So here is the oral version.

You’ll notice I tell it conversationally, the way I’d tell it to you sitting across the table, even though I might be …

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The news traveled quickly.

Yesterday I wrote a beautiful memorial to Katya De Luisa, author of the groundbreaking book, Journey Through the Infinite Mind: The Science and Spirituality of Dementia, and posted it here on Substack and on Facebook.

Her entire network knew from her posts that she was near the end. Her colon cancer had continued to spread. Her decision not to do chemo but to explore natural remedies gave her time to contemplate what it means to live and what it means to die. She wrote about it in her “Cancer Chronicles” series on Facebook.

I tagged Katya knowing her followers would see it.

My feed started filling up with heartfelt tributes.

Then I got a call from another friend.

Katya wasn’t dead.

I had misread her final post, which said, “going home.”

I was mortified. I’ve never deleted a post so quickly.

Then I called Katya, stumbling over myself with my apologies.

She said I had given her the greatest laugh ever.

Katya told me her caregivers rushed into her room expecting to find a dead body and were shocked when she opened her eyes and said, “Good morning.”

Her phone blew up.

She was present and accounted for. “Just barely,” she told me.

She had been watching the tributes fill my feed. And she said to me, “This is why I had a living wake two months ago. I wanted to hear these things while I was still alive!”

She had called it an “Awake Celebration,” held at her home in Ciudad Colón, Costa Rica, in August. But so many people who love her live far away and couldn’t be there.

After our call I got to thinking. How could I give people the opportunity to honor Katya in these final days before she leaves us, especially those who live in other countries?

I called her back and asked if I could host a second Awake Celebration for her on Zoom on Sunday. She loved the idea. And that’s what we’re doing.

At this moment she cannot move. She is hemorrhaging.

But she is very much alive.

And her wicked sense of humor is totally intact.

In fact, within minutes of our first conversation she was posting this photo of herself on Facebook with the words “proof of life.”

And then it came to me.

Had I not made that blunder, this Awake Celebration would not be taking place. The very thing that will confirm, yet again, how very much she is loved, valued, and cherished.

I am in awe of the workings of Spirit in our lives.

And how important it is to tell the people we love what they mean to us before it’s too late.

PS. If you know Katya or have been impacted by her work providing caregivers with a roadmap for supporting their loved ones with dementia and alzheimer’s and would like to join us, the celebration is this Sunday, November 1, at 10:00 AM Costa Rica time (11:00 AM US Eastern, 8:00 AM US Pacific, 4:00 PM UK). Send me a direct message here on Substack by Saturday and I'll send you the Zoom link. The time zones already account for the US clocks falling back early Sunday morning.

“Hi Michale, it’s Priscilla Norton. I am so delighted you’ll be storytelling at my school next week and I have a request. My mom has just returned to Alaska after living the last forty years in Bend, Oregon and would love to come and hear you. Would that be okay?”

“Yes, of course!”

Priscilla’s mom was Mrs. Norton. My third-grade teacher.

I got the phone ca…

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Dear friends,

When I posted my first story on Substack, “I Could Have Died. I Didn’t"your response was beyond my wildest imagination.

Over 3,500 of you said yes.

Then came “The Love I Almost Missed” and “The Name That Called Me,” and more of you joined. Today we are over 5,000 subscribers and followers.

I was thrilled.

My promise to you? Weekly posts from my medicine bag of storied wisdom from 81 years of living. . Stories that I hoped would uplift you, celebrate you, inspire you and connect with you.

You gave me the greatest gift of all… a willingness to join me on this journey, and every time a new subscriber or follower’s notice came across my feed, I could feel it.

This was my next chapter and I was already writing it in my head.

Then, on September 27th, I tripped and fell again. It happened at the National Theater during a symphony concert intermission. Instead of a step up into the box in the balcony, I just stepped, and that’s all it took. Down I went with a thud. I forced myself back up, walked carefully to the front row seats while hanging on to the railing, and listened in shocked silence to the rest of the concert (think Shostakovich and Neruda), all the while wondering what damage I may have caused to my leg and back.

