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January 15, 2022
A New Dad Reports: The Things No One Tells You About Having a Baby (During a Pandemic)
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I can finally admit it: I am a writer and a storyteller.
In my youth, I devoured other people’s stories. Fiction, non-fiction, classics, film, television, and photography. A camera became my tool of choice—first still photography, then video. I made a career of telling people’s stories as an award-winning photojournalist at a local television station, as a marketing director creating promotional video content, and as a writer/producer of nationally-televised documentaries in Alaska. Later, as a communications professional at a large Alaska Native nonprofit in Anchorage I worked everyday to connect an organization with a vision of success and wellness.
Through every stage of my career, one thing remained consistent: I am a writer and a storyteller.
But while I reveled in discovering new voices and sharing great stories, I realized there was one voice I had been neglecting: My own. This realization felt like something of a sudden plot twist. Here I was, a character study that I’d managed to avoid altogether. I had stories of course—we all do—but there was a nagging sense of guilt at the thought of shining a light on myself. What’s the point? Would anyone actually be interested? But a story well-told is a story worth sharing, I thought. Slowly, I began exploring. I started dabbling in personal essays, tinkering away on creative non-fiction stories about my life as an east-coaster-turned-Alaskan. I experimented with short films and YouTube videos. I dreamed up film and television script ideas inspired by real events. Much of this happened in fits and starts, on lunch breaks, weekends, and quiet nights at home. This writing became my secret—that thing I concealed from others, hid away for fear that if I dared label myself a writer, I might actually have to share what was bubbling to the surface. Putting my voice out there seemed positively frightening. Consequently, little of this work found the light of day.
But my voice quietly continued growing. It became hard to ignore, pushing me to develop personal writing projects and to pursue my passion. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, I used my hunker-down time to write and produce a six-part podcast called “Normalish,” which featured stories of Alaskans coping in real time with a growing public health crisis. This podcast also documented a more personal story, that of my wife Victoria and I preparing to give birth to our first child amid a very unpredictable global pandemic. I pulled the curtain back on our lives, sharing our two previous miscarriages, the ensuing relationship challenges, and the fear of the unknown risks ahead.
This was a terrifyingly vulnerable process. I fought off second thoughts and waves of anxiety each time I published a new episode. I was full of self-doubt, fearful of judgement and derision. The result, much to my surprise, was an outpouring of support and encouragement. Numerous people reached out to tell me about their own challenges, past struggles with parenthood and pregnancy, and uncertainties over the pandemic. By sharing this collection of raw personal stories, I saw the true power of storytelling in a way I never had before. I saw it as a tool with limitless potential to heal, a tool that connects people, a tool that gives voice to truths we are often afraid to reveal. What began with my own fear, resulted in a liberating experience.
I realized that if sharing my voice could do this for me, imagine what it could do for others. That’s when I had the idea for Greatland, an online storytelling collective that empowers people to share their voice through personal essays, short fiction, video, or even podcasts.
...the great human stories of our time must be shared, they must find the light. There is a transformative power in sharing these stories for both the storyteller and the recipient.
But what is this first iteration of Greatland really all about? In truth, I’m not sure yet. Ideally, it will be a safe, free online space for diverse voices telling bold, human stories. My hope is that it will be a place where Alaskans and people from all walks of life share raw, authentic stories—their stories. In this way, Greatland will be a curated catalogue of stories that, when placed together, tell the story of Alaska and life in the north.
Will people really take the time to write personal stories and submit them to Greatland? Can a true storytelling collective be cultivated in Alaska? I sincerely hope so. I know one thing is certain, there’s no shortage of great stories and storytellers in the Last Frontier. So consider this a call to action to Alaska’s storytelling community—bring your best and let’s take this ride together. Although Greatland is one thing today—call it a feisty little idea with a big dream—you will make Greatland what it is tomorrow. There’s a beautiful uncertainty in that, and I’m ready to lean into it.
The logical part of my brain makes another case for Greatland. In today’s media landscape, in-depth personal storytelling, raw voices, and unique perspectives are often left muted amid the clatter of the daily news cycle. But the great human stories of our time must be shared, they must find the light. There is a transformative power in sharing these stories for both the storyteller and the recipient. Art is a mirror we hold up to reflect the times we live in. Artists simply report on what they see in that mirror from their unique perspective. Greatland will work to meet this need and to provide a platform for diverse voices to share their truth through personal, bold, human stories.
I am a writer and a storyteller. It’s all I really know. I want to continue exploring my voice, letting it transform and evolve organically. I want to provide a safe open space to help others do the same.
Will you join me?
A New Dad Reports: The Things No One Tells You About Having a Baby (During a Pandemic)
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