On Not Finishing:

A Meditation on Refusal and Becoming

What follows is a reflection I wrote after making the difficult decision to not submit a chapter to an anthology—even after receiving an extension. I’m sharing it without edits. I didn’t revise it because it came from a moment I’m still living into. And in many ways, that moment is the message.

This writing moves from a place of embodied truth-telling—naming the ache of letting something go that mattered to me, and sitting with what it stirs up around identity, worth, and capacity. It’s personal, yes—but it’s also rooted in a broader practice I’ve come to name and teach as The Alchemy of Now.

In this framework, refusal is not failure. It’s wisdom. Witness. An act of self-trust that interrupts the pull of “should.” This reflection is also a living instance of slow work, which I describe elsewhere as a transformative practice that resists urgency and honors our changing rhythms over time. And it moves in womanist time—spiralic, nonlinear, rooted in both memory and emergence.

I’m offering this piece as a gesture of honesty and care, in hopes that I can articulate what it’s like to live inside a tension that many of us know too well: wanting to show up fully, and recognizing when we just can’t. May it serve as a reminder that being with what is—with tenderness, without rush—is a form of integrity too.

Photo by Yancy Min on Unsplash

---

I missed the original deadline. I asked for an extension, received it, and then—eight days after that extended deadline—I wrote to the editor to tell her I couldn’t make my chapter work.

I’ve been sitting with that feeling, noticing what it’s like to not do something I said I would do. There is deep discomfort. I keep thinking about all the reasons I should have been able to finish it, and how sometimes my brain feels broken when it comes to writing. I think about time as a form of abundance, but also how, even when I have time, I’m sometimes tired or simply want to be with people and in relationship. I keep turning toward refrain: did not keep my word; did not follow through; overcommitted.

I’ve been thinking about all of this--especially with knowing that writing has happened before, even under massive pressure. Writing still happened when I was working 30 hours a week at a job that gave me panic attacks, when I was taking kids across town and being late to work every day, and when I was juggling multiple classes. Writing happened when I was sick and tired. Writing is breathing, and so I’ve always done it.

Not while writing a proposal for a dissertation. Not while trying to figure out how not to stall on the PhD program to take a job for the meanwhile. Not while playing tag with mortgage month-to-month. Not while working from a home office where I can recieve my youngest child when she walks in after the bus drops her home. Not while trying to figure out what a work life will look like while writing a dissertation. Still, here I am, feeling into what it is like to not be able to write—what it feels like to say, “I can’t do it,” and to feel like my brain is broken.

Fragments used to keep me breathing. Writing what I saw, what happened, and how I was affected--giving words from the space of the subjunctive were enough. How my words hunkered down and waited on my return (sometimes for years) were a given. How they spilled and pooled. How they gathered and held space until we were ready for oneness. So patient. Generous in a different way: will wait for more when you make it; will be here like heartbeat; like breath.

Capacity changes, despite the myth of consistent productivity and human doingness. Sometimes I wonder what age, perimenopause, ADHD, and worries about surviving capitalism has to do with my ability to write. I know that there is no answer to that inquiry that will satisfy me. I simply couldn’t pull it together. And this is important writing. It actually reminds me of moments from my master’s program when I turned in papers that were subpar for me. I didn’t have the time to revise or add the layers that would make them make sense, so I submitted what I had. The feedback wasn’t perfect, but I accepted it because my goal was simply to pass the class. My beloved scholar friends would tell me, “A done degree is a good degree. A done paper is a good paper. A done course is a good course.” And I would still finish with a relatively high grade.

But there is something about not turning in this chapter that has given me a long pause—not a small one. I’m still thinking about it. On the day I emailed the editor (and still haven’t read her reply), I was overwhelmed, hungry, cold, tired, and I had forgotten my meds at home that morning. Too many things at once; the perfect stormy deliverance. And I made that decision because I should have made it earlier. This moment raised questions about my identity, ability, and whether my past performance should dictate present expectations for myself.

All of this as I am doing the sort of writing I’ve never touched before: a dissertation proposal. It requires a lot of reading, and I consider reading part of writing—but given everything I’ve done in the past while writing, I still feel like I should have been able to finish this chapter. I’ve been asking myself what advice I would give someone else in my position, and I know exactly what it would be: Did you feel relief when you let it go? If so, that’s a sign you did what you needed to do. I’d also ask about stakes—how high they are and what they truly mean.

For me, I was looking forward to having a third published piece—not so I could say I’ve been published three times, but so I could ensure I submitted something to the archive that will live forever, something important for people to find because it offers possibilities for how we might live. That’s why I wanted to be published. But the truth is, the two pieces I have published haven’t resulted in anything particular. I think about a dear friend who insisted that her work be honored and celebrated, and I think that was beautiful. I have two pieces, and they haven’t been celebrated—and that’s okay. I would have had to organize that celebration myself, and I’ve been too busy. I’m naming this because I need to get over it. I didn’t submit the piece. It was never about celebration, but damn.

Something keeps tugging at me. I think it’s because it’s important for me to do what I say I’ll do, and it’s important that I feel like I’ve done my best. And what I’ve realized is that a published piece isn’t the same as a completed degree. I can’t say “a done writing is a good writing.” That doesn’t feel true here.

So what I’m left to consider is that there is a time for everything. Whatever momentum I used to have—the sort that coheres words into a published work that tells the story exactly how I wanted—that momentum isn’t present right now. And it’s not because my brain is broken. I can clearly see that I’m constantly being pulled in different directions, and being pulled in different directions at age 48 in 2025 is different from being pulled in different directions 12 years ago, or seven years ago, or even three years ago. And I’m writing a dissertation proposal for the first time. But then again, everything I’ve done before had never been done before either—and I still did it.

The chapter will have to wait. It’s good writing, too. It’s not going anywhere. I just can’t submit it to the anthology that’s coming out in the spring, because I just couldn’t pull it together.

So why am I writing this? One, just to write something. I feel like this deserves a moment of reflection beyond the conversations I’ve had with my partner. I want to say it out loud because I know I’m not the only writer who has the energy and capacity for some things but not others. I’m just sitting with that. I’d tell a beloved friend, “I’m glad you honored what it means to be human and made a choice connected to your being, not just your doing.” I would say that.

And I am writing every day. The dissertation will live in the archive, too, and that’s enough. For now, I just wanted to say this. I wanted to tell it. I wanted to demonstrate what it looks like to love myself through experiences that could make me feel inadequate—but don’t actually mean that I am.