By that night the bruising started along with the pain. And each day after, I willed it to be better. Sadly it wasn’t. Finally I went to see my ortho surgeon, who had been my surgeon during my whole ordeal last December. He was relieved to see that the X-rays showed I had not fractured my hip. But he was concerned about my back.

Finally, last Thursday, I got an MRI and the report was not good. When my ortho surgeon, Dr. Alvaro Barrenechea, told me that it contained the words severe stenosis, spine issues, and back surgery needed… that’s when I lost it. He did a consult with a brain/spine neurosurgeon and made arrangements for me to see this specialist the next day. Dr. Barrenechea did all this while on vacation with his family. His words to me: “We’ve got you, Michale. You are not alone.”

I started the appointment with Dr. Esteban Sanchez by sobbing, mostly out of fear and a reaction to the debilitating pain I was already experiencing. By the end of the hour, my tears had subsided and we had a plan. His assessment? No back surgery right now, but an epidural blocker in my spine to reduce the pain by 50% (which would make it a 4.5 instead of a 9.5). That would then allow me to do PT and stave off the more invasive surgery for a time.

The next day friends moved my guest bed into my dining area and my office into my garage so I would be on one level (no stairs for me for 3 weeks). I started making plans for food delivery, had groceries delivered, and arranged for someone to stay with me at night during the first days after the procedure. I also got the estimate of costs. I did purchase an emergency policy after the December event, but the claim was denied because of pre-existing conditions. All medical would be, as I imagined, out of pocket.

The procedure was this past Tuesday evening.

Here is the WhatsApp message I sent to friends afterward:

[10/20/26, 9:33 PM] Michale Gabriel: Ready to go home.. it went well.. he had to find a different injection site.. we’ll know in 3 weeks if it took
[10/20/26, 9:33 PM] Michale Gabriel: I can’t feel my butt right now 😂
[10/20/26, 9:34 PM] Michale Gabriel: Which makes going to the bathroom interesting!
[10/20/26, 9:36 PM] Michale Gabriel: But I don’t feel pain at the moment.. the strings to my gown got caught in my crotch! We laughed so hard I almost fell off the stool in the dressing room!
[10/20/26, 9:37 PM] Michale Gabriel: Ana Maria here and my neighbor Lina.. going to be wheelchaired to the cashier to pay the balance of my bill..
[10/20/26, 9:37 PM] Michale Gabriel: But of course!

I am now home. Wearing a back brace. Operating on one floor instead of two.

Joined on my dining area bed by sometimes three animals at once.

And for the moment, here is what I’ve noticed.

We make plans.

Life happens.

Adjustments have to be made.

And it seems one of my current lessons in this, my 80/81 year, is to learn how to receive.

Here is what it looks like:

• The beautiful meditation for my back created by my longtime friend and fellow Substack writer Diana Wentworth (we first met on a diplomatic mission to the Soviet Union in 1985)

• A remote healing session on the day of my procedure

• The neighbor who comes for my dog each morning and keeps her for the day so I can rest

• Another neighbor who comes bearing breakfast… have you noticed how much better something tastes when someone else makes it?

• My dear cleaning lady (they are called maids here), who brightens my house once a week and is the one who has cared for me during the night these past three days, making sure I can make my way to the bathroom safely, that my animals are fed, the litter box cleaned, and my dog taken out when the day begins

• The notes and calls that fill up my WhatsApp and inbox

And so much more.

So my dear subscribers and followers, I am back working on stories to send you (well, in between much-needed recovery naps, pain management, and PT), while simultaneously attending to the evolution of this current story.

Every day I’m asking myself: how do I want to be this day, in a way that contributes not only to my healing but to the healing of those around me?

And I am focusing on a pivotal moment in my consultation with my neurosurgeon on Saturday. Here is a clip of my email to Diana after she sent her beautiful meditation on Tuesday:

“I have been so scared… something about the spine and the MRI images I saw play out on the screen on Saturday. Seeing a lower lumbar region that was totally inflamed.

But here is the thing. My ortho surgeon, Dr. Barrenechea, insisted that I go to just one neurosurgeon, Esteban Sanchez. They consulted by phone on Friday and Dr. Sanchez was seeing me on Saturday morning. Within 5 minutes I knew I could trust him.

