What they think it’s about
Someone messaged me.
And maybe they weren’t wrong. But…..
This wasn’t a story about them—it was a story about what it left behind. What I needed to finally let go of. Yes, there was a real person behind that story. And yes, it was born from a real storm. But that story wasn’t written to get back at anyone. No revenge. No receipts. Just release. It was about finally finding a way to speak about something I hadn’t been able to put into words.
Lingering weight
I hadn’t written about it because I didn’t know how. I had been sitting with that experience—carrying it like a stone. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t holding a grudge; I had long since moved on. But it still lingered. Like something unfinished. And when I saw their familiar name come across again, it brought all of that back.
The song that opened the door
Later that evening, I was in my kitchen, cutting vegetables, “The Downeaster Alexa” playing in the background. My favorite song. It reminds me of Nantucket—my favorite place in the world because it feels like home, and I could listen to it 10,000 times.
As the lyrics floated out of the speaker—“I’m on the Downeaster Alexa, and I’m cruising through Block Island Sound…”—I stopped. Just froze. Because it hit me: this was the story. The one I couldn’t tell head-on. The one I’d been circling. The song wasn’t just about a fisherman. It was about someone trying to hold on. Trying to do what they know, what they love, what they’ve built their life around—while the world around them shifts. While the support disappears. While they’re left trying to hold steady in rough waters, whispering, “I’ve got bills to pay and children who need clothes,” but the world’s gone quiet. And still—you stay afloat.
The moment the metaphor found me
And just like that, the metaphor found me.
Because what really happened?
Writing about that directly felt impossible. But the story of a boat captain abandoning the journey? That, I could write.
*Athena pauses writing so she can listen to her song *
Because that’s how it felt. Like we were pushing through choppy waters, making real progress—and right when the waves picked up, right when things got hard, they just……… let go of the wheel. I couldn’t write about the person. But I could write about the captain. I could write about the sea.
Why I use metaphor
It gives me a way to tell my truth without setting everything on fire. It gives me distance.
It gives me characters like Lurking Larry, who represents the awkward presence of people who hover; watching, never speaking, always lurking. It’s weird. It’s unsettling. But it’s real. It gives me kingdoms, to show what happens when someone shows you exactly who they are—and it’s not good. It gives me chaotic bus stops filled with yelling and urgency, when I need to show what it feels like to be overwhelmed by everyone else’s fire drills. These aren’t just stories; its survival.
What it’s really about
So no, it’s not just about the captain or the boat. It never was. It’s about resilience. It’s about rebuilding. It’s about what it means to stay when it would’ve been easier to leave.
And in the end? The boat didn’t stop.
I kept rowing. Because it’s my life. It’s the mission. It’s the unshakable conviction to keep showing up.
Why I write like this
It’s not to bury the truth—but to give my truths shape. Not to protect anyone—but to protect myself from drowning in everything I don’t say out loud.
As a coach who works with people navigating emotional eating, self-protection, and the deeply ingrained patterns they don’t always understand—I have to communicate in ways they can actually hear. I don’t get to just throw facts at them. I have to translate the unspoken. The messy. The painful. I have to find language for things they’ve never named out loud.
And metaphor helps me do that. It lets me hold up a mirror gently, without cutting them with it. It lets me deliver truth in a form that doesn’t make them run—but makes them feel it. Metaphor lets me process what’s real, and helps others do the same.
It’s not just storytelling. It’s how I stay alive in the work. And how I help others come alive in their own.
P.S. But let’s be clear—it’s not about calling anyone out. The beauty of metaphor? It lets me serve my translations and perspective with a soft edge. If someone reads a story and shouts, “This is about me!”—well, that’s cute. That’s not exposure. That’s recognition. That’s your conscience lighting up like a check engine light. So if the metaphor lands and it burns a little… maybe ask why you were so quick to try it on. *wink*
