My time-out rug was white, with blue squares and tassels at opposite ends.

There were twelve squares, or maybe nine; I can’t remember if they were arranged three by three or three by four. Maybe the blue squares were actually diamonds. Maybe they weren’t even blue. For all the things I don’t remember about my time-out rug, there’s a few things that have stuck with me.

The rug held so much power, see—I didn’t know I could leave the rug. When a time-out was dealt, I dutifully retrieved the rug, cast it to the ground, and threw my body on top of it. (I was usually crying throughout this process.) I sat there, pulling at the tassels with all the anger I could muster for the five minutes (lifetimes) my parents had sentenced me to. Why should I, a righteous and lawful five-year-old, be sent to this polyester perdition, on account of refusing to share my toys with my younger sister? I found it simply outrageous.

Of course, as I got older, I got bolder. Keeping one foot, one elbow, one toe on the shag, I would stretch across the floor of my bedroom, reaching for the nearest stuffed animal, book, notebook. Object in hand, I filled my head with stories—acted out with my Beanie Babies, detailed in my Magic Treehouse collection, written out in my rough, seven-year-old handwriting. I realized that these moments took me away from the shame of the time-out rug and to someplace with stories, someplace quieter, someplace where I could read the minds of characters in my books, where I could create my own characters, where I could create myself. 

I don’t have a time-out rug anymore; I grew out of it. The stories, however, grew with me. I held fast to the sanctuary they provided. Being a New York City transplant at ten years old wasn’t an easy transition. To cope, I journaled, sitting on my new windowsill and looking out at a city of glass instead of the foggy landscape of the San Francisco Bay Area. NYC is a place of stillness as much as it is a place of motion. When I find myself stuck in the same place for a few minutes (lifetimes), stories help. On long subway rides, I write about the way the sun comes through the windows, reflecting off the buildings outside. I write about the man across from me, who has old hands but a young face. I write about where I’m going, and why I’m nervous to get there.

I don’t have a time-out rug anymore, but that doesn’t mean I stop taking time-outs. I take every opportunity I can to step back, sit with myself, and observe. The people around me are the stories, the mirrors in which I see myself, understand myself, challenge myself. When I write about the woman who cries behind her sunglasses, I confront my own vulnerability, my own resilience. When I write about the couple who sit pressed together, saying nothing, I explore what can be said in silence. I watch the tourists who fumble with maps and phones, and when I ask them if they need help, I remember being in their place. I write every day. It’s what I reach for when I’m feeling too heavy, or when I need to tangify life’s intangibles. As much as I hated it, the time-out rug helped me find my passion, my outlet, my chosen survival tool: writing.