, pound the ground with your fists), or by reflecting on them in writing and deepening your meditation.

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Imagine we have 8 weeks to live and must see everything before us as enhancing our life right now, nourishing us.

Try, just try, to think of all experience—even pains—as an offering, a teaching.

Feel so you can let the thing move. Feel so you don’t numb out. Feel so you can take action.

I felt numb when I first saw programs that support marginalized populations being slashed. I felt angry and sad, then absolutely enraged. The injustice felt so axiomatic that it was difficult to articulate. There was nothing to explain, it just was. I didn’t have words, even though I know silence is worse than over-explanation.

So I journaled. I did scream. I processed and wrote and walked and meditated with more dedication, feeding my emotions into my explorations, which, in turn, began to feed me. I am engaging in meetings over the next few weeks and will likely hear the fate of my program. I will also have to communicate with people who think nothing is wrong.

Do it with me.

Let’s look at the hard stuff today—the pains and heartbreaks, the fears and anger.

The short writing prompt is a follow-up to a course I offer on Rewriting and Redefining Reality. It speaks to the way we can work with anger.

Pick it or any “negative” emotion as your catalyst this week, and let’s live with it, explore it, and learn from it, not despite it.

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Writing prompt: How can emotions that hurt, actually feed you? Answer in any genre or art form.

On timelessness & week 43 of 52

Timeless : not restricted to a particular time or date, Merriam-Webster

I was celebrating my sister’s birthday in a hibachi restaurant in Chillicothe, Ohio. We were sitting at a table in the middle of the room, and we were quite loud as we reflected on the state of the world and the pains many were feeling, including us. We settled on the idea that the pendulum must swing.

After a brief silence, to close out the conversation, my sister said, “Time is just a flat circle.”

I didn’t have an immediate reference point for what she meant, though I thought I intuitively got it. I spun a noodle around my fork and wondered how many times I had done just that.

Upon researching my sister’s words, I came across Nietzsche's Eternal Recurrence theory that states everything is always repeating to infinity.

As humans, we seem designed to replicate and alter, replicate and alter. But ultimately, we replicate. This, in a sense, speaks to the timelessness of our experience.

There are patterns that surface and resurface across culture, literature, science, religion and passing observation. The world freezes, the world melts. There are fashion trends that endure (my sister was a fashion/retail studies major) and those that fade away.

In 2025, we might see the same sentiment shared by two people on different social media platforms, with almost indistinguishable differences—a common and shared thought seen through two different lenses. Researchers make simultaneous breakthroughs (known as multiple discovery) while occupying different parts of the world. We share, rework, reimagine, and preserve existing ideas and stories—for better and worse.

There are story structures that show up in parallel to others across cultures and eras, as studied by Jung, Joseph Campbell, and Carol Pearson. When archetypes show up in slightly different forms, the familiarity brings us comfort. We think we might have an idea of how a story will end.

What is timeless in our personal, ephemeral, creative experience of life?

Perhaps it’s what repeats, what endures longer comparatively, or what was never different in the first place. Perhaps the “now” is timeless.

It’s a question worth pondering as part of our 52-week experiment, so this brings me to our prompt.

Meditate on these questions:

What is timeless in you?

What is timeless to you?

Writing prompt: Explore the idea that time is, in fact, a flat circle. It’s endlessly repeating the same events. You can explore the concept critically, place it in a fictional conversation (perhaps two characters debating the idea), or use it as a catalyst for a poem.

“The timeless in you is aware of life's timelessness. And knows that yesterday is but today's memory and tomorrow is today's dream.” ― Khalil Gibran

Your observations …

On defiant joy & week 42 of 52

During a celebration with friends a few weeks ago, we all picked a word we’d like to focus on this year. My word was Joy.

Doesn’t seem realistic, but I’ll try, I thought.

“Find a place inside where there's joy, and the joy will burn out the pain.” —Joseph Campbell

The word, Joy, came up again in another gathering. It seems counter-intuitive at a time when we are losing basic freedoms in America and being hurled toward an uncertain future.

Instead of worrying over "trigger warnings" in literature, we find that every news story is a trigger. The world feels triggering right now. So how do we find joy?

How does one even entertain the notion when we are all suffering?

The answer, I think, comes down to something we all knew in childhood and slowly, then quickly, forgot.

To steer clear of politics, I’ll stick with the writing and publishing process as an example. Since the beginning of 2024, I’ve been focusing on releasing expectations attached to my writing and rekindling my love affair with the process.

