Today’s entry comes to you from the comfort of my side of the bed—or as my honey calls it, my “recharging station.” It’s late, and I should really be sleeping. 4:15 AM comes quick when you’re living the Spark life.

But I digress. I really want to talk to you about this dude.

Exhibit A: For the Record.

I suspect he is long gone from this world, and I doubt his lineage will be upset that I have a lifelong beef with their grandpa.

In 1988, Hesperia Junior High was my sanctuary. Unbeknownst to everyone except my father and me, home was not a safe place. I sought refuge in the hallways and, during my seventh-grade year, joined the yearbook club. The less I was home, the safer I was.

Initially, yearbook was just a place to kill time after the final bell. But as the weeks progressed, I discovered I had a natural talent for it. For the uninitiated: in the late eighties, yearbooks were created with stone tablets and chisels. Okay, not exactly—but it was a world of pica sticks, grease pencils, spray glue, and manual layouts. No computers, just craft.

I loved it. By the end of eighth grade, I was Student of the Year and the Yearbook Editor. I wasn’t just a student; I was a manager of deadlines and a curator of memories. The more I achieved, the fewer questions people asked. The more I worked, the more I realized I wanted to do this forever.

Then came the “transition meeting.” Mr. Lefton was tasked with prepping eighth graders for the big move to high school. I walked into his office with the confidence of a girl who had already proven she could lead. He asked the proverbial question: “So, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Without hesitation, I told him I wanted to be a journalist.

He didn’t look at my awards. He didn’t acknowledge my leadership. He looked at my gender and told me journalism was “too competitive.” He warned me that if I chased that life, I’d never be able to get married or have a family.

He didn’t know that for me, a career wasn’t a choice—it was an escape hatch. He tried to trade my ambition for the very domestic cage I was literally fleeing.

He crushed me.

I was already struggling with the authority of men. I had already bent my will and made sacrifices no child should make to satisfy a man, and here I was again. Being told who to be. What to do. How to please.

The summer that followed was the worst of my life. Nearly 35 years later, that is not hyperbole. Between the wind being taken from my sails and the discovery that my own written words were being used as blackmail for my silence at home, the ink simply ceased to flow.

But I know there is a sliver of Joy who lives on a different timeline. In that world, she didn’t listen to him. She went to college and majored in journalism. She landed a sweet gig at the LA Times and worked her way up to the editorial staff. On warm nights, she looks over the LA skyline from her high-rise apartment and wonders how a girl like her made it to a place like that.

This Joy—the version writing this from her bed—searches the high-rise windows for a glimpse of her every time I’m in a major metropolis. I’m still looking for her.

But as I prepare for Nanaimo, I’m realizing she might not be as far away as I thought. Maybe she isn’t in a high rise LA office; maybe she’s been waiting for me to find a place where my “wish list” finally matters.

To those of you reading this: thank you for being here. You are helping me find my voice again, thirty-five years later. Because of you, the ink is finally flowing.