The power of story: You are either moving forward, or you're dying back.

Halfway through my senior year of college, my husband died in his sleep. There were no warning signs of illness. He went to bed with a few sniffles. Later, I was told by our family doctor, who read the coroner's report, "C" went into a coma and never woke up. All my worlds ended that day.

You're asked to upend your grief to complete every minute task almost immediately after the death. Unbeknown to you, it's not the time to do anything of consequence. Social Security, military records, a coroner's report, a class action suit filed by Vets exposed to Agent Orange—they all demanded my undivided attention.

What complicates the grieving process?—guilt. Tarred and feathered with guilt because I never saw it coming. I could have prevented it. "C" would still be alive. How? With my power of intuition and the psychic awareness I was born with, but the sensitive details of his life and death had been blacked out.

Grief messes with you. You misinterpret everything. You can't trust yourself. You can't trust anybody else. You misperceive what's in front of you. Guilt teaches you the art of lying, delusion, and self-deprecation. You should have known . . . saved him . . . seen it coming. No one could tell me otherwise, so for more than a decade, guilt shaped my life.

I'd already stretched out getting my degree with stops and starts, but with a full scholarship, my long-desired Bachelor of Arts degree from a college I'd always wanted to attend was within my grasp. Here it was; the desire delivered - almost. "C's" death flattened me as I was crossing the road to accept my diploma. I couldn't move forward. I couldn't eat, study, or concentrate. My life felt like gooey warm Jell-o, melting inside the container of my guilt. I had no spine for life and no structure to get a spine.

My mother stepped in. Rollins waived my requirement to attend classes, but I had to complete a Senior essay. If I completed this with an A, Rollins College would award me my B.A. I tried, but I couldn't concentrate to write it. I'd been doing the research for it for months. My mother knew this, and she said, "Let me help you write it. You've already done the work. I'll just put it together." At first, I wanted to say no. In my mind, that was cheating. But then, she added, as if she was reading my mind, "You can read it and rewrite or change it to make it better. Just let me get it down on paper for you." I knew she had it in her because she'd put herself through community college and got her degree. She was a deep reader; our house was filled with books that gathered no dust. So, I softly and graciously said yes.

My mother's voracious reading and her journalistic writing style infused a blueprint of my voice into the essay. She stepped in as my mentor and brought all my stops and starts to a satisfying ending. What a surprise! It was more than good. The weight of obstacles inbred into the process of closing a person's life lightened for a moment.

Grief stole my short-term memory. I forgot I felt better. Had I showered in the last five days? Self-talk bargaining was relentless - eat, drink water, sit in the sunshine, wash your hair, brush your teeth, and stop crying. Phones calls and completing bureaucracy forms were a ticking clock. The good-intended onslaught of relatives' and neighbors' cure-all advice drowns my resolve like a bullying tsunami. Too much. It was all too much! It pounded me into the ground. I was beyond exhausted with no motivation to get back up.

Again, my mother leaned in. She had a story to tell me about a vision she'd had three days after her son-in-law died. She didn't know how I'd react, but she said the story had to be told.

With my international studies in the Yucatan before graduation

Mom sat alone at the breakfast table during the early morning hours before sunrise drinking her hot cup of coffee. My mom said she slipped into another place, but as real as this world. A breathtaking vista of tall mountain peaks capped with snow surrounded her. My mom stood alone in a valley of green grasses, Aspen, and Blue Spruce trees. Not a sound was heard until "C" said: "Hi, Mom. Tell Toni I'm okay. Tell her I brought my dancing shoes." Then "C" moved above her head and danced the Polka on top of the mountain peaks in the snow, showing off as he laughed and laughed . . . and then the vision was gone. Back, Mom reached for her coffee. It was cold.

What my mother nor anyone else knew, but "C" because he'd read my book manuscript, was a scene at a funeral in a valley surrounded by snow-capped mountain peaks. The main character's wife had died. The husband leaned over the casket and whispered to his wife. "I know you've got your dancing shoes on, Sarah." That reference was only known to "C." Yet, it was my mother who had the vision. "C" came to her, not me. She was grieving, too, but open. Guilt had shut me down. She had to tell me he was okay, and I'd know it was "C" because he referenced the dancing shoes.

With my mother's help writing my Senior essay and the timing of her vision story of "C," I stepped out of the house and walked in the sunshine for what seemed like hours. I knew then, through it all, that I'd never been left alone. Soul Friends, those unseen teachers, and guides stood with me, helping me take those first baby steps back into living.

Graduation day was extraordinary. There's a photograph of me that reminds me of what it looks like to cross the finish line. I wore a red dress, red heels, and red-framed sunglasses with my black mortarboard and gold tassel, the blue, golden yellow, and white hood, the Rollins seal, black gown, and gold cord. I walked across the green lawns with a glass of champagne in hand, but my feet never touched the ground. I walked on air. My whole face smiled with pure love. I was alive. Everything was possible.

I was ready to choose. I chose to move forward. I chose storytelling.

The graduation red dress(es), me and 'Darling' my grandmother before graduation

Ready to take some big steps meant finding my writer’s voice. I had no idea who I was as a writer, and I didn’t know how to find out, but I did know that inherent in the question was the answer.

So, believing that you teach what you need to learn, I gathered what I did know: I loved to read; I wrote a daily journal; imaginary characters were my constant companions; I loved telling stories; I knew I would someday write a new kind of genre, and I loved to teach. I let intuition be my guide on my journey to becoming a writer. I invited everyone who wanted to discover their writer’s voice and their signature genre.

I hung out my shingle, and writers came. I learned. More storytellers came and shared. My storytelling awareness and writing expanded. I marveled at how creativity and intuition played a role in telling stories. If I could help someone become aware of what they already owned, that would be the gold ring—the writer's voice was the essence. Everything else was a tool, or a prop, a frame or form that supported the writing process, but the ‘essence’ was the glue.

It has been a journey of a thousand life lessons, each growing me more into my real voice. I tell new writers, “Writing a book is paramount to committing oneself to a spiritual path.” It is not for the mild and meek but for those who possess the higher heart of a lioness. You must step out on a limb, stand tall in mid-air, stand down in humility, protect what is yours, cross raging rivers of emotions, be tenacious to the nth degree, and passionately love your work. I have. I do.

NEVER GIVE UP! I chose to become a writer, so I wrote - a lot - and even more than that. When properly vetted, I submitted my TV pilot script to an Executive Producer through STAGE 32. My TV pilot script, HIDDEN PORTRAITS/VAGABONDS & ROGUES, received incredible notes and a "DOUBLE RECOMMEND!" Thank you, STAGE32, for your ongoing support of writers!

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