BUT I HAD A PLAN ...

Evening Light Through a White Hydrangea

I snapped this photo one beautiful summer evening.

Simple.

Still.

Beautiful.

Fleeting.

I had no sooner captured it and the moment passed. The sun dipped lower, and just like that, the light no longer lit the flower from within.

It got me thinking.

I went into August with a plan. And yes, I know, it's now September.

I was going to write every day. A novella. Start to finish. Thirty-thousand words.

Here’s what actually happened: two and a half chapters.

So, what went wrong? In a word: life.

August filled itself with other things. Sunshine. Gardens (periwinkle everywhere). Wisteria sneaking in behind window screens. Projects around the house that had waited too long. Family dinners that stretched into evenings. A trip to Toronto with my kids and their spouses to see The Lion King, with their dear friend Trevor Patt playing Pumba. Reunions with extended family I hadn’t seen in years. Days with my daughter Nicole, shoulder-to-shoulder, clearing closets, cupboards, and drawers that had quietly gathered weight.

By those measures, August was full. By those measures, I won.

Yes, I could beat myself up for not reaching my writing goal. But what good would that do? Research tells us that self-criticism doesn’t improve motivation; it actually depletes it. Self-compassion, on the other hand, helps us recover and move forward more resiliently. (There’s even neuroscience showing that laughter, sunshine, and meaningful connection activate the same reward centres in the brain as achieving a goal.) Thanks goes to my amazing coach, Kari Schneider, for that wisdom!

So, instead of tallying unwritten words, I’m counting what I did gain: connection, joy, lightness, progress, laughter.

I also learned that writing in summer is harder than in winter. Summer in Canada is fleeting. The lure of warm air and evening light is irresistible. Maybe that’s as it should be. There will always be distractions. Some are pure procrastination. But others? They’re life-giving. They fill the cup. They remind me of why I write in the first place.

The balance lies in discerning the difference.

Because at the end of the day, life is fleeting too. Choosing presence — whether at the desk or around the dinner table, in the garden or under a setting sun — is what matters most.

The work will be there. The words will come. But so will the light, once, twice, maybe a handful of times more this season. And missing that? That would be the real loss.

“What did your summer teach you? Where did you find your light?”