THE SHIFT
14 DYNAMIC WRITERS - CROSSING INTO SOMETHING NEW
Dear Orbiter,
Every Saturday, we land on the softest soil of Planet Ral, where the skies spill stories, the moons whisper poetry, and the terrain is thick with thought.
This week, we explore The Shift — that moment of crossing, the in-between space where change stirs, stretches, and remakes us. 14 writers take us to the edge and over, each offering a 200-word essay that captures a threshold: leaving, arriving, becoming, undoing. And then, their voices. In one-minute recordings, they reflect on why they wrote what they did, how it made them feel, and what still lingers beyond the words.
On Planet Ral, you’ll find fiction with pulse, poetry with teeth and essays that haunt. Whether you're a reader, a dreamer, or a creator orbiting in between, this issue is for you.
Breaking the Loop: —
For years, I lived in a tight loop—disciplined, structured, and overly cautious.
I followed rules religiously, planned every move, and judged myself harshly for any deviation. On paper, I was “doing well,” but inside, I felt stuck—like a high-performing robot programmed to play safe, not live fully. I said no to new experiences, sports, even friendships—just to maintain control.
The trigger?
A moment of helplessness. 31st Dec'22, night after a long mental spiral of self-doubt and burnout, I realized: I had become the very weight I was trying to outrun. Something had to change—or I’d lose myself.
So, I made a radical shift. I took up kickboxing, started writing again, spoke to strangers, learned swimming, played tennis, cycling, marathons, travel, sketching, Improv comedy, build society libraries, run magazines spontaneously—things I never allowed myself before. Slowly, I stopped fearing imperfection and started tasting life.
Today, I’m not just consistent—I’m alive. I’m more confident, open, emotionally lighter, and surprisingly, more connected to people than ever. The 360° development wasn’t about becoming someone else—it was about freeing the real me.
Message? Don’t wait for a breakdown. Start small, explore boldly. Your real life begins when you stop just existing and start experimenting—with joy, flaws, and all.HARINATH’S VOICE MEMO:
“If you don't have all the answers, try everything until you do. On 31st December, 2022, I realized, if I don’t know the size of my own feet, I am not qualified to fit into the shoes…
XOXO - HARINATH BABU © 2025
Regret, in Three Acts —
The shift happened during a presentation with a large group of coworkers.
All eyes on me, the interrupter, searing through my emotional nudity.
I'm sure the presenter had been following engagement protocol, sashaying with her beautiful high-heeled pumps in front of the lectern from one side of the room to the other as she introduced herself, flashing a smile and making eye contact 180 degrees.
Was I the only one seeing the near misses—the danger—of the long, tangled snake that crawled from one side of the room to the lectern?
"I'm sorry," I said, raising my hand. "Those electric wires are a tripping hazard. They need to be taped down." I cringed. Why did I start with "I'm sorry"?
If this were a three-act story, this would be the "Aha!" moment.
I consciously realized I associated speaking up with regret.
From then on, I've been intentional with my communication and embraced new habits, kicking myself through the Third Act's final battles anytime "I'm sorry" almost rolled out of my mouth when speaking up.
My character arc is complete now.
Not because I never slip, but because I no longer feel regret when speaking up.CM TORRES’S VOICE MEMO:
I was sipping coffee this morning when I read a meme that lit a fire under my belly. This is how it read, “Nine Things You Don't Need to Explain” That meme, it made me realize…
XOXO - CM TORRES © 2025
Writing at Long Last —
Like too many North Americans I harboured the secret dream of writing the great American novel. It was planted in my head fully grown in 1970 in a high school Literature class. My brain kept it alive in a hidden compartment with grow lites and hydroponics. It didn’t die, it didn’t flourish. It just existed for decades, fed occasionally with random plot lines or life harvested characters. I did other things vocationally. The dream died during my addiction. In 2024 I read an amusing blog every Friday. It made fun of major news stories, finding wicked humour everywhere. I thought I could do that for technology stories, so TechTonic was borne last September. I surprised myself by writing every week, then twice per week. I loved the research, finding satire or sarcasm and publishing to schedule. I discovered supportive people on Substack. 'TechTonic' continues to morph. I am taking it in longer, more serious directions. I am writing nonfiction about becoming an entrepreneur, which I know well. I started writing an audio piece of fiction based on intersecting podcasts. Now inspired by Ral’s publication, to keep writing further. No great American novel is ever coming. But different meaningful pieces are.
