I wasn't going to publish this.

How I published my first L.A. Times essay, the benefits of bearing witness to one another's grief, and the joys of writing as if nobody is reading it

I wasn’t planning on posting this week. (And I still might not. Unless you are currently reading this. In which case, I clearly hit publish.) My inner critic can’t help but think, “Don’t bombard people, Lindzi. They don’t want to see your name — and be forced to contemplate grief — every week. There’s enough sadness in the news cycle. No. More. Grief.” But I have so many thoughts and, finally, a place to put them. And it’s important to find ways of coping with the world around us.

I cope by writing. Others cope by reading. Hopefully, we can cope together.

Writing has always been a form of free therapy for me. Throughout my late twenties and early thirties, I created fictional novels and screenplays that explored my deepest fears through thinly veiled characters. I also wrote personal essays and short films including one I directed called “Wifey” about a modern housewife who finds herself trapped in yesteryear. The point is — I’ve always tried to understand life and my perspective on it through a blank page.

In the past, however, I rarely shared any of my work with anyone. The act of writing was enough. It wasn’t until real life became stranger than fiction that my approach shifted. Like many first time mothers, I felt isolated after the birth of my daughter Evan. However, in my case, there was much more to the equation, which is how my first essay for the L.A. Times came about in 2020.

When the pandemic first unfolded and my head hit the pillow, I couldn’t sleep. I just kept thinking, “People don’t understand what’s coming.” Our family, unfortunately, had joined the upside down in 2018 when our newborn daughter Evan was — suddenly and unexpectedly — diagnosed with a rare mitochondrial disease.

Two years later, the world was suddenly joining our world. They just didn’t realize it yet. So, I did what I always do when my mind is racing and I don’t know what else to do with myself. I put the words somewhere. It’s like talking to a therapist… but much cheaper. I’ve always found that putting the words somewhere gets them out of my head and into the ether. And that — alone — is enough.

So, for the first time, I wrote about my daughter’s diagnosis and what life looked like as a medical mom — dolling out medications through her gastronomy tube multiple times a day with around the clock therapies, seizures, and medical equipment — as well as how I learned to find joy and adapt to our family’s new norm.

I didn’t plan on publishing my thoughts. I’m an entertainment, fashion, and lifestyle journalist by trade. Once upon a time, my profession stuck to certain rules like, “Cover the story. Don’t become the story.” (Those unspoken rules have since changed — as has my entire industry. Hence, all of you lovely folks here on Substack.) It wasn’t in my nature to do anything with what I wrote because I’ve never believed in speaking unless you have something to say.

Except, in this case, I suddenly did.

After re-reading what I wrote, I realized others might benefit from my words. So, I shared them with my editor at the L.A. Times, who decided to publish them.

“I let light in. You can too,” the headline read in print. Meanwhile, its online counterpart read, “I'm the mother of a toddler. This is why I no longer live in fear.”

It should be noted: I don’t write the headlines. I’d love to claim that I don’t live in fear. I do. But I’d like to believe I live in less fear — thanks to everything Evan taught us. (And I can wholeheartedly say I continue to let light in. All thanks to her.)

My daughter passed away in 2022, which I also wrote about for the L.A. Times.

I miss my Evan. I miss her appointments. I miss people saying her name. I miss having an excuse to say her name. I miss. I grieve. I breathe. I live. I embrace life in her honor.

An Instagram friend — a fellow griever, who I suspect may become an IRL friend once we’re in the same city — recently DMed me, “I often wish someone could transcribe what goes through my mind 24/7.”

I know the feeling. I told her as much. Those thoughts will eat you alive. If you don’t put them somewhere. And, yes, occasionally share them, too.

So, here I am. Writing. Whether someone reads it or not. The act of writing is enough. But if these words resonate with even one person, that’s even better. Because I’ve recently realized that it’s okay for grieving to be witnessed. In fact, for me, it’s become a necessary part of the process.

My personal growth and healing lies in having others bear witness to what’s inside of my head and heart.

So, read this. Or don’t. But at least I hit… PUBLISH.