He heard me, he showed compassion, and something else. Near the end of the hour, after my tears had dried and we had a plan, I said, ‘Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?’ ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘How did you get that scar across your head?’ (He’s bald.) He said, ‘I was mauled by a dog when I was 5 years old. There was no room where I should have been in the children’s hospital, so I ended up in the burn unit. I knew then I wanted to be a doctor, first for burn patients, then a pediatric neurosurgeon, which I was for years, and now with adults.’ We talked about my work at Children’s Hospital in Seattle, about my Young Storytellers for Peace, and I knew, like with Dr. Barrenechea that day at CIMA, that I had been brought the right angels for my healing.

So tonight, his hands will be guided by all of you who are praying for me, and he will help me with my pain, because it is his calling.”

You see, in the midst of everything… somebody has us. We are not alone.

PS. To my paid subscribers..Your recorded stories (The Name that Called Me and this one are coming shortly now that my recording equipment is set up. I so thank you for your patience. Sending you much love.

I was 36.

Jean Houston, futurist and co-founder of the Foundation for Mind Research, was delivering a workshop in Seattle for area fundraisers and grantmakers on neuroscience, the latest research on multiple learning styles, and strategies for accessing the most important space of all, the inner space between our two ears.

We danced, sang, talked in nonsensical languages, and then transcribed what we’d spoken. Jean had brought a linguist with her who helped us understand that within our very cells is a source of ancient remembering. I was enthralled.

And then, the stories she told. Oh my, the stories. The one I remember most was of a child who was considered special needs until Jean tested him and then became his advocate, helping his teachers understand just how brilliant he truly was. It was the failure of the educational system to teach him in a way that could bring forth his gifts. Jean changed his life that day, and my life in hearing that story.

I left her workshop forever altered.

I came home on a Friday night and, very uncharacteristically, drank a bottle of wine all by myself.

The next day I told my then husband I wanted a divorce. On the third day, I started crying and proceeded to cry for a week. Deep, uncontrollable sobs that came from a place I did not even recognize.

I knew that whatever I’d experienced in Jean’s workshop had tapped into an unexplored part of myself that held the keys to both my life’s work and my soul’s purpose.

Days later, I was running backwards up a hill by my house. Jean had said that exercise was good for creating new brain synapses, and I knew I needed all the help I could get!

Then I made my way to my backyard to meditate.

I closed my eyes, and within seconds of breathing deeply, an image came to me.

In color.

I saw a globe of the world being cradled by a pair of hands.

My hands.

And above the globe were the words “Peace through Story.”

My entire being responded to the image. My body started to vibrate.

What I was witnessing in my mind’s eye was a directive. A mandate. A calling.

Two weeks later, I submitted my resignation as Director of Development for the School of International Studies at the University of Washington (I’d just finished leading a successful 2.8 million dollar capital campaign) and stepped out into the world as a professional storyteller.

No plan.

No strategy.

Just a calling.

A calling I felt compelled to follow.

My husband was furious. We had made decisions based on two incomes. He had launched his own architectural practice, and it was too risky, he said, for me to be self-employed as well.

I remember saying, “If I don’t do this, I will never forgive myself. And I will resent you for as long as we’re together. So if we need to divorce for me to follow my calling, then let’s do it now.”

We didn’t divorce at the time, but we did six years later.

I was quaking in my boots, wondering if I had it in me to fulfill this mission.

To become an entrepreneur.

To trust myself to actually make it happen.

And to make a living creating peace in the world through storytelling.

My fears ran deep. I had been raised in a single parent family, watching my mother beg my much absent father for child support and alimony on the first of every month. I had been working since I was 14 to help support my family. And I carried my own fears of not being enough, of not having what it takes.

In spite of all that (and so much more), I stepped out in faith.

Because I knew in the depths of my being, my soul had to.

What I was not expecting was to receive internal guidance that I was to mark this passage in a ceremonial way.

Not by doing a ritual with chanting, incense, and sound bowls.

Not by going into the forest for a week of silence.

Not even by getting a tattoo or some other outward expression.

But by changing my name.

The name that was given to me at birth.

The name I added to when I married.

The name that had become my identity.

The name I had built my life around and for which I was known.