DAVID’S VOICE MEMO:
I wrote this piece about the latest change in my life. And I feel really good about the change, where you don't know where you're going. And it doesn't really matter so…
XOXO - DAVID CROUCH © 2025
Becoming Me: The Moment I Chose Purpose —
This short story is about exploring moments of change, crossing thresholds and stepping into the unknown. I spent years doing everything that looked right on paper. Top grades, awards, a respectable career, A life that others might have called “successful.” Yet underneath, there was a quiet ache. I was coasting. Restless. Sensing there was more, but unable to name what “more” meant. The shift began, subtly, with motherhood. Watching my children, I realized they needed me to thrive first before I could teach them to thrive. Then, my father died. It was sudden. And it stripped away the illusion that time would wait for me to figure things out. Standing in his room, surrounded by his books, The causes he championed, The impact he made without fanfare or platforms, I broke. And then I saw clearly. He hadn’t needed a stage to live with purpose. He had simply chosen to live with intention. In that moment, my restlessness turned into resolve. I could no longer keep hiding behind a version of me that looked accomplished but felt unfinished. I began to write. To share my journey openly. To build my life’s message, rooted in intentional growth & conscious parenting. Crossing that threshold was terrifying. It meant leaving behind a life that felt safe but small. Yet on the other side, I found something better than certainty. I found purpose. An unpolished, work-in-progress kind of purpose. But one that finally felt like mine.
STELLA’S VOICE MEMO:
For a long time, I looked successful, but I didn’t feel fulfilled. Standing in his room, surrounded by his quiet legacy, I realized impact isn’t about titles or perfect plans. It’s about…
XOXO - STELLA CHIBUIKE-EZIKE © 2025
The fresh, fresh taste of freedom —
For years, I’d been looking forward to this very moment. I craved getting away. Away from a messy house. Away from 5 younger siblings. Away from the dull suburb I grew up in. I dreamt of being far, far away. Ideally in warmer weather, but I’d settle for anywhere that wasn’t here. I had come up with 1,000 different combinations of the brand-new person I’d become when I finally left. It was so close now, I could taste it. The fresh, fresh taste of freedom. Glancing behind me, I surveyed the consolidated pile of my belongings stacked in the back of my mom’s grey 2002 Honda Odyssey. 18 years’ worth of clothes, products, shoes, and, frankly, random shit. But it was my shit. And it was coming with me on this new adventure. A few hours later, I set the last box down in my tiny dorm apartment. Time stood still as I hugged my mom, and she waved a teary goodbye. Finally, I was all alone. In an unfamiliar place. Surrounded by an eerie silence and piles of half the things I owned. It felt nothing like the times I dreamed about. Welcome to college.
RASHIDA’S VOICE MEMO:
This piece talks about my first day arriving to college. I was tired of my siblings, tired of my family, and just looking to get out and go somewhere new. I started to realize that…
XOXO - RASHIDA BEAL © 2025
No Pain to Hold —
Pain is not the enemy.
It’s a signal, an invitation. For years, I resisted it, feared it, tried to manage it, numb it, escape it. I called it “bad,” “wrong,” “mine.” And in doing so, I tightened around it.
Imagine Niagara Falls: a vast, unstoppable current of energy. Imagine placing a pipe around it, tight and rigid. All that force is trying to squeeze through that space. That’s pain.
The shift happened when I stopped judging the sensation. I met it without the story. Without the label. Without fear. In that moment, the pipe disappeared. What remained wasn’t pain; it was flow. Pure energy. The body in process, not in punishment.
We suffer not because energy moves, but because we constrict around it. We name it. We resist it. We tighten. And it’s that pressure that hurts. But when we let the energy be what it is - alive, intelligent, uncontained - it moves. It changes. It teaches.
This shift doesn’t come in a flash. It comes breath by breath. But once you feel it, you can’t unknow it.
There is no pain to hold, only energy to meet, to move, to let flow. And that changes everything.REBELLE’S VOICE MEMO:
I wrote this as a way to try and explain the secret of dealing with pain. Pain is information. The question is what are you going to do with it?
XOXO - SACRED REBELLE © 2025
A new start —
October 2024 - the news finally arrived, a diagnosis of “a dementia with aphasia” and evidence of a traumatic brain injury. Two years of tests, scans, repeat, repeat … Problems became apparent in the work place. A redundancy package. Aged 55, the scrap heap had arrived! My second career. Gone. Health problems since 1980 had finally won! The following 8 years were interesting, reclusive, houseboat, “sailing on a sea of tranquility”. Capability of doing less and less. But a routine started - photographing sunrises, sunsets and life in between. “Dementia” - pain, loss, grief, anxiety, depression, confusion, fear, it has been terrifying! I was no longer me. BUT …… “flip that” being ‘lost’ can be incredibly freeing experience. It’s provided uncharted territory, unhindered thinking, the constraints of familiarity and baggage of the past. It has given me the chance to explore new ideas. In my corner was an extraordinary GP, a clinical psychologist and a clinical psychiatrist …. In one session “Substack” was mentioned and my photography? Looking at the diagnosis positively, a new chapter has began. I have moved. I wander daily with my lens. Each detour, every unanticipated stop becomes a potential source of inspiration. Photography, digital art, writing? I’m going to fight the diagnosis daily and who knows….
