Author: Kathryn M.B. Johnson

Welcome! I’m Kathryn M. Bowman Johnson—a writer, memoirist, and grandmother living in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. I write about the quiet, complicated beauty of everyday life: caregiving, chronic illness, resilience, and the small moments that tether us to hope. Booked on a Feeling is my little corner of the internet, where I share stories about memory, meaning, and what it takes to keep writing anyway. You’ll find reflections on family, disability, loss, and the ways we rediscover joy—even in the hardest seasons. I believe writing can be both a refuge and a rebellion. Here, you’re invited to pull up a chair, sip something warm, and stay a while.

The Practice of Showing Up

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Some days, the words flow. Other days, they arrive slowly, like reluctant guests. Writing isn’t about waiting for inspiration—it’s about returning to the page, again and again, no matter how the day feels.

When I sit down, I’m reminding myself: I am still here. The act of writing, even when it’s challenging, is its own kind of progress. It teaches me that showing up matters more than perfection and that each sentence, however imperfect, keeps the story moving forward.

If you’re in a season of waiting or discouragement, know this: the words are patient. They’ll meet you where you are.

Notes From The Middle

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There’s a part of the story most people don’t talk about—the middle.
Not the shiny beginning or the triumphant end. Just… the middle.

That’s where I am right now.

The middle of writing my memoir.
The middle of a health journey.
The middle of a quiet, slow process of healing.

I used to look for milestones—pounds lost, chapters finished, essays accepted. But lately, I’ve found more meaning in the days that don’t have headlines.

Like today, I stood at the stove a little longer. I finished my grocery list. I answered an email I’d been avoiding. Small things, but they add up. They matter.

This is what I’m learning:
The middle is the story. It’s where the work happens. It’s where we grow, stretch, stumble, and keep going.

I don’t have a big revelation to share today. Just this: I’m still in it. And that counts for something.

If you’re in the middle of something hard, something slow, or something uncertain, please know I’m right there with you.

We keep going.
Together.

You can read my latest Substack post, “Still in It,” here –> https://booked-on-a-feeling.com/.

And if you haven’t subscribed yet, I’d love to have you join me on the journey.

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10 Things I Know to Be Absolutely Certain

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10 Things I Know to Be Absolutely Certain
By Kathryn M. Bowman Johnson

We live in a world that shifts constantly—bodies, relationships, calendars, expectations. Some mornings I wake up uncertain of what my spine will allow or what emotional weather the day might bring. But even amid the instability, I’ve discovered that some truths have taken root in me. Things I carry with me on the good days and the hard ones. Things I know for sure.

So today, I’m sharing ten of them.

  1. Love leaves a mark.
    Not just in grief, but in the quiet spaces where memory lingers. In soft chairs and humming children. In the way we keep showing up.
  2. Pain is real—and so is joy.
    Chronic illness teaches you to hold both at once. A single day can ache and still offer beauty.
  3. Children know more than we think.
    My grandson has taught me this again and again. They may not have the words yet, but they feel everything. They remember love, even if they don’t say it.
  4. Grief doesn’t end, but it evolves.
    It shifts from sharp to tender, from unbearable to something you carry forward. It makes room—if we let it.
  5. Rest is not a luxury.
    For those of us living with illness, rest is the very foundation. And it’s not something to apologize for.
  6. Storytelling heals.
    Writing has saved me more times than I can count. When I couldn’t find myself in the mirror, I found myself on the page.
  7. There is strength in asking for help.
    And there’s power in receiving it, too. I used to think I had to be the strong one. Now I know strength looks different than I thought.
  8. We don’t outgrow wonder.
    Black-eyed Susans blooming by the mailbox. A child’s giggle behind a closed door. Even now, awe still arrives.
  9. Small things are not small.
    A held door. A soft blanket. A cup of tea when the world feels heavy. These are the things that matter.
  10. We are still becoming.
    No matter our age, our diagnoses, our losses. We are allowed to keep growing, to keep unfolding. Even from the recliner. Even in stillness.

I’d love to hear what you know for certain. What truths are anchoring you right now? Leave a comment, or write your own list. Some days, naming what’s real is the most radical kind of hope.

Until next time,
Kathryn