I realized I needed a new name. One that reflected the internal part of me. A name that honored my essence, not my exterior self.

A name that would help me make good on my promise to make peace in the world through story.

To give me courage when I felt afraid.

To give me strength to navigate the challenges.

To give me hope when my well had run dry.

To give me room to grow and become the person I was always meant to become.

And most importantly, to help me remove the masks that had enabled me to survive, so that in letting them go, I could become more of who I was at my core.

That was a pretty big order.

I truly had no idea where to start.

But I clearly knew where I’d been.

I was born and raised in Anchorage, Alaska.

My surname, Koslosky, was recognized throughout the state.

Not only because my family had been in the mercantile business since the early 1900s, with stores in Anchorage and Palmer.

Or because my father was a state senator, a hunter, and a fisherman.

But because we were also among a small but valued cadre of people known as Alaskan Pioneers. The Anchorage Museum has a section devoted to early Pioneers, and our story is there, starting with the arrival of my Jewish grandfather, Isaac Koslosky, during the Gold Rush in 1898.

From the time I was little, bringing honor and distinction to the family name had been a part of my upbringing.

Raised by a single mom, my siblings and I were admonished to never bring shame to the name but rather to elevate it. To prove that in spite of growing up without our father’s presence (and his love), we had made something of ourselves. We had significance.

I was active in Scouting and community volunteering. In 1960, at age 14, I represented Alaska as a delegate to the White House Conference on Children and Youth in Washington, DC. I was an officer in Job’s Daughters and Rainbow Girls, a leader in student government, voted Jr. Prom queen, later crowned Miss Fur Rendezvous (Miss Anchorage), and became 1st runner-up to Miss Alaska, all by the age of 17.

I was a public entity.

And it didn’t stop there.

When I moved to Michigan to finish my senior year of college and went on to graduate school at the University of Michigan, I was much celebrated as Director of Children’s Library Services for the Southfield Public Library, where our signature programs were featured in countless newspaper articles.

I distinguished myself once more when I moved to Washington State and became a fundraiser, this time carrying my spouse’s name as well.

The name was everything.

Until it wasn’t.

Underneath it all was a part of me that did not yet have a voice.

A full-throated voice.

A sense of my own agency.

I needed a name to call it forth.

A name that would carry me into the next iteration of myself.

And I was fortunate to find the people who could help me do that.

It was the Kabalarian Society in Canada. They offered “balanced name recommendations” to help people choose new names that aligned with their potential and improved their overall well-being.

The Kabalarians instructed me to send them my full birth name, married name, nicknames, birthdate, and other pertinent information. From that information, a report was generated. It arrived in the mail on IBM continuous printer paper with perforated edges that I needed to remove by hand.

The report was uncanny in its accuracy. Based on ancient akashic records and other modalities such as numerology and vibrational frequencies, I was given a thumbnail look at my life, from my family of origin’s strengths and weaknesses, to medical challenges, to what I was experiencing in my marriage (unsettling), and a whole lot more. It was at least 90% accurate. Enough to get my attention.

The report was very clear. My names, first, last, and married, did not serve my soul’s calling.

The recommendation? Change it.

The Kabalarians offered me a list of 50 first name and 50 last name options that would align with my soul’s purpose. I was taken aback by many of the spellings. They were strange, looked a little too New Age, and I could just imagine how challenging it would be to embrace one of the stranger choices.

But there was one last name that resonated immediately: Gabriel.

It was the first name of my nephew. Gabriel was also the name of an Archangel. A messenger from God. From the moment of that meditation in my backyard, I had felt I was being called to be a messenger of story.

The Kabalarians did not subscribe to this particular interpretation, but I did.

It was the first name options I struggled with. I felt drawn to the name Michael, or Michale, again with me contributing my own meaning. It was yet another archangel. It represented the warrior, the protector, and a source of strength. I realized that to create Peace through Story, I would need to embody all those qualities. Especially because I could already envision myself traveling the world, bringing my mission to life. I did not know it then, but my calling would later take me to the former Soviet Union, Iraq, Uganda, Central America, India, and more.

But the spelling, Michale (even though I would pronounce it Michelle), troubled me. I knew people would stumble over how to write it and then how to say it.

And I didn’t want that.

