Burned out in Texas, reignited in Maine

A writing retreat, a coastal town, and a circle of women reminded me why I write—and why it still matters.

Fall doesn’t really happen in Texas until November. And even then, it’s often just a blink-and-you-miss-it few weeks.

Summer, on the other hand, is hot as blazes, and seems to stretch on forever. This year was technically “cooler than normal,” with fewer 100-degree days, which should have felt like relief. It fooled me into thinking the heat would be more bearable. It wasn’t.

The longer I stay here, the more the heat seems to affect me. It’s a constant undercurrent, an oppressive companion. This summer, it amplified a deeper malaise that had been building for months: some of it about politics, watching a country I love slip into something unrecognizable, and some of it about finding my own purpose.

I needed a break, not just from the weather, but from the weight of it all.

So I left. And what I found, in a tiny harbor town on the coast of Maine, was just what I needed.

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Camden Harbor

My husband and I have been ready to get the hell out of Texas for a while now, and we’ve started the unofficial countdown to when our youngest graduates high school and we can decamp. Where to, exactly, is still unknown.

Part of it is the heat. Part of it is a longing to be closer to nature and live at a slower pace. But it’s also about being somewhere more culturally aligned with our values.

We’ve talked about splitting our time in upstate New York, where my husband is from, and then somewhere else part of the year. Italy, Portugal, and Costa Rica are still on our list.

But the political climate has changed the tune of our talks about leaving. They carry more urgency now, more questions. Europe is having its own alt-right moment, and there are so many unknowns about what the state of the world will be when we’re finally ready to go.

I heard someone say recently that no matter what happens, we’re not going back to what we were; the America we knew before is gone. And there’s an odd sort of comfort in this, because it’s the not knowing what’s coming next that’s the worst part.

I’ve been struggling with this for months, carrying anxiety and uncertainty, at times teetering on depression. For a while, it felt like people were either sleepwalking through it all or so shellshocked by loss that they’d completely tuned out and couldn’t see that our freedoms are under fire. The protections we’ve taken for granted are no longer something we can count on. At last, it feels like most of America is waking up. This week’s victories in a handful of key elections give me hope—America is finding its voice. But it hasn’t shaken my deeper fear: that our next presidential election won’t be legitimate.

I’ve had to find ways to hold onto hope, to escape the unbearable weight of it all, including the heat.

One of those ways is simply to leave Texas during the final weeks of summer, when the rest of the country is beginning to cool. This year, I scheduled back-to-back trips to more forgiving climates. My husband and I caught the turning aspens along the famed Route 67 drive in Divide, Colorado, and took multiple hikes. We spent a long weekend in Massachusetts for my daughter’s first college tours, with side visits to apple orchards and a full day in Salem, as we tried to sell her on the Northeast.

But what stays with me most are my days in Camden, Maine.

Camden Public Library

On a lark in early August, I jumped on a women’s writing retreat hosted by best-selling author Lyz Lenz (who recently left Substack for Patreon) and the newly formed Midcoast Villager newspaper. This weekly, recently featured in The New York Times, is trying to do what many papers have failed to do over the past 20 years amid shrinking print revenues, which is focus on community.

To that end, the paper started the Villager Café, a bright gathering space in the middle of town, with the newsroom housed above it. They host weekly “office hours” with the editorial staff, inviting townspeople into the process, and plan to do more writing retreats, with this tiny gem of a town as part of the allure.

I’m not surprised I fell so hard for coastal Maine. Visiting Acadia National Park in fall has been high on my bucket list for years. While I didn’t make it there on this trip (I’m saving that for when my husband can join me), I got a taste of it in Camden. The leaves were just starting to change, the daytime highs were in the high 60s, and the town, nestled around a postcard-perfect harbor, was absolutely adorable.

Harbor Arts and Books Fairs

It happened to be the weekend of the Harbor Arts & Books Fairs, held on the exquisite grounds of the Camden Public Library, and the whole scene felt like something out of a cozy rom-com. The Villager organized a sailing retreat for us one afternoon. I ate fresh lobster every day.

I skipped out on yoga and made a solo trek up Mount Battie, a direct, boulder-strewn climb that Villager co-founder Kathleen Capetta tried to warn me about. Having just hiked in Colorado, I didn’t think it would be particularly strenuous, but I wasn’t wearing my usual hiking shoes and lacked the grip I needed. I made it up, breathless, only to realize I was nearly late for the first writing session. I all but ran down the gentler return trail.

Almost to the top of Mount Battie

Without a car or Uber, I faced the prospect of hiking back to town. The local cab company told me it would be at least 30 minutes. At the trailhead, I asked an older couple exiting at the same time if they could drop me back into town, something I’d never feel safe doing back home, and they did.

This was my first writing retreat. Not really knowing what to expect, I went in with an open mind. I had two goals: to jumpstart my memoir writing, which had been blocked for months, and to make writer friends. If I’m honest, I wanted more than that. I was hoping to make deeper connections with people who get it.

Yes, I know lots of writers. I’ve worked with many over the years as a newspaper journalist, then as a content marketer, and I’ve collaborated with women who became writers through a multi-author book project. But I haven’t had a circle of women I could turn to who are actively working on their craft. Until now.

What I came away with was a renewed vigor and purpose, and a group of soul sisters. Women who’ve been through some shit and are writing their way through it. These women are not sleepwalking through what’s happening in this country right now, and it made me feel less alone.

For the last few years, I’ve written to make meaning of my experiences. To help others. To steady myself. But I left Maine with the understanding that my writing, and others like it, is a form of activism. When we use our voices, especially those of us with any measure of power or privilege, we speak for those who can’t.

We say the hard things. The things that run counter to the norm. We labor to make change. We fight and cry and endure pain and suffering and loss. And sometimes we carry that weight far too long, because the people around us, even those we love, don’t always understand.

It warmed my heart to find kindred souls, women who, in their own ways, are trying to make the world a better place.

We railed. We cried. We read. We unburdened ourselves with weights we’ve carried with no one to tell. There was no veil. No pretense. No bullshit.

Texas was still too damn hot when I returned. And Maine is still calling. But I came back with something that matters more: clarity, connection, and a reason to keep writing.

We’ve got our next unofficial retreat planned for February.

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Now it’s your turn

Is there a place or ritual that helps when you need a reset, creative or otherwise? What’s been weighing on you lately, and what’s helped you carry it? I’d love to hear in the comments.

Retreat voices here on Substack

A few of the women I met in Camden are also writing here on Substack, and I’d love to share them with you: