Alex: Hey everyone, welcome to the show! Today we're diving into “Keep Moving” by Maggie Smith. It's part poetry, part pep talk, and honestly, pure wisdom for anyone trying to make sense of life's ups and downs. Michelle: Or, Alex, let's be real, it's a survival guide for when life feels like a hurricane. Smith kind of gently nudges us to face the tough stuff—grief, loss, those surprise identity crises that life throws at you—but with a sense of hope, a belief that it’s not all going to be terrible. Alex: Precisely, Michelle. The book really explores how grief and joy aren't mutually exclusive; they can coexist. And it shows us how to move forward, not by pretending our scars aren't there, but by actually recognizing and embracing them. Through really powerful metaphors and thoughtful insights, Smith challenges us to see heartbreak as a catalyst for growth and our so-called imperfections as something beautiful. Michelle: So today, we're going to unpack this book, look at it from three different angles. First, we'll explore how resilience can rise from grief… and I can't believe I'm about to say this, like a phoenix from the ashes. Yes, Alex, you’ve got me using metaphors now. Alex: Great progress, Michelle! Then we’ll talk about how creativity can be the thing that helps put us back together. Smith believes that art, and just putting in the effort, is cathartic and can be so healing. Michelle: And finally, we’ll dive into the role of community, because come on, life's not a solo mission. Smith makes a point that the people we keep close can be our strength when we feel like we have nothing left. Alex: Yeah, so these three things really create a powerful framework for moving through pain towards something better through possibility. It’s practical, profound—just like Maggie Smith’s, you know, her own journey. So, let's get started.

Alex: So, picking up where we left off, let's dive into the emotional and psychological foundation, right? I mean, how Maggie Smith really forces us to confront the idea that acknowledging pain is the first step toward healing. It's so central to the book, isn't it, Michelle? This idea that we can't even begin to heal until we stop running from what hurts. Michelle: Absolutely, and Smith doesn’t hold back, does she? I mean, right from the get-go with her own story, boom! That line, "Pregnancies: 4. Live births: 2," it just kind of… hangs there, doesn’t it? It's so clinical, so factual, and yet, it carries so much weight, doesn't it? It's quite devastating. Alex: It really does. That kind of stark honesty brings both clarity and, yeah, it's heavy. Smith really doesn’t sugarcoat anything; instead, she just pulls you right into the raw reality of her grief. And it's powerful how she deconstructs our society's entire relationship with pain. Like when she points out that strength isn’t about suppressing, but about actually letting yourself feel those emotions. Michelle: Right, but isn’t that easier said than done? Seriously, we can sit here and talk about "feeling your feelings," but Smith's idea of strength—"actual" strength—being tied to vulnerability… that's a big ask, right? Especially when someone's in the thick of it. Doesn’t it seem like she’s pushing back against some pretty deeply ingrained cultural norms here? Alex: Absolutely, no question. Vulnerability is often seen as weakness, right? But Smith challenges that head-on. Take her use of the kintsugi metaphor, for example—that Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. She suggests that our emotional and psychological wounds don’t diminish us. They can actually create depth and beauty, much like that repaired pottery. She says, "You are beautiful not in spite of the damage, but because of the damage." Michelle: Okay, I’ll admit, the kintsugi idea is appealing, but it feels… idealistic somehow? What if you're not ready to be repaired, let alone repaired with gold? What if you're still, metaphorically speaking, picking up the shattered pieces off the floor? Alex: And that's perfectly valid! Smith doesn’t pretend that grief or healing is some kind of straight line. That's the beauty, really, of her approach. She acknowledges that everyone moves through pain at their own pace, and that even picking up those pieces can take time. The point isn't to rush to the gold, but to accept that the cracks can exist without judgment. She even writes, "Feel without judging yourself for the feeling." Isn't that liberating? Michelle: It is… though I’ll be honest, Alex, it sounds a little contradictory when you think about it. It's like, on the one hand, there's this acceptance of letting the cracks just be, but on the other hand, the gold repair thing feels like an eventual expectation, right? Are we saying that resilience only counts if all the cracks are filled? Alex: Not at all. I think Smith is saying that resilience is in the effort, not the end result. Just the act of acknowledging the cracks, even if they're messy or incomplete, that's part of the healing. And speaking of effort, that brings us to another key component Smith highlights: self-compassion. Michelle: Alright, hold on a sec. Because, frankly, self-compassion sounds great in theory, right? But how do you actually do it when everything feels wrong? How do you even begin to convince yourself to be kind to yourself when you're busy beating yourself up for, I don't know, not healing fast enough? Alex: That's a super fair question! Smith addresses this through her own struggles as a mother, particularly with guilt and shame. She describes feeling completely drained—physically, mentally, emotionally—from the expectations placed on her. But instead of, you know, berating herself, she started reframing that guilt with simple acts of self-mercy. For her, self-compassion wasn't about indulging herself, but about recognizing that she deserved the same patience she gave to others. “You deserve your mercy as much as anyone else does.” Michelle: Okay, but let's get real. Beyond the pretty words, what does that tangibly look like, right? Because it's one thing to read affirmations, and it's another to actually sit down and change how you talk to yourself. Alex: Right? And this is where Smith really walks the walk, you know? Her affirmations—like "Keep Moving," which became not only a mantra, but the title of the book—they're a perfect example of making it tangible. Writing itself became a daily act of self-compassion for her. By putting her grief into words, she was processing it, honoring it. It wasn't just a mental exercise; it was an action she could take. Michelle: So her writing was kind of an emotional toolbox. That's fascinating—and honestly, pretty approachable. I mean, not everyone's a poet, but anyone can try sitting down with a journal, even if it's just to sort of pour those tangled feelings onto a page. Alex: Exactly. It's about creating a small, personal ritual that helps you work through the pain. For Smith, writing her affirmations was a way to both ground herself in the moment and just nudge herself forward. And I'd argue that resilience stems from exactly this kind of practice—small, incremental steps, grounded in self-compassion. Michelle: Alright, I’m starting to see where she's going. It's not so much about rushing to be "fixed," but about creating space to just be—and to keep taking those small, deliberate steps forward. Alex: Yeah, and each step builds that foundation of resilience. Once we’ve laid that foundation internally, we can turn outward, to our communities, which Smith sees as another just vital source of strength. But before we dive into that, let's pause here and reflect: resilience starts with the courage to acknowledge pain, show ourselves compassion, and, if possible, find rituals that guide us forward.

Alex: So, resilience sets the stage, right? And that leads us to creativity and how it helps us deal with tough times. Maggie Smith doesn’t just say, “Feel your feelings.” She takes it further, showing us how creativity can change things, help us rebuild after loss, and find meaning even when things are chaotic. Michelle: Okay, so we're saying creativity isn’t just a nice-to-have for artsy people. Smith makes it sound… necessary. Like, “survival mode” necessary. But Alex, how does she even see creativity working like that? Does she have a plan, or…? Alex: That’s a great question. Smith’s approach is unique. For her, creativity is a lifeline when things get rough. When she went through her divorce and losses, she started writing. Just journaling affirmations every day became her anchor. It wasn’t about writing perfect poems. It was about dealing with overwhelming feelings and bringing some order to her life. She wrote, “Keep moving,” and that became both a mantra and a method. Michelle: So, it’s not about what you create, the product, but about the process? Just doing it is what matters? Alex: Exactly. She emphasizes small, regular creative acts as a way to take back control. It’s not about changing everything overnight. It’s about building a routine that helps you move forward, bit by bit. For her, writing every day was a way to work through her grief and build a bridge to hope. And, you know, it could be anything—journaling, painting, knitting, even music. Showing up is what's important. Michelle: So, creativity is like scaffolding when everything’s falling apart. Hmm. But, Alex, what about people who don’t think of themselves as creative? I mean, not everyone's a poet, right? How do they tap into this lifeline? Alex: That's fair, Michelle. And Smith addresses that. She simplifies creativity. It doesn’t mean creating stuff for a gallery or writing a memoir. It means finding something that lets you express what you’re feeling. Maybe it’s doodling or writing encouraging notes to yourself. In her affirmations, she encourages small, accessible steps. Like, "Act as if you are brave and you will become brave." Writing that created space for her to become brave. And anyone can do that. Michelle: I mean, affirmations sound simple, but did they “really” help her? Or is it just a writer thing? Alex: It absolutely helped her. Writing those daily affirmations wasn’t just symbolic; it was actual self-care. It helped her see her experiences differently, even when she was sad, and showed her how to get through it. Think of it this way: affirmations are small truths that are easy to digest. Each one is a step on that bridge, leading her from grief to something more hopeful. They weren't instant fixes, but they helped create momentum. Michelle: Momentum I can buy. But reframing life through creativity—that sounds tough, especially when you’re grieving. How does she use creativity to, like, rewrite her life story? Alex: That’s where the real power of creativity comes in. Smith shows that writing, or any creative outlet, gives you the tools to deal with pain and actively change your story. Take her affirmation, “Stop calling your heart broken; your heart works just fine.” It’s a small, rebellious act, challenging the labels that grief puts on us. By changing how she