My Ink Dance

Discovering Extraordinary Grace in an Ordinary Life


The house seems to exhale at night. I sit here with the world quiet and I don’t think I can handle one more sound. My fingers hitting the keys feels loud.


Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I feel like a fraud somedays. Like a little girl clomping through the house in her mother’s heels. I think it’s hard to feel confident when you feel like an imposter.

But I put on the heels and I click the keys anyway.


Because I don’t know what else to do. This undirected urging doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, and in that case neither am I. My dance isn’t over.

Sometimes we mistake discomfort for a barricade. But the truth is, even in the dance, your feet hurt and you fall. Sometimes you won’t like the music or the steps or even your partner. But you have to keep dancing. You can’t get to the next song if you don’t finish this one.

So, I sit here and hope that letters make words and words make meaning in the quiet. Then maybe I can exhale the day and find life on the page.

About Becky Hastings

I am emotional and logical. I am strong and dependent. I am a juxtaposition of head and heart exploring it all through writing. And in all my mixed-up ways I am loved. I'm here to tell you that you are, too. Just the way you are.

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