By Rebekah D. Mason
This week, I gathered in a virtual circle with four other brilliant women and our coach, Kari Ginsburg, for the opening session of Klatch.
Kari defines Klatch as “a small group gathered for conversation and support during times of transition or transformation.” That’s exactly what it was — and exactly what I needed.
In just ninety minutes, something shifted. I felt clarity. I felt resonance. I felt less alone.
This reflection captures what surfaced in me — what I claimed, what I released, and what I’m choosing to carry forward.
On Being in the Room
There was something powerful about simply being there.
Side by side with women navigating career pivots, creative awakenings, identity shifts, and deep personal questioning. Entrepreneurs. Public servants. Community builders. And me.
We had all filled out the pre-session forms with similar language, circling questions about purpose, voice, and direction. Kari brought us together not to fix or force anything — but to hold space, reflect, and invite possibility.
It felt intimate. Grounded. Brave. It felt like home.
Telling the Truth Aloud
I spoke about the tension I’ve been carrying — the push and pull between playing it safe and choosing what brings me joy.
I’ve spent years pouring myself into storytelling, advocacy, and recovery. But it’s taken time to trust that those things are enough. That they are the work.
In that circle, I shared the fear: What if the space is too crowded? What if my voice doesn’t matter?
But the group didn’t flinch. They listened. Reflected. Told me:
“Your voice is rare. Your fire is real. You’re not replicable.”
And for a moment, I believed them.
And sometimes, that’s all it takes to begin again.
Echoes and Mirrors
Another woman shared her story — one layered with legacy, responsibility, and exhaustion. Her words cracked something open in me.
I shared that as a Mexican American, I’m often grouped into immigrant narratives, even though my family has been here for generations — before there was a border to cross.
We are not newcomers. We are survivors of erasure.
And still, we are seen as risk.
I asked her what lessons she might find in her parents’ bravery — what it meant for them to leave behind what they knew for something uncertain but necessary.
She saw it.
And I saw her.
And in that moment, I was reminded: we don’t need matching stories to carry each other’s truth.
Seeds I Didn’t Expect
I didn’t expect to feel so seen, so quickly. I didn’t expect to feel ready. But I am.
Ready to bring my full voice into the light.
Ready to stop doubting my website — rebekahdmason.com — for being “too raw” or “too much.”
It holds all of me: my recovery, my advocacy, my performance work, my story.
That’s the point. It’s me.
And maybe — just maybe — I’m not just a participant in this work.
Maybe I’m meant to hold space for others too.
To invite them in.
To help them name their truth.
To remind them they’re not alone.
Maybe I don’t need permission.
Maybe I’ve already begun.
Justice Through Joy Was There Too
When I mentioned Justice Through Joy, people leaned in. They wanted to hear more — not just for themselves, but for the women in their lives who need it.
It reminded me: this project I’ve been building in small circles, on quiet pages, in whispered dreams — it matters.
We talked about the future of theater. About what it means to let go of outdated institutions. One woman asked: What if we let institutional theater die?
I shared about Sensible, a devised piece I worked on with Dog & Pony DC, inspired by the groundbreaking work of artists striving to make theater more accessible — especially for DeafBlind audiences.
The piece had no dialogue. No traditional stage. Just movement, scent, sound, texture — and one audience member at a time.
At first, I thought: This isn’t theater — it’s performance art. It’s movement. It’s ritual.
But once the audience arrived — once breath met breath — I knew: This is theater. In one of its most sacred forms.
I also spoke about Mexodus — a performance that cracked open the bones of legacy, escape, and survival. It reminded me that storytelling isn’t just what happened — it’s what continues. It’s how we resist erasure. How we honor breath, rhythm, and cultural memory.
And then I found myself talking about front porch parties — community-rooted gatherings created for homebound individuals, where community comes to them.
What can artists learn from that?
What would it mean to stop asking people to come to the stage — and instead, bring the stage to their doors?
To craft joy where people already are?
To reimagine care as choreography?
And what if we wove this into something larger? What if storytelling could be part of time banking?
A system where we exchange time, care, stories, skills — not for money, but for mutual restoration?
Justice Through Joy lives in these questions.
It is theater.
It is advocacy.
It is sacred.
It is creative resistance rooted in community aid.
It is a porch performance, a Zoom ritual, a handwritten zine, a warm meal, a shared grief, a danced prayer.
And it’s already happening.
Where I Go From Here
Today, I want to remember that choosing myself — and choosing community — is not selfish. It’s sacred.
I’m not looking to abandon anything. I’m looking to invest in what nourishes me and the people around me.
I want to keep building spaces where storytelling, community, and healing walk hand in hand.
Where people feel witnessed, not judged. Held, not fixed.
This isn’t about reluctance to lead.
It’s about leading in a different way — with joy. With purpose. With care.
That’s what Justice Through Joy is.
That’s what Klatch reminded me I already know how to do.
There’s no next Klatch until fall.
But I’m not waiting.
The stories are already rising.
The work is already here.
I feel seen.
I feel stirred.
I feel ready.
Not for everything.
But for something bold.
And that’s more than enough to begin.
Learn more about my work at: rebekahdmason.com | Learn more about Kari Ginsburg at: uproarcoaching.com
Come walk with me. Subscribe to Waiting for Lefty for reflections on healing, advocacy, Chicana identity, recovery, and the sacred practice of storytelling. We carry the hard things—and we keep going.
