I was supposed to perform at a poetry slam this week. I had the piece. I had the dress. I had the nerve—until I didn’t. I was sitting in the second row, staring at the sign-up sheet like it had teeth. And then I chickened out.
But here’s why I’m glad I did.
The night opened with a local legend who’s been hosting these slams longer than some of us have been out of high school. He said something like, “Read the room,” and I did. What followed was one of the most profound nights of poetry I’ve ever witnessed.
The night was beautiful. Emotional. Transformative. A man who had recently been released from prison after 35 years—sentenced as a kid—stood up and shared work that felt like survival. He read poems that they wish someone had written to them when they were 14. It was devastating. It was healing. It was everything poetry should be.
Each person, one after the other, all with the most inspiring stories to share, got up and read the kind of poems that make you forget if you were inhaling or exhaling. Poems about the paths they walked, the violence they endured, and the wisdom they now write for the teenage versions of themselves. It was sacred. The whole night felt that way. The kind of sacred that doesn’t need a pulpit.
And I realized, my story, my trauma, valid as it is, wasn’t meant to compete with theirs. That night wasn’t mine to interrupt. It was mine to witness.
So I sat there for several hours, as one of the very few white people in the room, listening, understanding, and learning. Feeling everything. I was honored to be in that space. And as it ended, I walked out with even more respect for the kind of poetry that isn’t written for publication, but written for survival.
I didn’t perform because I didn’t need to. Because it wasn’t about me. And I don’t say that with self-deprecation, I say that with reverence, with the understanding that presence, when it’s quiet, and respectful, and intentional, is sometimes more sacred than spotlight.
That night reminded me of what poetry is at its core. Not a performance. Not a brand. Not even an art form. It’s a lifeline. It’s your truest version asking for help, for guidance, for clarity. It’s the thing you write when no one’s coming to save you, but somehow the writing saves you anyway.
And I’m better for hearing it.
That said, don’t worry. I’ll be back on stage. As you know, I’ve got thousands of poems to read, but I’ll know when my moment’s right.
In other news, someone found my burner phone again and asked—half joking, half dead serious—if I was a spy.
It’s not the first time. Every man I’ve dated, multiple friends, and now even random acquaintances have asked if I work for the CIA. I guess having multiple phones and encrypted emails makes people suspicious. But it’s not espionage—it’s just anxiety and a serious habit of keeping my private life private. If I were a spy, I’d be the worst one. You caught me. And I’d still deny it.
The truth is, my whole life trained me to move like a ghost. I spent long stretches in total isolation, not for fun, but because it was safer. I didn’t go to prom. I skipped college. I was managing people twice my age while my peers were sneaking into bonfires. And when you live like that long enough, you build boundaries like fortresses. I’m not antisocial, I’m just… unbothered.
People think I’m mysterious. I’m not. I’m just tired. I don’t want to explain myself. I don’t want to small-talk. I don’t want to play the part of “relatable girl” who lets people all the way in. I’ve spent years building a rich internal world. Sometimes, forever forgetting I’m supposed to invite people inside.
And while that solitude shaped my art, it also dulled my social skills. Or maybe not dulled—just rerouted them. I lead better than I collaborate. I monologue better than I chat. I love people, I do. I’m just very selective about whom I let interrupt the quiet I worked so hard to earn.
Also, let’s talk about my dad. The legend.
After a destructive storm swept through his little country town, my dad was the guy who showed up. Literally. He rallied neighbors, coordinated recovery efforts, and had the entire community back on its feet faster than the local government could blink. He’s now a local news story, town celebrity, and general badass (he always was).
The world needs more people like my dad. People who don’t wait to be asked. People who show up with a chainsaw and a group of dads ready to slash fallen trees!
Speaking of wild things, I also went indoor skydiving.
I thought I was going to pee myself. Like, no joke. I was so nervous that the instructors kept checking on me. My face apparently screamed this girl is about to lose it. But I held out. I waited. I studied everyone else’s technique. And when it was my turn, I stepped into that tunnel like a bat out of hell and held the strongest air plank of my life.
Then I spun. Like, violently. Apparently, I invented a new move. They called it “The Tornado.” I’m choosing to take that as a compliment. A metaphor, even. Uncontrolled, uncontainable, and somehow graceful in my chaos.
It’s fitting, really. I’ve never been the quiet breeze type. I enter things sideways, spin too fast, and leave people wondering what just happened—but somehow, I still land it.
Eventually.
That’s what this season feels like. A tornado with intention. I’m not trying to be still. I’m trying to move on purpose. Even if that movement looks like fear, like nerves, like spinning until I forget which way is up. Because somewhere in that chaos, I found clarity. I found a thrill. And I’d rather be flailing in flight than stuck on the ground pretending not to want it. And finally, a quick poetry update:
I’ve been writing. A lot. Most days, I crank out two or three poems. Most of them get cut. However, it’s been a consistent one outstanding poem per day. One-third isn’t too shabby, and at this rate, maybe I’ll already have my second and third collections ready by the time this one is published.
I’ve crossed 130 finalized poems now. The goal is 200. I know, you’re probably saying, “Sheridan, that’s a lot, you need to chill out.” Umm, what if I don’t want to? Most of the recent poetry books I’ve seen released are between 120 and 200 pages, so yes, I’ve made the cut. But the general cut isn’t Sheridan’s cut, okay? She’s a little hard on herself. So… I want extras—for the what-ifs, for the “this just can’t leave,” or the last-minute “I need to burn these twenty poems to the grounds of hell before they are public knowledge.”
Because here’s the thing: I’m not just writing for print, I’m writing for permanence. This collection is generations of art disguised as literature. And I want the final version to hit like the family secret you’re not supposed to know, the kind that stays with you whether you want it to or not. So if that means triple the drafts, late-night edits, or dragging poems through emotional purgatory before they’re allowed to exist on a page, so be it.
I’m not trying to be your favorite poet; I’m trying to be unforgettable.
And let’s be honest, I’ve never done anything halfway. Why would I start now? These poems aren’t just confessions. They’re timestamps. They’re proof. Of who I was, what I’ve witnessed, what I survived, and how I learned to tell the story before someone else tried to. So if the book ends up being thick enough to stop a bullet, good. Maybe it was meant to.
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
WhatSheridanSaid.com
Life Behind the Artist: Wed at 9/8C
