I could start this, my first official blog post, with the standard small-talk tidbits. You know, stuff like:

• Along with three million other girls of Scandinavian descent born in the upper midwest in the 1980s, my birth certificate says I’m “Kristin Kathleen.” 
• A few years back, some canny friends shortened my name to Kiki. Being Kiki makes me feel creative, mysterious, and unique.
• I have had three other nicknames in my life: TeeTee, Spike, and Jimbo. I’ll just let you imagine why. Your imagination will definitely be more interesting than the truth. 
• Despite my best efforts, I am an all-or-nothing kinda gal. This means that I have 4 kids, 14 pets, and 0 ball gowns.
• My husband of almost 17 years fits me well. He has 34,519 plants, 2 doctoral degrees, and also 0 ball gowns.
• My professional opera singer sister, however, has 0 kids, 0 pets, 0 plants, and 2,139 ball gowns.
• My little brother and parents, who work in the medical field, say they have 0 ball gowns. But really, one never knows.
• We are recent transplants to the homeland of the Cherokee in East Tennessee. We lament their violent removal and try to steward this place well.
• Science and garlic make me happy.
• I have yet to find a way to describe this thing often called faith without it being hijacked into obnoxious political fodder or sanctimonious religious ammunition. The closest I’ve come is to simply say that this writer is captivated by existence within the theos who is Word and Love and Breath.

So I could start my first official blog post that way. But–and this may shock you–I don’t really get small-talk. Put me in any situation where I’m supposed to chit-chat about meaningless pleasantries or share surface level, basic information, and I start to panic. My hands get sweaty and my voice gets fast and squeaky and usually within the first 45 seconds of conversation, I will invariably blurt out, “I know it’s 92 degrees outside, but I had to wear leggings because I haven’t had time to shave my legs in the last several months!” 

So, let’s just dive in. 

I have spent my life running from writing.

Well…That’s a partial lie.  

I’ve been a professional writer for over a decade. A very practical kind of writer. The kind of writer who has a master’s degree in International Public Health. You know, the kind of writer who writes the most important things:

Grants. 

Reports. 

Project updates. 

Budget justifications. 

Program fact sheets.

The kind of writing that leads to immediate action. Education and a safe place to thrive for beautiful children in favelas of Brazil. Access to healthcare for brave Somali refugees in Minnesota.  Food, healing, and shelter for precious souls terrorized by the Islamic State invasion of Iraq and Syria. 

 Floored by the immense suffering in this world, I wanted to make a dent in the pain. Fast. So, I immersed myself in program writing and ran full-speed away from a certain kind of writing. 

Stories.

Now, I have always known that stories are life. We simply cannot exist in this world without them. Stories—often subconsciously—drive our actions, shape our worldview, even determine who deserves our empathy and care. Throughout human existence, stories have revealed truth. Cultivated love. Inspired action. Our souls need stories to help us comprehend the depths of meaning and connection. Heck, stories have changed my life.

Oh, I flirted with stories over the years. I chronicled my creative endeavors on a DIY blog. My sister and I blog-bantered back and forth, sharing stories from our divergent life paths. But I didn’t see this as “real” work. 

I used stories in my “real” work. Story-telling woven into the nitty-gritty data is what made me a great program writer; as Brene Brown asserts, “Stories are data with a soul.”  We need facts and data to make wise choices about where to invest our time and money. Yet, we all need stories first, to make us pause long enough to question our worldview and see beyond our own needs. 

I have always seen the immeasurable value in reading others’ stories. Or planting someone’s story in the middle of a grant narrative. But for decades, sharing the stories of others outside of a blatantly direct call to action felt futile. And writing my stories? That felt entirely frivolous and indulgent. My stories, devoid of anything particularly action-inspiring, lifesaving, or suffering-relieving, seemed…well, silly. Impractical. Immature. A little kid hiding under her covers, scribbling by flashlight in her wide-ruled notebook. 

Sure, writing stories suffused me with glee; every time I moved from formal programmatic language into narrative, I felt like my feet hovered a few inches off the ground. Sure, not writing stories made me feel a bit like I was suffocating. But really, Kiki, what exactly do you think your half-concocted, incoherent scribblings are actually going to do?

I wanted—needed—to be the kind of writer that gets stuff done. Immediately. A Magical Unicorn Ninja Writer, swishing her magic pen around and making miracles appear.

And then I crashed. And burned. 

Now that is a whole story in itself, but the beauty that came from wallowing in the smoldering ashes of my savior-complex life was that I finally saw the truth: 

Greater and faster visible impacts does not equal greater value. 

Program writing is important. But so is simply writing stories. 

Stories can plant seeds. Sprinkle water. Crack the shades to let in a beam of light. Cultivate deep, slow growth. Crumble isolation. 

The change that comes from winning a new grant can be immediate—measurable and exciting. It feels—and often is—rapidly life altering. The change sparked through stories, on the other hand, requires faith and patience. This kind of change is often hidden and moves at a glacial pace, seen only with the advantage of distance and time. 

Yet, both are invaluable. 

So now, I write life. As it is. As it could be. And invite others in. 

If my story makes someone feel less alone—even for a second—that is enough. 

If my story makes someone chuckle, that is enough. 

If my story can give one kid words for the big feeling or scary thought, that is enough. 

If my story inspires one person to say, “yes, that could be!” that is enough. 

If my story offers nothing more than a moment of rest or a bit of beauty, that is enough.

Writing life is enough.