Could I tweak it? I asked the Kabalarians. Could I spell it Michele instead of Michale?

Their response was adamant. No, I could not change the spelling, because if I did, I would change the vibrational balance. Changing the letter would not support my life path. Full stop.

I realized that either I accepted their system or I dropped the idea altogether.

I accepted their system.

And I took on the name.

Which meant that my history as Susan Diane Koslosky Steinmann was not gone, of course, but my public visibility was. I was invited to start anew.

Like a new birth.

It was frightening, it was unsettling, and at the same time, freeing.

To be nameless.

To let go of a carefully constructed persona crafted over 36 years.

To set my own course.

To define my next chapter.

To let the internal me, the essence of me, come forth.

It was a defining and in many ways the most important decision of my soul’s journey.

Those first weeks were not easy. I would sometimes wake up and ask myself, who am I if I’m not my name?

They were challenging weeks, asking people to call me by my new name while navigating a new career when I wasn’t even clear what it would look like.

And always, my husband standing at the door, asking me how much money I’d made that day to meet my household obligations.

When I divorced six years later, I chose to legalize the name Michale Gabriel, which I had been using both professionally and personally since my decision.

By that time, everyone in my sphere called me Michale. My siblings, friends, high school classmates (who sometimes forgot and said “Susan” out of habit), and my growing cadre of clients: school districts, principals, teachers, workshop participants, and the worldwide press covering my work in the former Soviet Union.

Everyone.

Even my mother, though it was harder for her. She was not fully on board until the day, visiting me from Anchorage, she attended one of my school storytelling performances. She watched the children, hundreds of them, hugging me as they left the auditorium.

She said, “It’s unusual. The children do not call you Michale. They say the full name, Michale Gabriel, as if it’s one word. They seem to love the sound of it. And actually, now that I hear it this way, I do too. The name suits you.”

And she started calling me Michale.

A few years later, I went a step further.

I had my birth certificate changed to Michale Gabriel.

Not because I did not honor or value my past.

I do.

But because I believe that when we give voice to both our inner and outer selves, we become more whole.

Standing now, at 81, deeply ensconced in my last act, I have asked myself what my life would have been if I had said no instead of yes to changing my name.

I am quite convinced I would not be who I am today.

The healing from the trauma of my past, and the healing I have been privileged to help facilitate in others, would not have been possible.

The name Michale Gabriel gave me the freedom to grow, not just outwardly but inwardly.

It gave me room to breathe. A space big enough to grow into.

It helped me make peace with my own story, as I help others make peace with theirs.

And like everything in this life, it is a passing gift. To be cherished, and to be released when I make my transition.

Much love, and abundant Storying,

Michale

P.S. Paid subscribers receive an audio recording of me telling each story. This one will follow in a few days.

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I created a playlist. I had bought a special candle for the sacred ceremony of his crossing. And I had arranged for the vet to come to my home on July 21, so Udie, my 11-year-old Ragdoll, could pass, surrounded by love.

The night before, I sat on the floor next to him. I set my own grief aside and asked myself a question: What if he has more life, and I cut it short?

That’s when I knew. It wasn’t time.

I cancelled the appointment. One week turned into two, and the weeks turned into months.

Udie is still here.

It started at the end of May, with his weight. He was losing it, a lot of it, and every time I stood behind him and saw his sunken sides, my heart sank with them. Even his gait had changed. Over the next six weeks, two rounds of blood tests came back negative. Then, in early July, we did an ultrasound, and there it was: a tumor in his colon. My eyes would not leave the screen. My mouth went dry. A sob caught in my throat.

Surgery was an option, but the odds were not good.

“How long?” I asked the vet.

“We don’t know,” he said. “But from the look of things, not long.”

“I don’t want him to suffer,” I told him. “I don’t want to put him down one day too early, but I don’t want to put him down one day too late.”

That night my dreams were fraught. Within days, I had planned his goodbye.

And then he stayed. Something quite amazing has happened since. His coat, dull and lifeless when we got the news, is looking healthy again. He’s eating, drinking, content. He’s still losing weight, slowly, but he’s at peace.

I think there’s a reason for that, and it has to do with my own change of behavior.

To explain, I have to go back to Raphe.