I no longer submit with the same urgency I used to, to rack up a list of fancy bylines. If they happen, they happen. I’m putting more effort into the creation and conscious sharing than the desire to get x, y, or z’s approval.

I no longer care. We all say that, but truly … I could give two fucks. My aim in writing is to a.) connect with those who connect, b.) release and explore, and c.) to find joy in the flow.

True joy exists beyond the narratives that are trying to destroy that joy. The narratives that tell us we should look, sound, or be like [fill in the blank] to get our esteem needs met.

When we release expectations and a desire to fix what we cannot control, however, we drop all that. Let’s find tiny joys tucked snuggly in life's offerings: connections, reflection, presence and unexpected moments of awe.

This is not easy, but we can find strength in each other’s authenticity and find ability to show up as our most complete selves even in impossible times.

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Releasing the need to wait or find acceptance means writing truths and speaking truths. Same goes for everything. True and authentic work endures beyond its creator’s time.

To find joy in 2025, I believe, we don’t need to look harder but rather look within. Stop trying to buy it or acquire it or imbibe it or numb feelings with perceived achievement. Simply feel it when it arrives, savor it, and savor the rest, too.

After all, sometimes in difficult times, we can see clearer how much we value what we love and, also, our ability to share what we value with unfiltered, unwavering truth.

So joy, to me now, means not being polite. It means being willing to be banned.

It means showing up with radical love and sharing messages accordingly. Joy is protesting in defense of freedom. Joy is writing to explore and express what all good writing does—the potential of love to radiate through the pain.

Joy feels defiant right now. And that's why it's necessary.

Give someone an unexpected gift, no matter how small; write an oped that focuses on defiant joy; then write a thank you to someone who is helping to keep you strong, whether or not you know them personally.

Write a story or poem that begins with a list of what you cannot control. Allow each thing to open up a dialogue. (Example: If I work hard, I expect success; if I give someone support, I expect a thank you; if I publish, people need to read — open up each one, explore it.)

Mini-workshop #2: Rewriting & Redefining Reality

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Mini-workshop #2: Rewriting Reality

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On panic

Available for single unlock or paid subscribers. This was originally published on Insight Timer.

I used to suffer from debilitating panic attacks. This is a short talk and true story from my life that traces a day I went from panic to healing. I hope you find it useful and that you can connect, in some way, to the power of our creative minds when channe…

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On the STOP technique, writing & week 41 of 52

Yesterday, for a few moments, I stood with my dogs in a winter wonderland and felt held by the silence, by the snow-coated scene. My thighs began to prickle, and I felt total peace.

My pup, Potato, taking a pause.

It was a single moment in which I could stop all the chatter, all the worry, all the planning, all the striving, and all the news. Reality was as much about what was within as it was what was external, seemingly propelling toward me.

I didn’t need a meditation cushion.

I didn’t need a complicated ritual.

I just needed to stop.

STOP is a mindfulness acronym, a simple reminder you can take with you throughout the day, employ while reading the news, or it is something you can practice when you meditate.

“Many of us have been running all our lives. Practice stopping.” —Thich Nhat Hanh

This is especially helpful if you have trouble focusing or indulging times you’d ordinarily slow down. STOP is a simple concept. The acronym stands for Stop, Take a Breath, Observe, and Proceed. If it seems overly simplistic, there’s a short audio that explores it a bit more below.

In the meantime, we can tackle it through expression. I’ve been playing with this, and the exercise is freeing.

Writing prompt: Turn this mindfulness acronym into a prompt. I tried it this week a few times and wanted to share. This works with poetry or micro-fiction/micro CNF. So pick your genre and proceed …

Stop: Write a scene or line in which time stops and there is space, perhaps the space Viktor Frankl speaks of.

Take a breath: Describe a single breath and all comes with it.

Observe: What is noticed in the moment of pause? What sensory details come to life? What thoughts magnify or swell?

Proceed: What happens next, where is one to head from here?

Photo by Калинин Михаил (Mikhail Kalinin) Nod to James Lucas for sharing this image.

AYTL experiment: Implement the STOP mindfulness practice each day, just once. If you forget one day, try it twice the next day. You can always return here and practice with me. Let your view of the world slow enough to see it all.

Ways to support Here We Are

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If you enjoy this post or the meditation, subscribe! Or, take a few seconds to give it a ❤️ or restack. Share your experiences or responses or confusions below.

You can also pick up a copy of my new novel CHAOS MAGIC. In a tale blending magic, danger, and the weight of choices, a woman's rebuilt life is threatened by her ex-husband's release from prison. She uses magic to do what she must.

