Final Exposure

My Return to the Stage

Mar 29, 2025

Hey friends,

Welcome back to The Fort Report—my little corner of the internet. I’m still writing a daily pantoum in The Pantoumery (yes, still running with scissors), but lately, the cutting has been all about editing—shaping old stories into something new.

Here’s a short video of my piece—Final Exposure—performed live at the Biblioteca’s Santa Ana Theatre in San Miguel de Allende, in front of a wonderfully supportive audience of about a hundred people:

I hope you’ll take a few minutes to watch. It’s a story that surprised even me, and sharing it aloud changed something in me.

While in Mexico this past month, I focused much of my time on a From Page to Stage class, where a small group of us wrote and developed short pieces of memoir over seven weeks—Then, we performed them LIVE on stage. EEK.

I’ve been telling my story for decades—privately, in my journal. But I never imagined performing it. Even though I’ve spent much of my life in front of an audience, bringing a deeply personal piece of my history to the stage cracked me open in surprising and powerful ways. I guess I was ready. Willing. And, truthfully, curious to see what would emerge from this bag of loose and tangled threads.

I hadn’t felt a particular pull to tell this story—but once I began writing, I was astonished by what surfaced. It felt tailor-made for the moment I’m in now: seeking perspective and truth from opposite sides of every story. I call it the “both” of things (A wise participant in Writing from the Well calls it “The Ampersand”.)

What became Final Exposure came through writing and journaling in multiple voices—my confused, neglected four-year-old self; my older, overachieving mother; and the two vulnerable women—both of us—trying to make sense of everything near the end. It became a re-telling that moved beyond right and wrong, into something more essential. Something that asked for compassion.

Through this process, I realized that—under the right conditions—a soft, open presence can heal even the oldest wounds. Retelling the story of my mother’s death gave me a chance to let go, to reframe, to offer both her and myself a kind of forgiveness I didn’t know I was holding back.

One of my earliest memories is of my mother bent over her light box, retouching film negatives. In that inverted world—where dark was light, and any imperfection was something to fix—I learned early to hide the messy parts of life. Maybe that’s why I turned to theatre. There was always something hidden underneath the smile. This storytelling invited me into the grey space—the nuanced, complex truths that were always there. It was a transformative act of re-seeing and re-telling.

What I learned through telling this story:
(So much. But especially this:)

I was closer to healing than I realized.
Speaking my story aloud changed me. I felt it—deep in my bones, in my soul.
I witnessed others experience that same transformation.
Truth has layers. Some are even... delightful and surprising.
The story was waiting for me—so I could walk through it with love.
Stories can shift, even the ones that seem fixed and factual.
There are subtler lessons just below the surface, waiting for the right time to be seen.

One of the surprise gifts of this performance was that my cousin Nancy—our mothers were sisters—journeyed to San Miguel to witness it.
To have her there was incredibly special. It felt like our mothers live on through us, and that this story, in some way, belonged to both of us. Her presence was a quiet blessing woven into the night.

Deepest gratitude to Eli Hans and Joseph Bennett, who made this experience possible and held space so beautifully. You can learn more about them, here. And to the six other brave souls who shared the stage with me—what an honour to witness your stories and walk alongside you.

Consider this an invitation.

To tell your story—not perfectly, not all at once, but in your own way. Through words or movement, images or music, or even quiet reflection. It doesn’t have to be polished. It just has to begin. There’s wisdom waiting beneath the surface. Let it rise.

Thank you for listening. Your eyes, your ears, your heart—they hold more than you know.

If this resonates, I’d be honoured if you shared it with someone who might need it. And if you’d like to keep walking with me, you can subscribe below to receive future pieces straight to your inbox.

Stories are meant to be witnessed. Your presence here means everything.