Believing In Unicorns Would Be Easier
The smallest things actually matter and my hopes for this little nook of stories
Once upon a time, on a sunshiny morning not so long ago, I found myself staring into the mirror.
Not unlike Maleficent, the face glaring back at me was disillusioned, cynical, broken, and disoriented.
“Get it together,” I grumbled. I gave myself a crisp slap on the cheek, like I was back in college, trying to wake up after an all-night study session. It stung less than it should have. And, of course, the image still sizzled in my brain.
Her tiny, lifeless body, partially buried 10,000 miles away in the smoldering rubble of Mosul, Iraq.
“What is your deal?” I spat, and pointed at Maleficent-Me in the mirror. “You’ve seen hundreds of these kinds of photos! Why is this one bugging you so much?” A year earlier, these images were jarring. But by now, as an Emergency Aid Manager working remotely in the middle of a cornfield in Iowa, I had seen thousands. One of my core responsibilities was fielding hundreds of weekly photos sent from the various ISIS battlefields across Iraq and Syria.
Why was this photo so hard?
Was it her chubby toddler legs, so much like my son’s, who cackled with delight as I caught him decorating our kitchen wall with markers?
Was it her isolation, a lone little body among the monochromatic cinder blocks? Maybe it was the terror that isolation implied for her last moments alive?
Or was I finally just overwhelmed by the immensity of bearing witness to the end of so many precious little beings?
Her life is important.
The thought seemed to float like a caption over the searing image.
“Well, obviously. That’s why I’m doing this work,” I said. “Because her life—all these lives—are important. What I’m doing is making sure important little lives are cared for and protected.”
I waited for the feeling of relief and hope to wash over me. This line of reasoning had always worked to snap me out of a funk.
But it never came.
Whatever it was about this photo, something in me was now definitely, irreparably broken.
Her life is important.
The thought kept swirling. I suddenly realized that I desperately needed that to be true.
Not just to her family.
Not just to me.
But to everyone.
Her life is important. Did she even know her life was important?
That last thought—that maybe she didn’t know—that maybe none of the children knew—was suffocating.
It was almost as if looking at her broken little body was like seeing the billions of people across all time who lived and loved and then died, barely a pinprick in the universe. Never knowing they were important.
Help them to know. Stop running.
The thought was so clear, it was almost audible.
“Oh, shut up. I am not running.” I gave myself one more glare in the mirror. I shoved her image as far back in my mind as I could, imagining I was throwing it into a vault, slamming it shut with a thick, steel door. Then I went trudging back to work.
But deep down, I knew that I had spent my life running.
From writing.
Well…that’s a partial lie.
I’ve been a professional writer for nearly two decades. 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.
I wanted to make a dent in the immense suffering in this world. Fast. So, I immersed myself in program writing and ran full-speed away from a certain kind of writing.
Stories.
I mean, 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 absolutely need facts and data to make wise choices about where to invest our time and money. But, stories—often subconsciously—drive our actions, shape our worldview, even determine who deserves our empathy and care. Our souls need stories to help us comprehend the depths of meaning and connection. Heck, stories have changed my life.
But writing my stories? That felt entirely frivolous and indulgent. A little kid hiding under her covers, scribbling by flashlight in her wide-ruled notebook. Why would I do that when I could write a grant for twenty-thousand people to have life-saving food and medicine?
Oh, I flirted with stories over the years. Every time I moved from formal programmatic language into narrative, I felt like my feet hovered a few inches off the ground. 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. I scribbled ridiculous middle grade fantasy stories when I should have been cooking dinner. But I didn’t see this as “real” work.
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.
So I kept running, even when my run basically became a limping hobble.
But in the darkness, I couldn’t get my brain to contain her. Through the fatigue of work, and parenting, and marriage-through-graduate-school-and-nonprofit-work-with-no-money-and-four-small-kids, I saw her face. Her image would come seeping through the cracks of my brain vault before I could catch her and shove her back in.
Many times, she was laying in the smoldering rubble. But sometimes, she was laughing, carrying a wonky handful of weed-like flowers. Sometimes she was cradling a baby doll, pretending to burp her. Sometimes she was racing the boy next door—and winning—laughing raucously with delight. Sometimes, I would give her a giant hug and tell her I was so sorry. She would grasp my face with each of her grubby toddler hands, look me in the eyes, and smile. And my heart would shatter. Every time she looked a little different, morphing from that one gut-wrenching photo into a constellation of every child’s face from every photo over years and years of suffering and pain.
And every time, before I was able to finally shove her back into her vault, I’d hear a whisper.
Her life is important. Did she even know her life was important?
One can only hobble along wounded for so long before collapsing. Which I did. The keeper of my brain vault was way overcapacity and apparently decided it was time to just burn it all down. 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. Even the smallest actions of the littlest lives matter.