In community,

Jen

On expression & week 40 of 52

Hi, friends — Chaos Magic is out!! If you’re in the market for a little escapism, check it out. Also, who woulda guessed this girl below would’ve ever written a book, let alone a few? I don’t love publishing (I prefer the writing itself over telling people about my writing), but I am proud, and I just might paint my nails red and dance today. Speaking of which, on to the real post… Let go or be dragged —Zen Proverb

I was twenty-something, poor and tired of being poor.

I’d been a practicing nail tech at an upscale retirement home called Trillium for only a few hours. My second customer looked down, so I looked straight ahead. The woman before her had neglected to tip and complained that her French manicure was “just okay,” so I focused.

I faced the woman's veiny shins, almost translucent like the skin on the kielbasa my grandmother would make on holidays. I lifted one of her legs up and out of the warm water, placing her heel delicately on a towel, and began sloughing off the softened dead skin. I was terrified of hurting or making her angry.

Each tip was a tally mark in my mind, helping me pay for college classes that promised to change how I’d be seen in the world, maybe even how I’d see the world.

Instead of the overdraft fees I incurred then, I imagined a savings account, a promise that one day I wouldn't have to sit at the feet of a rich woman and fear her potential fierceness. In reality, I was quickly accruing debt, and I would work many years beyond any few-dollar tip and a few-month stint as a nail tech to pay that off, let alone save.

Nonetheless, every customer felt like a potential step forward. I was a woman with goals. Passion? Maybe.

I'd always taken pride in my nails, but they were hard to keep nice when your hands were in soapy water all day. When we were young, my sister always had short, grimy nails stained from dirt or paint or whatever else she’d had her hands on. My nails were always long and painted in loud colors like the women on MTV videos.

I would buy dollar-store nails that came with some kind-of rubber cement. They would be bright red, purple, or yellow. Sometimes they'd pop off and fly across the room as I danced in the living room with my friend Nikki or when I tried to pass the potatoes at the dinner table.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As I dried the woman's feet, I was thankful she seemed to be nodding off. Her nails looked as though they'd been splattered with white paint. These tiny marks are disruptions to the keratin protein that makes up our skin and hair. A little trauma, a slight bang, and it takes weeks if not months before these little discolorations are gone.

Almost everyone has a few small marks here and there, and they have no idea when or how they arrived; how much of life is like this?

The frame of soft skin around a healthy nail shows the tenderness and strength of the human body. I didn’t have long nails anymore because they were too much work. I didn't have red nails because I couldn't keep the polish on. But I loved them. They were the original “power pose,” along with loud prints and big jewelry like my mother wore then.

When the woman woke up, she was startled. She asked my name and said hers was Joan.*

Joan's pants had been ironed to perfection when I arrived. She could withhold a tip since I'd wrinkled them. She could say I messed something up or spoke too loudly, as the other woman had, so I remained quiet.

Joan was in a home that cost a year’s worth of my rent every month. She got her nails, hair, and makeup done weekly. I was sure she'd never worn dollar-store nails or worried about overdraft fees. I imagined she'd pick a beige polish and purse her lips if her steak was overdone.

"I don't like this old music," she said, gesturing to the speakers. She went on, saying the décor was designed to remind her of a time when she was young, beautiful, and invisible. "I just want to live now."

I nodded and handed her the tray of polishes.

"You're a quiet one," she said, and I smiled.

As I buffed the big toe on her left foot, sure I'd get a decent tip, I split her skin and the prick of blood surfaced. I pressed cotton to the small fissure, hoping she wouldn't notice. She looked at me, unfazed, and told me she’d lived through worse.

While I don't remember if she tipped, probably not, I do remember the cherry red color she chose and how perfectly it covered every vulnerability. She nodded her approval when I was done, smiling.

I painted my nails the same color that night, just for the night, as I listened to the music I wanted to hear.

I lived alone then. So, alone I danced. I waved my red nails in the air. And I felt alive. Photo by Dynamic Wang

AYTL prompt: Find something you used to enjoy and no longer find a lot of happiness from. Rekindle your love affair with it. And if you can’t find anything, turn on a song you love and dance.

Writing prompt: For me, this scene in my life was about letting go of the “American Dream” and finding joy within. Write about a time you (or a character) let go of a dream that wasn’t yours to begin with.

*It wasn’t Joan

5 minutes this morning, a meditation

Let's take a few moments to remember the times we've shown resilience and strength, times we felt strong and assured. Then let's carry that energy forward. This is a 5-minute practice, in case you need a little pick-me-up.

Photo by Prince David