Before Udie, there was Raphael, another Ragdoll. I called him Raphe.

For 17 years, that cat was my everything. He met me at the front door every time I came home. If I sat down and put my feet up on the coffee table, he perched himself on my legs as if I were a tree branch. He loved nothing more than being carried around in my arms. He made the journey with me to Costa Rica and lived through the cultural adjustment right alongside me.

Once he knew Mom was fully settled in, he began to show his age. Dramatically. Three days before his scheduled appointment, I found him in my walk-in closet. When I looked into his eyes, he told me, “It’s time. Today.” I called my vet and said we were coming in. She had grown so attached to him that she didn’t want to let him go. She suggested we wait till our scheduled appointment. But Raphe had decided. A friend drove us, and through my tears, I held him tight and let him go.

I said no more animals. It hurts too much. But the very next day, I heard myself tell a friend who called with her condolences, “I’m going to get another cat.”

That was May of 2015. For my 70th birthday that June, my friend Susan gifted me a kitten. We made our way to her breeder in California, and I spent three days choosing among four possibilities. I wanted a male. I wanted different markings than Raphe. And I wanted beautiful. When I finally settled on the kitten I would call Uriel, Udie for short, I was overjoyed.

Two months later, the breeder delivered him to me in Seattle, where I was conducting my Leading Through Story workshop, and I brought him back with me to Costa Rica with every hope that I would love him as much as I had loved my Raphe.

But Udie was not like Raphe. Not at all. He wasn’t affectionate. He was standoffish. He didn’t like to be picked up. He didn’t like being loved on. When I approached him, he backed away. I was baffled, since Ragdolls as a breed are just the opposite.

What he did like was kneading on me at around 4:30 in the morning, which I did not like and barely tolerated.

I adjusted, but not well. Two years later, still wanting an affectionate animal, I adopted a calico from a rescue shelter and named her Malika. She was loving for about two weeks, long enough for me to sign the paperwork and settle her in. Then she began showing some of the same disinterest as Udie. But Udie and Malika loved each other fiercely. They groomed each other, slept together, and wherever one was, the other was too. I had to be content watching their affection from afar.

And there I was, loveless again.

So I made yet another move. At the same shelter, there was a scruffy little street dog, not at all what I would have chosen. Then an inner voice spoke up: You have two beautiful cats, and they want nothing to do with you. How’s beautiful working out for you?

Not so well, I had to admit. I adopted the dog and named her Jadyn. Much to my delight, Jadyn made up for the other two in the love department.

But as time went on, I noticed I was giving Udie the least attention of all. When I watched a movie, Malika was on one side of me, Jadyn on the other, and Udie was in a chair with his back to us. Jadyn claimed my bed at night, so even when Udie tried to join me for those early morning kneading sessions, she chased him off and took her place next to Mom.

When I heard the news that Udie had cancer, a wave of regret flooded me. I didn’t expect it. What I realized was that I had not loved him well. I had not been willing to love him on his terms, only mine. Even though I told myself I didn’t expect him to be Raphe, in many ways I wanted him to be. And he wasn’t.

I gave him everything he needed: food, water, shelter, grooming, my bed when I wasn’t in it, loving words. But he was always an afterthought to the other two.

And now, given the prognosis, I had very little time to turn that regret into action.

So I did.

First, the early morning kneading. It starts even earlier now, about 4:00 AM, paws on my upper chest and arms, slow and rhythmic, with deep purring. Because it’s Udie-directed, I welcome it, though I still sometimes pull up the duvet for extra protection. This is followed by me giving him a full body massage, which he now leans into, and that comes with an occasional tail swipe across my face. Then comes the nose licking, and its only when he heads for my hair, that I draw the line.

Jadyn now knows she has to take a spot further down the bed until the ritual is done. Unlike before, she is no longer allowed to interrupt.

During this daily morning ritual, I talk to Udie and tell him how much he’s loved. I talk to the tumor too, and invite it to leave, because if there was a lesson it came to teach, I now have it.

And here’s what else. When I’m typing at my desk, it’s not unusual to look down now and find Udie stretched out by my feet. Again, a first.

