After a workout in the gym at work, I stood at the entrance of the hospital in boots and a toque waiting in the cold for the shuttle to take me 10 minutes from my home. In a blur of backpacks and bags, one with “The New Yorker,” written across it, a middle aged pregnant woman and her man dropped all of them beside me. The bearded man walked off with purpose to return with a car, leaving the woman standing among all the baggage. She held onto her purse and looked at me. I was moving to the music that I was listening to in my headphones.

Taking a step closer, she caught my attention and asked, “Are you a Doula?”

“No, but I want to be,” was my reply.

It was an honest answer.  Ever since my friend Alison had her son Elliot, I had played with the idea of studying to become a postpartum Doula.  So that I could be there to help the mom with her newborn. I could keep her company, provide her with information on newborn care, and help her with the house chores.   There was a long pause, so I turned away thinking the conversation was over.

“Are you interning?” She asked hopefully.  

“No.”  I gave her a look of apology.  She seemed tired and worried.

I want to be a Doula but it’s more of a future wish than reality.  It would take considerable time and once a doula, scheduling would be a gong show.  I have a full time job that I love. I would have to wait until another time to pursue this possibility.  She sighed and looked disappointed.

I mused.  This is not the first time I have been mistaken for something else.

“Are you a lawyer?” an off-duty policeman asked me as I sat with a serious posture in a silver suit from Holt Renfrew.  I was waiting for an interview at the Justice Institute for a job as an Administrative Assistant.

“No.” I replied. I must look like one, I thought.  

“I could be a great many things,” said Louisa May Alcott in Little Women, but I am not.

The amazing thing that flourishing with a mental illness gives me, is the ability to dream and make goals.  When I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I thought a life of professional prestige and personal bests were over.  Walls built of shame, doubt and low self-esteem seemed too difficult to scale. Yet, slowly with the love of God pouring into my heart, layers of stigma and hopelessness fell away.  Maybe it was testing the waters by going back to school, or applying and being hired for different jobs that increased my confidence. Doors opened, I rose to the occasion and dreams became a reality.  

At 8 years old or younger my dream was to be a writer and so I write.  When we had a house fire, I thankfully saved the handwritten short stories I penned as a child.  Most of my stories back then were about surprise birthday parties, (I always wanted one), and the birth of new siblings (I have three brothers and two sisters). No one has ever asked me if I was a writer.  Funny. It’s almost as if I was a ghost writer. Writers must not look like writers. They have such varying interests. I run, dance, sing and work full time in an office.

What does a writer look like?  For writers use pencil, pen, tablet, laptop and voice recorders.  Wiry eyes, curious nose? Tall, thin, fat or short? Young and old.  Outgoing or shy. What would be the defining feature? Used to be ink on fingers.  Not so much anymore. Maybe they can be spotted in cafés, writing in a notebook or typing on a laptop.   Hard to tell.

And how dull a life must be if never written down or reflected upon.  “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you,” said Maya Angelou.  It seems so wild and free in ink or pixels. Our lives are full of creative content. From when we walk to work till when we rest our bodies at night.  Even my dreams can be made into the stuff of fairy tales.

Ah, to write!