A few years ago, while I was compiling stories for my first book – a memoir – I had the opportunity to visit my childhood home in Cogan Station, Pennsylvania. In the 1970s, my family and I lived there, along a long dirt road out in the country. Our property was peaceful and lush with rolling hills, a sprawling field, and a trickling creek that was always teeming with life. I was the middle child and my brothers and I ran free to explore in our jeans and clodhoppers. Every spring, we’d find baby bunnies nestled into snug warrens lined with fluff. We’d catch crayfish in the creek and brown, squiggling salamanders in the pine needles of the forest. Deer meandered through to munch on fallen apples and Seckel pears.

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On this return visit, I stopped walking and just stood there quietly gazing over the once-familiar edge of the steep embankment along the road. I inhaled deeply, breathing in the pungent scent of the skunk cabbage growing below. I appreciated the quiet of the country on that summer day, as it was just so different from Seattle, where I live with my own family.

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I watched a Monarch butterfly flit from one milkweed plant to the next, laying her eggs on the long green stems. I admired her skill—she knew exactly where to place her pinhead-sized eggs, giving her hatchlings the only food they could eat. While confident in her task, she was also guided by the inherited wisdom of generations past.

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I felt that way myself – confident in my writing and the ability to share my story, but still seeking the wisdom of my extended family to support me as I published my first book. I knew what I wanted to say, but I also knew that some of my stories might evoke emotions in others. I practiced perfecting my writing by reading aloud to my writing group and revising based on their feedback. But I feared that a “mythical someone” would not like my stories and would criticize me for sharing my deeply personal gift in such a public way.

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Just then, a female cardinal belted out her melodious song from the branch of a nearby cherry tree, “Weep, weep, chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp,” a song I hadn’t heard in years. I looked up and saw her head cocked back, her confidence displayed with each note. In the distance, a male cardinal replied, “Cheer, cheer, whoit-whoit-whoit-whoit-whoit,” from a maple tree across the creek.

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I continued my walk along the dirt road that led towards my childhood home, smiling to myself at the encouragement of the cardinals. I realized the birds don’t worry about who hears them sing. They sing to connect, to communicate. Their songs are effortless, beautiful, and entirely their own.

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Maybe I could take advice from the songbirds, finding my voice and confidently sharing the truth I hold within.