describes things, she starts seeing those moments not as the end of her story, but as a new beginning. Michelle: That’s pretty bold, yeah maybe a little too “in your face.” It’s asking people to give up the comfort of saying they’re "broken" or "damaged." But here's my issue: is reframing just ignoring reality? I mean, are you just sugarcoating things? Alex: Not at all, Michelle. Because Smith isn’t saying we should ignore the pain. She’s saying we should face it. Her affirmations recognize the hard truths, but they don't stop there. Reframing is about seeing the pain, acknowledging it, and then choosing to build something meaningful from it. She says, “We don’t rewrite the story to change the past; we rewrite it so we can live with it and keep moving.” Michelle: Okay, I’ll give you that. That’s empowering. It’s not about erasing the pain, but taking control of what happens next. I especially like how she uses language here. But about imagery - Smith’s metaphors are so vivid, especially the Kintsugi one - fixing broken things with gold. How does that tie into creativity? Alex: The Kintsugi philosophy is key to her approach. She uses it to reframe what it means to be broken. Like how pottery repaired with gold becomes more beautiful because of its cracks, Smith suggests that our scars can be similar. Creativity is like the gold in this metaphor. It’s how we honor our wounds and turn them into something resilient and meaningful. Michelle: That’s a great image, but how practical is it? What do you say to someone who feels too broken to even start “filling the cracks”? Alex: That is valid, and Smith recognizes that those initial steps are hard. She emphasizes that you don’t have to immediately jump into the “gold repair” phase. Just noticing the cracks—acknowledging your feelings without judging them—is the first creative act. It’s about being willing to sit with those pieces, even if you’re not ready to put them back together yet. Creativity isn’t a destination; it’s the process that carries you forward. Michelle: So, the beauty is in the attempt, not perfection? I can live with that. And it’s not just personal, right? Smith’s emphasis on community shows how creativity can help us connect with others through shared experiences. Alex: Yes, exactly. At its heart, Smith’s philosophy of creativity is about transformation—not erasing grief but reworking it into something meaningful. Whether it’s through words, art, music, or any form of expression, the act of creating becomes a way to process pain and reclaim agency. It’s not about fixing everything, it’s about actively participating in your healing.

Alex: Okay, Michelle, so we've been talking about individual creativity, but now let's zoom out. Let's talk about the role of community in healing. Smith's journey really highlights that this “Keep Moving” idea doesn't happen in isolation, does it? Michelle: Exactly. So, Alex, where do we even begin with this whole concept of shared humanity? It’s a bit of a loaded term, isn't it? Alex: It really is a profound layer of “Keep Moving”. Maggie Smith’s story isn’t just about her own resilience. It's about how the people around her, her chosen literary family specifically, became such a vital part of her healing process. The book shows how community acts as a safety net and a source of strength. It transforms potentially isolating moments into shared ones. And Smith argues that vulnerability is the starting point for building those connections. Michelle: Vulnerability, huh? Now that's a word we hear all the time. It's like, "be vulnerable," but it feels like one of those things you see on inspirational posters. In practice? It's terrifying. So how does Smith frame it differently to make it less… scary? Alex: She sees it as an act of courage, not a weakness. For Smith, vulnerability means opening up and letting others see your real experiences. She writes, “What we say when we write about our own brokenness is not Look at me but Look at us.” She’s highlighting how sharing our struggles creates a mirror for others. They can see their own pain, and their own strength, reflected back. Vulnerability invites connection because it reminds us we aren't alone. Michelle: Right, okay, I see that. But, not everyone is comfortable with that level of exposure, right? Baring your soul to someone… or worse, a group of people… that's a big ask. What does Smith say to those of us who are just too guarded to go there? Alex: You're right, it is a big ask. Smith acknowledges that! She doesn't expect everyone to be emotionally naked with strangers. Instead, she talks about how fostering a community often starts small, with simple acts of genuine care. For her, it was her literary circle. She talks about how when she was navigating her divorce and grieving her pregnancy losses, her peers reached out. Heartfelt notes, a quick call, small acts of kindness—they gave her a lifeline. It wasn’t about trauma-dumping, just knowing someone cared enough to say, "I see you." Michelle: So it’s not necessarily about broadcasting your pain to the world. It’s about letting in the people who make you feel human when grief is trying to smother you. I get that. But, let me play devil's advocate a bit. Does Smith lean on her literary community because they understand her struggles as a writer? Would this be harder to replicate for someone who isn't in that kind of creative field? Alex: That's a great question. Yes, her community's understanding of her as a person and an artist definitely made their support more impactful. But