When I’m in a room, he’s close by. Not within touching range. Just observing. He’s quite clear about his boundaries. But close enough for me to feel the bond.

When I’m working out on my patio, I see him through the glass, just watching and waiting, like a sentinel.

I’m also noticing the love he receives from the other animals, especially Malika. It’s more intense now. Or maybe I’m just noticing what I didn’t notice before.

They love him.

I love him, too.

In his way, not mine.

I remember when my grandniece Nina was six and visiting. Like everyone, she tried to hold him, and unlike Raphe, who had welcomed her kisses when she was four, Udie wouldn’t tolerate being picked up. She was so sad about it. I told her, “Nina, why don’t you draw him some pictures of the two of you, and write him a love note. Set them right next to where he’s sitting, and then just wait.” She did, and within seconds, much to my relief, he came over to her and let her cuddle him.

“It’s working, Auntie Michale!” she cried.

I remember that now. Intuitively, I had told Nina how to be with him. How to let him lead and her follow.

And now, years later, I’m finally taking my own advice.

More than once during this in-between time with Udie, I’ve asked myself how many people in my life I’ve asked to love me the way I wanted.

How many times I missed the love that was there all along, because it came packaged differently.

And as I write this, Udie has just jumped up beside me and nestled in, looking for attention. In eleven years, he’s never done that before. So I’m stopping. The typing can wait. He can’t.

I don’t know how much longer I have him. We’re doing another ultrasound in two weeks.

I keep reflecting on Nina’s visit. I remember showing her the beautiful woven basket that holds Raphe’s remains. A little later, she came to me and handed me a plastic baggie.

“Here’s some of Udie’s hair, Auntie Michale,” she said. “When he dies, you’ll have this to remember him.”

That bag now rests in Raphe’s basket.

When Udie’s time does come, I’ll have no regrets about the way I loved him.

I’m so grateful he gave me a second chance to get it right.

Dear friends,

Last December, at age 80, I fell and broke my femur in two places. Surgery, pneumonia, a pulmonary embolism, torn rotator cuffs, a second surgery to drain a hematoma--five weeks in the hospital and rehab, all of which demanded a level of vulnerability I’d never before experienced. I could have died. I didn’t.

I considered that a sign.

Some of you already know this part of the story — you were with me through it, in your responses, your support, your thoughts and prayers. Here is where my 80th year started.

Six months earlier, in celebration of my 80th birthday, I'd started an email series — 80 Years, 80 Stories — that many of you have been faithfully reading and commenting on. My intention was to write a story a week, for the full year, drawn from eight decades of living. My goal was to curate my life’s experiences as a source of hope and insight for others. To demonstrate the healing power of story.

You’ll remember that I’d wanted to do it for a long time and kept finding reasons not to. I finalized a will I’d been avoiding for years. I learned budgeting software I didn’t need. I reorganized a closet that didn’t need reorganizing. Anything to avoid the actual page. What finally broke through wasn’t willpower — it was reading Suleika Jaouad’s writing about that exact same resistance, and Mary Oliver’s four words: “pay attention, be astonished.”

Once I started writing, and so many of you responded, telling me your own stories, something became clear that I hadn’t fully anticipated: this wasn’t just an exercise in sharing. It was exactly what I needed to gain real perspective on my own life’s journey — and in doing that work out loud, in your presence, I discovered I was helping you do the same.

Then, midway through the year, I fell. Alone, in my bedroom on the second floor of my home before the sun came up. What followed was a long and challenging road to recovery I’m still navigating, nine months later — the first month home when someone else had to cook my meals, care for my pets, help me shower and dress. Even now, some days are easier than others. (Just this week I walked my first mile around my neighborhood, but not without effort. The ice pack I applied when I got home was my well-earned medal.)

Here’s what I’ve come to understand about a turning point like this one: it stopped me in my tracks. I began looking back at my life from a new vantage point. I became sharply aware of time, the vulnerabilities of aging, my own death, and very much aware of what I wanted to leave behind.

As I left the public hospital, which didn’t have a room available to put me in and couldn’t operate for six days (given the embolism, I wouldn’t have made it), and as I made my way by ambulance to a private hospital that could, I heard an internal voice that said: let everything you do going forward come from a place of love.

That message embedded itself into everything that came after.

