Welcome to Notes from the Messy Middle, where we talk about storytelling, strategy, and the real-life process of creating work that matters. I’m Erin Gregory, a writer, strategist, and storyteller—and right now, I’m also a woman deep in the editing process of my first book.
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This space is about pulling back the curtain. The messy drafts, the hard edits, the lessons I’ve learned from helping nonprofits and purpose-driven businesses tell their own stories—and now, from telling my own.
So grab a coffee, settle in, and let’s walk through this together. Because stories don’t just connect us. They shape us.
I didn’t know how much this book would pull from me. Writing was one thing. Editing is something else entirely. It forces me to face myself and my life, to ask if the words are honest enough.
Just this week, my editor and I spent nearly two hours on the introduction. The goal wasn’t to polish sentences but to help me see the truth. This book, which I thought was a dedication to a couple who changed my life, is in fact about me.
In these final stages, I’m going to start sharing small pieces of my story with you. The pains, the accomplishments, and the lessons I’ve learned along the way. My hope is that by letting you in, the words will carry more weight than they could on the page alone.
I’d love your input on these inserts as I go. Here’s one of them:
Living On Purpose
It starts before the sun.Always before the sun.
The first sound is the creak of the hallway door. Then the slap of little feet on the hardwood floor. A whisper that turns into a whine. And then Mia’s cry. My alarm clock for the past year. Sharp, insistent, with no snooze button.
I open my eyes, and the dark room already feels heavy. My body aches from yesterday. Shoulders tight. Back sore. Eyes dry and scratchy. I can’t tell if the pain is from the classes I taught at the Y this week or from the ongoing conditioning that is motherhood. Probably both.
I swing my legs out of bed and sit there for a moment, listening. My left foot shoots back at me with sharp pain. The plantar fasciitis I keep ignoring is catching up. Every step feels like I’m walking on broken glass, but there’s no time to deal with it.
The house is never really quiet, not even at this hour. The heater hums through the vents. Pipes groan in the walls. From down the hall comes the faint rustle of little feet, a whisper that means the morning obligations are approaching.
I close my eyes, rub my temples, and take one deep breath. Then I push myself up. Coffee first. Always coffee.
Not a delicate cup. A vat. I fumble with the machine, scoop too many grounds, and press start. The sound of it dripping is like salvation. I close my eyes just to inhale. Bitter, rich, hot. The only thing between me and collapse.
I grab a box of Frozen waffles from the freezer and pop a few in the toaster. Again.
I used to care about stuff like that. Once upon a time, I was the mom who made everything from scratch. I steamed organic carrots, froze them in tidy little ice cube trays, labeled the bags with dates and descriptions. I read blogs about cloth diapers and ordered every recommended baby bottle. I wanted to be that “crunchy” mom. I thought I would be.
Then came my first child. Colic. A milk protein allergy. Failure to thrive. Torticollis. Suddenly survival became the priority. Organic be damned. Anything she could keep down was the goal. By the time daughter two arrived, I was already stretched thin. Daughter one was still a handful. Feeding her felt like a full-time job. Parenting her felt like a full-time battle.
Then daughter three came along, and at that point, I stopped pretending. I became a robot in the kitchen, serving up whatever was convenient and checked the bare minimum nutrition boxes. If it filled their bellies and got us to the next thing, that was enough.
“Homemade” started to mean a box mix where I tossed in eggs and milk and called it good. Pancakes from Bisquick? Close enough. Banana bread from a packet? Sure. At least it smelled like I had baked something from scratch. I’d watch them eat and tell myself it counted. And most days, that small lie was what kept me moving.
Down the hall, I hear the shower running. Mike is in the bathroom, getting ready for his workday. My workday started an hour ago. He will walk out in clean clothes, smelling good. I am already covered in spit-up and syrup.
I am not bitter. Not really. I chose this life. But my need to control everything works against me.
This show is produced by Mike Gregory at https://www.undergroundfunkmonk.com.
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Erin Gregory Creative is the studio of Erin Gregory, a writer, marketing strategist, and full-time communications and branding consultant for mission-driven organizations.
She’s also the host of Notes from the Messy Middle, a podcast on Substack exploring creativity, communication, and intentional living. Her work connects personal growth with strategic storytelling, helping people and brands speak with more clarity and purpose.
Read more at www.eringregorycreative.com or connect on LinkedIn.
