How Poetry, Go-Karts, and Three exes Took me out in the Same Week

I want to bring you back to Thursday, because that’s when the trouble began. I went go-kart racing with two friends, yes, in a summer mini dress and heels, because why would I EVER choose function over fashion? These weren’t kiddie go-karts either; these things go 60 mph, no padding, just a helmet, and the big man above crossing his fingers for the daredevil inside of me. The track had three big turns shaped like a snake. First round out, it’s me, my two friends, and this couple clearly on a date night joyride. They’re taking it slow. I’m not...

But then it happens.

Right before the big S-turn, my heel gets caught under the gas pedal. Full throttle. No way to move it. I’m flying into the turn at 60 mph with my foot jammed to the floor, and this slow, romantic couple just strolling, making googly eyes at each other, in the middle of the big, crazy S-turn. So I make a choice, I see a slight opening, and I go straight between them, thinking I’ve got the clearance.

I don’t.

I hit both of them. They spin out. I get yelled at for being “too aggressive,” and I just nod sweetly because I don’t want the staff looking too closely at my shoe situation. I mean, I have several more races in my system for the night. After that race ended, the couple bowed out, and they waited for me to be done before going back out on the track. Understandably so. Meanwhile, I went two more rounds. That’s called commitment.

And let’s be real, I wasn’t racing to win. I was racing to figure out exactly how fast I could take those S-curves without spinning out and crashing. I was collecting data. 💋 For 30 minutes, I flung myself around that track like a pinball just to test the math of speed, angle, timing, and how long it takes for your brain to start enjoying whiplash.

Later that evening, I peeled off my clothes to find welts across my back and bruises blooming on my hips. I looked like I’d lost a fight to a flight of stairs. My friends were like, “Was it worth it?” “Absolutely?” I answer with a smirk. I want to go fast. I want to test my limits. Even if it means walking like a Victorian woman for two days after.

Friday was quieter. I got some work done, mostly keeping up with startup advising and the nonprofit I’m working with. Saturday, I went full Americana and grabbed burgers and root beer floats with friends before heading to a karaoke bar. The kind of karaoke bar where you don’t sing, you people-watch.

That night’s headliner? Adam Sandler’s long-lost twin. He had the wraparound shades, the baggy T-shirt, the basketball shorts, and the slides. He danced like no one was watching (we were). He was the moment. There were also some Navy boys doing rap songs, and honestly? They ate. Iconic. 10/10. Zero notes.

Sunday was a reset, my favorite deli, some long hours reading and writing, and mentally preparing for what was about to be the most vulnerable 48 hours of my entire creative life.

Enter: Open Mic Monday.

It was a small, cozy poetry open mic night. Not many people, just a group of strangers in a café-style room sharing work, and I was terrified. I showed up early and met this girl, Anne, who immediately gave me a vote of confidence. She signed up third. Told me to sign up fourth. “You won’t be first,” she promised. And she was right.

I went up and read two poems. I blacked out the whole time. Like, truly blacked out. I don’t remember hearing anything. Not the applause. Not my voice. Not even my heartbeat. When I sat down, people told me I was good. A few even asked for my contact info to read more. Anne was so kind. It all felt very safe, very lovely. But I was still shaking the whole night.

And maybe I should’ve left it at that. But I don’t know how to do things halfway. So I signed up for another poetry night the next day, Tuesday, yesterday. Only this time, it wasn’t low-stakes and cozy. It was the BIG leagues.

I showed up at 7 PM sharp, hoping to sign up early and maybe catch a few warm-up poems before the nerves kicked in. What I didn’t expect was to walk into a full-blown event with over 300 people packed into the room.

Congressmen, senators, activists, the owner of the venue chain, and me… wearing a tiny green dress, shaking like a leaf. The venue was hosting a geopolitical panel before open mic called U.S. Attacks Iran: What Happens Next with Mehdi Hassan and Representative Ro Khanna. Between my nerves shutting off and on, I tried listening in to the panel, but truly, my mind was in no vacancy.

At some point, I started talking to the owner of the venue. He finds out I’m performing. He’s nice. Supportive. And somehow, I end up going up fourth again — just like the night before. I don’t know if it’s fate or a curse, but I blacked out the second my name was called. No memory. No internal monologue. Just silence and white noise and my feet moving on their own.

I read the same two poems I’d done the night before. Everyone else had a strict time limit, but the host, Glo Shines, a radiant poet and hip-hop artist, let me run a little long. That felt generous. But as soon as I sat down, I could feel it. The panic is building. The nerves are swelling. She had the crowd thank me again, and then she cracked a joke about Beyoncé (I think?) — I don’t remember a single word of anything she said after I read. I was just trying not to cry in front of 300 people. But as gravity does, the tears fell, and I had to sneak off to the bathroom. There I paced in circles and tried every grounding trick I knew: smell something. Touch something. Curse at the ugly poster on the wall. Count the tiles. Breathe. Repeat.

Ten minutes later, I came back out. A comedian was onstage. He was good. People were laughing. I tried to laugh. But then it hit again. The crowd. The lights. The vulnerability of having just read something real. I started crying all over again. So I left. Sat outside for a few minutes, thinking fresh air might be what I needed, but it wasn’t. So I went and sat in my car and cried some more.

I’ve been crying a lot lately. Not because I’m sad, not really. I think it’s about writing. About the weight of it. About the terrifying honesty it demands. I’ve had people lately look me in the eye and say, “You’re a writer. You need to own that.” And every time I try to say it out loud — I’m a writer — something closes up inside me. Like there’s a frog in my throat, ribbiting out loud, and I can’t tell if he’s warning me or welcoming me. “Don’t you dare.” or “Finally, you’re here.”

Maybe it’s not fear. Maybe it’s grief. The kind you feel when you realize that calling isn’t always convenient, that writing doesn’t come with a wardrobe stipend for my heels and jewelry addiction. That poets don’t get the kind of applause you can spend. That’s when you spend your whole life being good at pretending, boardrooms, business pitches, taking the stage as someone else, the scariest thing in the world is being asked to just be yourself.

But I still do it.

Even if I cry in the bathroom after. Even if I black out under the lights. Even if I have to leave early and sob in the front seat of my car. I still get up and I read. I still write. Because my soul doesn’t give me a choice. Because this, this-this messy, gut-wrenching thing, is the only time I’m not pretending.

And then, just for fun, the universe tossed in a little twist: All three of my exes ended up in the same city as me on the same day.

Yes, THREE. One moved here recently. One lives here already. The third? Randomly visiting from across the country. On the same day. I don’t know what message the universe is trying to send, but it better be a warning and not a setup.

I mean, sure. I get it. I’m magnetic. But I can’t be dodging emotional landmines and reading poetry and healing in public and dealing with back welts from my go-kart lifestyle.

It’s been a week.

xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
WhatSheridanSaid.com
Life Behind the Artist: Wed at 9/8C