And that is why after many months of barely having enough energy to get through the day, I’ve picked up the loose threads of my email series — because to silence my own voice, given I almost didn’t have one, would be shortchanging my very purpose for being here.

As a storyteller.

As a story listener.

So, I’m back — on Substack now, among writers willing to be courageous and open, and with each of you who’ve shared my past and I hope will share what comes next.

Because of my accident and what I’ve learned in these months of finding my way back to wholeness, I’ve given my series a new name: Storied Wisdom — Searching for medicine in unexpected places.

Same me, just a new home. New stories, and new pathways through Substack to connect with each of you.

I also want to revisit some of the stories I’ve already written because my lens has changed due to my accident. But my deep commitment to you and to the writing has not changed. I am committed to writing down the stories found in unexpected places — in the hope that they might unearth stories of your own.

Together, we can explore our own story medicine.

You’re already subscribed here — nothing you need to do.

If this new home isn’t the right fit for you, there’s an unsubscribe link below. But I hope you’ll stay, for the conversation and for the history we already share.

Yours in story,
Michale

Last December, at age 80, I fell and broke my femur in two places. Surgery, pneumonia, a pulmonary embolism, a second surgery to drain a hematoma, five weeks in the hospital and rehab, all of which demanded a level of vulnerability I’d never before experienced. I could have died. I didn’t.

I considered that a sign.

Six months earlier, in celebration of my birthday, I’d started an email series called 80 Years, 80 Stories — a story a week, for a year, drawn from eight decades of living. My goal was to curate my life’s experiences as a source of hope and insight for others.

I’d wanted to do it for a long time and kept finding reasons not to. I finalized a will I’d been avoiding for years. I learned budgeting software I didn’t need. I reorganized a closet that didn’t need reorganizing. Anything to avoid the actual page. What finally broke through wasn’t willpower — it was reading Suleika Jaouad’s writing about that exact same resistance, and Mary Oliver’s four words: “pay attention, be astonished.”

Once I started writing, and readers started writing back telling me their own stories, something became clear that I hadn’t fully anticipated: this wasn’t just an exercise in sharing. It was exactly what I needed to gain real perspective on my own life’s journey — and in doing that work out loud, I was helping others do the same.

Then, mid-way through the year, came the fall. What followed was a long and challenging road to recovery I’m still navigating, months later. (Just yesterday I walked my first mile around my neighborhood with minimal discomfort. The ice pack I applied when I got home was my well-earned medal.)

Somewhere in that in-between stretch, healing and refocusing, I looked hard at how many people on my 80 Years, 80 Stories distribution list were actually reading each story, and I wanted my writing to reach more readers than that. I began searching for a platform built for people who read the way I write: slowly, at length, looking for the story beneath the story — rather than the one-minute version that races to the outcome but fails to honor the hard-earned journey of getting there. Because, honestly, that’s where the juicy stuff resides, and where the learning is mined. In addition, I am a student of other people’s stories — listening deeply has opened my own heart, time and time again.

That’s what brought me here, to Substack.

To you.

As a storyteller, mentor, and coach, I’ve spent over four decades helping other people find that deeper story — coaching executives at Boeing, sitting with a dying child in a hospital bed in Seattle, standing in an emergency room in Baghdad with a doctor who had no medicine to offer but love, and dispensed it freely.

As I began writing about these experiences, something true about my own life — my own purpose — worked its way to the surface, the way it always does once a story lands on the page or rests on my tongue. (I’m an oral storyteller even when I’m writing.)

The accident only deepened that excavation. Being forced to stop, literally and figuratively, and begin again turned out to be an invitation to dig further, to find new meaning in finely honed stories while intentionally living new ones that embody the bits of wisdom I’ve picked up along the way.

It’s that ongoing discovery I bring to you. Because after all these years of helping others find their story — over 10,000 and counting — the question for me now is: what is asking to be revealed, at 81?

What’s the gift that’s mine to give and to receive, in the precious time I have remaining?

The answer is evolving — through journaling, dream work, making art, and most of all, through spending time in conversation, with you.

So welcome to my page. I’m so glad you’re here.

Michale

(Pronounced Michelle, in case you’re wondering!)