I think the main point here isn’t to copy her exact approach, but to recognize the importance of finding your own chosen family. These are the people, creative or not, who meet you with empathy and acceptance. They don't need you to perfectly articulate your grief, because their care goes beyond just understanding. Smith shows how even the smallest gestures from this chosen family can make a huge difference. Michelle: Chosen family, huh? That's an interesting concept. It's like an updated take on "friends are the family we choose," right? But there’s something more intentional about how Smith describes it. It feels like she’s making a bigger point about deliberately cultivating these bonds. Alex: Absolutely! And she makes that point for a good reason. Smith contrasts this chosen family with biological relationships. Those are significant, but often based on circumstance, not on shared values or personal alignment. With her chosen family, she found a space where her voice and vulnerabilities were not just tolerated, but celebrated! This is a recurring theme - how these intentional connections can be transformative, especially during emotional turmoil. Michelle: Right, so these aren’t relationships you just stumble into. They're built on mutual care and understanding. That makes me wonder, how do you even start building that kind of community? Especially if you're in a dark place and your energy for socializing is… well, limited? Alex: It can definitely feel overwhelming at first. Smith doesn't offer a step-by-step guide, but she does suggest starting with small, genuine acts of reaching out. Like how her creative peers wrote her letters and sent kind messages. We can be the ones to take that first step. Offer empathy, even in small ways. She reminds us that connecting with people doesn't need grand gestures, just sincerity. That's often how community starts. Michelle: So, it's a two-way street. It's not just about receiving support; it's about what you give, too. That reminds me of Smith’s central idea – grief isolates us, but vulnerability connects us. It’s like she turned her pain into a bridge, you know, not just for herself, but for others to cross as well. Alex: That's beautifully put, Michelle. And she does just that in “Keep Moving”. Her willingness to share so openly invites others to feel seen. For example, when she writes about her grief over pregnancy loss, she points out that there’s no word for a parent who has lost a child. It's such a stark and painful realization, but in saying it, she offers solidarity to others in similar situations. It’s a way of saying, "You're not unseen." Michelle: Exactly. It also acknowledges the universality of grief. She’s takes something deeply personal and turns it outward, shifting the focus from "This is my pain" to "This is our shared experience as humans." That's a huge step, and it sounds like it takes a lot of courage. Alex: It does. But Smith argues that it also brings healing, not just for individuals but for whole communities. By sharing our stories—even the most painful ones —we open ourselves to connection and mutual understanding. And she describes creativity as a kind of currency in this exchange. Telling your story isn’t just therapeutic for you; it’s a gift to others. It gives them permission to be honest about their own struggles. Michelle: Right, and that in turn shifts the narrative, doesn’t it? Like collective healing becomes this ripple effect. One person is brave enough to share their story, like Smith does, and it creates a template for others to follow. It’s kind of like emotional pay-it-forward.

Alex: So, to wrap things up, Maggie Smith’s “Keep Moving” is really a deep dive into resilience, creativity, and finding community when facing grief and loss. She’s pushing us to be vulnerable, be kind to ourselves, and use our creative side as a way to heal and, well, rewrite our stories. Michelle: Right, and through that rewrite, she's asking us to look at our imperfections, not as flaws, but as opportunities for something beautiful to emerge – that kintsugi idea is really powerful, isn't it? But you know what hit home for me, Alex? It's how openly she admits that healing isn’t some clean, straight line. It’s messy, it zigs and zags, and sometimes it’s just about taking that one tiny step, saying that one word, or making one connection. Alex: Absolutely. And I really appreciated her saying we should turn to our chosen community for strength. That sense of shared humanity, that’s what turns grief into solidarity, and pain into something meaningful. Michelle: Right, and if there’s a single message to take away from all of this, it’s that resilience isn’t about some mad dash to “fix” ourselves. It’s about showing up as we are – cracks and everything, and just taking those little steps forward. That might be writing, reaching out to a friend, or even just allowing yourself to feel what you feel, without beating yourself up about it. Alex: Exactly! So, what’s one small thing you can do today to keep moving? Maybe it's just picking up a pen, making a quick call, or even just giving yourself a moment to sit with your feelings. Progress is progress, no matter how small. Michelle: Exactly, and whether you’re feeling like that cracked vase, a pinecone waiting for a spark, or barely held together with duct tape – it all counts. Let’s all figure out how to keep moving, together. Alex: Beautifully put. Thanks for being here with us today, everyone. Until next time, take good care of yourselves, and each other.