Daily writing prompt

Describe a risk you took that you do not regret.

View all responses

I was in a deep thought, looking out the window.
My husband asked,
“Whatcha thinking?”

I looked his way. Said nothing.
Just quietly replied,
“Working on today’s daily prompt…”

“Describe a risk you took that you don’t regret.”

And there I was—returning to my thoughts.
Ready to write something layered.
Tender.
Maybe even a little dramatic—

Thinking about butterflies, spiritual leaps,
and that one time I wore red lipstick to a funeral.
You know…
the usual.
Or me, running emotionally barefoot through a metaphor.

But my husband?

He answered like he was filing a formal report to the Department of Practicality.
Dry. Literal. Lacking even a hint of mystery.
No nuance. No flicker of drama.
Just:
“Well, in 2009 you did X, and it turned out fine.”

I blinked.
Then blinked again.
And before I could process, he said—with complete sincerity—
“That’s what the question asked. Just answer it.”

JUST. ANSWER. IT.

Sir, I am not Google Assistant.
This is not a multiple-choice quiz from a corporate training module.
This is a sacred prompt from the creative universe.
I’m not trying to draft an affidavit—
I’m trying to write with my soul in cursive.

And as he kept talking, my brain?

It felt like someone opened a window during a peaceful nap,
and a full-blown Texas wind tore through.
Thoughts flew off the shelf.
My composure rolled under the bed.
I sat there, blinking through the metaphorical debris like,
“Did anyone catch the license plate of the truck that just hit my imagination?”

I can still hear him speaking,
but it was as if I were drowning in a spreadsheet with a witness statement—
and he was pulling out DMV records and timestamped documentation.

Later, I tried to explain:
“Honey… I don’t need you to fix anything.”

He looked confused and said,
“I’m not fixing.”
Right as he casually reconstructed my entire metaphor with a wrench,
into a five-paragraph essay with a thesis statement,
and folded it into a filing cabinet labeled “Answers.”

Bless his heart.
He’s not fixing.
He’s just… adjusting the universe with logic.
While I’m over here trying to emotionally exhale in poetry.

So in the end, maybe the real risk I took…

Was handing the prompt
to a man who thinks “poetry” is just a typo for “policy.”
Who heard the question and thought it needed bullet points.
Who heard “describe a risk” and decided to draft a deposition.

And you know what?

No regrets.
Because now I’ve got a story.
And a curtain still flapping in my brain from that strong, uninvited wind.

He’s going to read this one—
and that, my friends,
will officially become the biggest risk I’ve ever taken.

Some people write policy. I write poetry.
Both are risky—one’s just prettier.