MARK’S VOICE MEMO:
I have gone through a change over the last 10 years, which I guess is a bit like a butterfly or a caterpillar changing into a butterfly. I can't guarantee what's going to happen next but…
XOXO - MARK FARLEY © 2025
Into The Prism —
My working eye, Taut with curious tension, Stretched wide— Not from fear, But from wonder, Like a child seeing colour For the first time. Never had beauty struck. So raw. So riotously alive. I looked up — To the sky, Expansive—As if it had just cracked open. And erupted into bubbles of laughter. Everything pulsed with life— With deep, ancestral knowing. Alien and new, Yet, it all felt like home, A return to the roots— To some quiet, divine truth. How exquisite. To be so unguarded. Unafraid—Drinking love and awe. Straight from the stars. A belonging too big to carry. A freedom so holy. As if brushing fingers. With the secrets of the Universe. But that was a long time ago. Maybe one day, I'll step back Through the kaleidoscope threshold— Into that prism Where wisdom forgets its chains Where dreams outrun the edge Of what might yet become Psilocybin.
MYMY’S VOICE MEMO:
I wrote this poem to celebrate a moment of expanded perception. It's not about psychedelics. It's about the magical sense of awe that comes from…
XOXO - MYMY © 2025
My First Crossing —
My first crossing wasn’t a choice.
It was a cold, autumnal migration—from Mami’s warm, tropical waters into a sterile Brooklyn delivery room, where even my name was denied entry.
“You’re in America. Pick another name,” the nurse told her.
“But her name is Ramona Tomasina Rafaela. My name. Her abuela’s name.”
Sometimes, the power to patrol borders lives in the hands of those holding clipboards.
“Pick a name. Now,” the nurse snapped.
Juan Carlos, my ten-year-old brother, quickly grabbed a Bible. He flipped through its onion-skin pages like a sacred roulette. His finger landed on an unfamiliar name in English.
“This name, Miss,” he pointed.
The nurse wrote it down and left before Mami could say another word.
That was my first alert. A blip. A denied passage. A gatekeeper tried to desiccate the maternal roots of my Dominican tree with the stroke of a pen sharper than the machete my padre used to cut sugarcane, a dessert we savored at home.
Years later, I returned to Brooklyn—not as the muchacha with a borrowed name, but as a woman choosing her second crossing. I legally changed my name.
Somewhere between memory and agency, I named myself whole again.LUNA’S VOICE MEMO:
From day one, I was told through actions, not words, that even my name didn't belong. I wanted to share this crossing because it's not unique, and I don't want it to be normalized.
XOXO - LUNA © 2025
From “Not Journalist Material” to Owning My Story —
I grew up believing that being quiet meant I was unfit for certain dreams.
“Not journalist material,” they said. I accepted that script for years—crossing out dreams of writing, hiding my curiosity behind what felt practical.
Motherhood cracked that old narrative wide open. The chaos, the “why’s” from my kids, the wild flow of intuition driving me to make space for myself inside the noise. Whose voice had I been listening to for so long?
Writing again opened up my heart in parallel with therapy. Then I signed up for a journalism course. Something deep inside me shifted. I realized I could choose which stories to heal, and which to leave behind.
Instead of silence, I picked curiosity. Instead of old labels, I tried on courage. Now, I write to remember who I am beneath the expectations and to inspire others.
I’m still learning to let my own voice be enough, especially when it trembles and doubts.GABRIELA’S VOICE MEMO:
My voice still trembles whenever I speak about the awareness shift and the change. I wrote this piece hoping to inspire others. We don't have to let other people's stories become our own.