Even after my crash and burn, it took me another three years to actually internalize what I knew (or desperately hoped?!) to be true. Because, I’ll be honest. Most days, really, truly believing that feels impossible.
Like trying to convince myself that unicorns actually exist.
The change that comes from winning a new grant can be immediate—measurable and exciting. It feels—and often is—rapidly life altering. It fits the pervasive message that that “important people” do “big, important things.” Things that everyone else sees. Things that are remembered.
But we know that in our world, tiny actions have enormous impact. This is basically the foundation of science and math! A few degrees is the difference between hypothermia and fever. A fraction of an inch creates stability or collapse. This is most often the kind of change sparked through stories. This kind of change requires faith and patience. It is often hidden and moves at a glacial pace, seen only with the advantage of distance and time.
So, what if we all believed that the “important” things are the millions of tiny ways we either weave the fabric of this world together or pull it apart?
What if everyone believed that we—and those around us—were important?
So I finally listened to that stupid, nagging voice to stop running.
Because 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. Bloom into the beauty of empathy from sharing the tiniest sliver of a precious little life halfway around the world.
I want to show children–and the adults who love them–that every life is important. That what they do matters. And not just if they do big, flashy things; the mundane, everyday ways that they live and love matter.
It is a truth that is so hard to believe. The kind of truth that needs the magic of story.
So here, in Unicorn Hollow, 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.
I hope to make Unicorn Hollow a little, wonky nook of stories. True Stories that are factual, imaginary, and everywhere in between. I hope to write stories for kids. For parents. For my fellow weirdos whose brains are just not wired for this society.
Most of all, I hope that whenever you’re here, you believe—just a little bit more—that the small things you do are invaluable. That you are important.
The little girl still lives in my head. I wish I knew her name. I hope someday I get to find out. And maybe give her a hug and tell her I’m sorry and say thank you. For real.
After years of therapy, she’s not cramped into a vault anymore. She is now so much more than an image of brokenness and death. Sometime I’ll write about that. But for now, just know that she dances through my thoughts and memories, encouraging me to keep believing. To keep writing, so others never have to die wondering if they are important. So others know that what they do matters.
So they know.
Their lives are important.
I’m so glad you’re here—it is a true honor to share your time. If you like what you read, please consider liking or commenting on this post, subscribing, or sharing Unicorn Hollow with others. I offer my work for free, but you can imagine I’m doing a live reading at a coffee shop and can leave me a tip at my Ko-Fi account tip jar. Everything goes directly to support my family. Thanks for being my unicorn!
A Map of Unicorn Hollow
I hope you take some time to hang out and explore the Hollow, where the coffee is always hot (or tea. I’m an ambi-drinker), your group texts fall silent, and you can rest in solitude, but not in isolation. I’m working to curate hope by reminding us all that the small things we do truly matter.
Hypercolor & Hacky Sack - Nostalgic KidLit (middle grade and YA) set in the 1990s that explore the universal themes that are on hyperdrive during adolescence—belonging, self-discovery, change, and the necessary discomfort of healthy growth (both literal and metaphorical!).
Tales from the Sippy Cup Gang - Stories centered in parenting littles, often through the lens of being a neurodivergent parent. These are crafted from hazy memories, a thousand monotonously chaotic days, and modified names & details to protect delicate teenage egos. The most outrageous bits are factual. Some things you just can’t make up.
DreamStarters: Bedtime Stories for Brain-dead Caregivers - Back when my kids were little, I used to tell them bedtime stories. For a while. As life got busier and sleep hours got shorter, my ability to craft spontaneous stories went right into our chronically un-flushed toilet. These weekly stories are for anyone who just needs a kid to GO TO SLEEP ALREADY, but can’t manage to remember their own name. Or, for anyone who needs a little whimsy in their life. They're based on a series of bedtime stories I used to tell my sister about an orphan (always an orphan) who went to bed each night inside a magical locker. Using a photo taken during the week and Story Cubes as my prompts, I craft these cozy stories in one sitting, just like a real bedtime story, and (gulp) send them out into the world.
My Writing Farrago1- This is where you might find random musings, poetry, recipes, life-hacks, books I love, and ponderings on the existence of all that is, has been, or will be. Consider this the junk drawer of Unicorn Hollow where everything else goes.
My goal is to send out one DreamStarter and one other post each week.
For those who like to hang out in the Substack universe, I post daily-ish photos and musings in Notes, encouraging us slow down, shift our focus, and see our world from the hope-filled, magical perspective of children. Over on my BlueSky Account, I write impromptu poetry inspired by the same photos.
Farrago (noun) | \ fə-ˈrä-(ˌ)gō : a confused mixture: hodgepodge. Synonyms : a random collection : miscellany : conglomeration : mishmash: motley treasury
Beautiful. I can’t wait to read more!❤️