XOXO - GABRIELA TROFIN-TATAR © 2025
The Big Move —
Two months after my sixteenth birthday, we children sat crammed together on the corner bench surrounding the space where our dining table used to stand. The lino floor was exposed and bare: all the furniture in the room gone. A new family was in the process of moving into our semi-detached, four-bedroom home. I’d lived there from being nine months old. Now we were only ghosts of the house’s former life, pasted into the corner, waiting for Dad to return and drive us ten miles into the countryside. Our family was moving into two old caravans on the quarter acre of land where Dad would spend four years building a new house, but by the time it was finished, I’d have left home. We sat, crowded into the space another family already considered theirs. I felt invisible, as if I was being absorbed into the walls. Each of us still visits the house in our dreams, but we’re fractured now, parts of the family gone forever, the rest scattered like crumbs. All my childhood memories are in that house – I feel those moments when we sat crowded onto that bench were the beginning of our family breaking up.
TRACEY’S VOICE MEMO:
I've lived in 28 addresses during my life. I was 16 years old just at the time. We lived crowded into two caravans….
XOXO - TRACEY SCOTT-TOWNSEND © 2025
This Is Why I Can’t Have Nice Things —
This story is about change — or perhaps the illusion of it.
Last night, as I was getting ready for bed, I removed my earrings and realized I’d lost the right one at some point during the day. It struck me that it had been years since I’d done this. In my youth, losing one earring was almost a trademark quirk.
My grandmother, who raised me, would marvel sometimes with a touch of exasperation at my knack for ending up with a jewelry box full of mismatched gold pieces. I’d assumed I’d outgrown that little habit, until last night, when I realized I hadn’t.
This time, the missing earring was part of a pair my husband gave me, and I have no idea where it vanished. Even now, change reveals itself in the smallest, most unexpected ways.SCARLET’S VOICE MEMO:
I don't typically write memoir. I usually fictionalize most of the experiences of my life in my writing. This was a departure. I felt introspective, thinking about…
XOXO - SCARLET IBIS JAMES © 2025
A Threshold Crossed —
The largest change in my life was probably to let my wife leave the marriage and to
become a single parent to our daughters.
At the time I was still in the Army, had a promising career, and was in the middle of my first major overseas assignment. She didn’t care. She wanted out. She was tired of me being deployed. Tired of being alone, and tired of all the responsibilities.
No counseling, no begging, just talk to the lawyer, and make things as simple as
possible. I was lucky at the time and both my parents were alive and healthy.
They took in my girls, until I could finish my time in service. I still had to get out early on a “hardship discharge” (a “general discharge” that later became an “honorable
discharge”).
My family was in an area where there was (and still is) always the chance
for jobs, good schools, churches, and social organizations. I would live in the house I
grew up in but that wasn’t a bad thing.
It changed the trajectory of my life, and I don’t regret any of it.OLI’S VOICE MEMO:
The largest change in my life was probably to let my wife leave the marriage and to become a single parent to our daughters. At the time, I was…
XOXO - OLI TROLLGORA © 2025Book Recommendation — By
"Meditation, Cigarettes, and all that Bullshit"
This book is for those who grieved, broke in silence, or are still lost in blurred promises of a better life. This is not a spiritual guide to enlightenment. This is straightforward advice to get rid of bullshit and slowly pick yourself up to have a lifestyle you love aimed with purpose.
Saturday Soundtrack — A Special classical for you
Recommended by The Editor — This is a symphony I've been on all week by “Johann Pachelbel, Sir Neville Marriner, Academy of St. Martins in the field”
From the 1976 Album of Sir George Frederick Handel called “Messiah” — Enjoy!
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Special Thanks from the Host and Editor — Ral Joseph
Join us for our next issue — Saturday, August 16. Theme: TRIBUTES — Letters to Writers
For our next orbit, we’re turning our attention to the ones who kept us afloat — the voices who mattered. Write a letter of love, gratitude, or quiet thanks to 1 or 2 Substack writers who have meant something to you. Maybe they inspired you. Encouraged you. Made you laugh when you needed it. Or just made you feel a little less alone.
In 100 words or less, share your appreciation. Tag them if you’d like — we’ll link to their work in the editorial. Simple. Emotional. Magnetic. Have a lovely Sunday tomorrow.
This is the only body of work I've edited that made me cry. I was literally listening to the voice memos and breathing while trying to find the perfect images and positions for them.
Trying my best to see how I can bring out the writers voice more. Trying different editing styles, image sources, audio enhancements, design tools etc.
I just wanted everyone to shine 🔆 I wanted each writer to feel like they're at home and we're all looking at them, listening attentively, no distractions.
I feel proud, more than I've I've ever felt in my entire life. Even a first class degree in Medical Biochemistry couldn't top this feeling. We own this. This is ours.
You first 💯
Okay, it’s my turn to comment… Ral, you are amazing. I’m at a loss for words.
Today, all the writers truly made my day.
Every story touched my heart. I feel like a part of each writer has been imprinted on me.
It feels as if I know you all so well.