No Kings and No Recording

Right after every North of Normal radio show, I race home with a small sense of satisfaction and purpose. I have a routine that feels like muscle memory now. Open the recording, check the levels, trim the edges, and post it by noon. It is a rhythm that keeps me grounded, a quiet promise to myself and to the listeners who tune in each week.

This past Tuesday, that rhythm fell apart.

The episode had been one of my favorites, a conversation with Dr. Bernd Weber. His story of moving from Germany as a teenager stayed with me long after we signed off. We talked about courage, belonging, and what it means to start over in a place where everything is new. I felt an unexpected kinship with him. I had done something similar at his age, moving to a foreign country without knowing the language and learning to find my footing. Our conversation felt like two stories reaching across time to recognize one another.

When I sat down at my computer to upload the recording, I was smiling. I clicked on the file and waited for the familiar wave pattern to appear. Instead, an error message popped up. I tried again. Same thing. I checked another folder, hoping it had been saved somewhere else. Still nothing.

I called the station director to see if there had been an equipment glitch. He checked everything and said the words I did not want to hear: the equipment was fine. The file was gone.

For a few minutes, I just sat there, staring at the screen. Then the sinking feeling came. Not just disappointment, but the realization that I was about to let down a whole group of people who had been waiting to hear Bernd’s story. I could almost feel it, the tightening in my chest that comes when you know you have broken a promise you meant to keep. One of my deepest values is doing what I say I will do, and in that moment, it felt like I had failed at something essential.

For half an hour, I was caught in that strange half-frozen space between panic and shame. The best comparison I can find is the second before a snowball hits you in the face. You see it coming, you flinch, and you brace for the blow.

I spiraled through every worst-case scenario: people assuming I was careless, unprofessional, unqualified. The sharpest criticism came from the inside. Those inner voices are quick to pile on: You should have known better. You always have a backup. How could you let this happen?

By some grace of timing, I had a therapy appointment that afternoon. I told the story from start to finish, expecting advice about what to do next. Instead, my therapist said gently, “It sounds like the only harsh responses you actually received were from inside your own head.”

He was right. And the truth of it hit hard. Because I realized how much of my effort in life is spent trying to keep things from breaking, trying to stay ahead of every possible failure, as if control itself were proof of care.

The loss of that file reminded me that we can do everything right and still lose something that mattered to us. The point was not to hold on tighter next time, but to learn what grace looks like when things fall apart.

Just a few days prior, people across the country gathered for the No Kings demonstrations. Regardless of where you stood on the issue, there was something powerful about watching thousands of people step into their own agency. They could not control every system or outcome, but they could control that moment. They could control their voice, their presence, their choice to show up and be counted.

It made me think about the difference between control and agency. Control insists that we manage every outcome. Agency reminds us that even when outcomes slip away, we can still decide how we respond. We can choose honesty. We can choose to be calm. We can choose to stay kind when things do not go our way.

I still wish I could share that interview with you. It was warm and thoughtful and full of quiet wisdom. But maybe this is the story that needed to be shared instead. Not the perfect recording, but what came after it. The moment when I had to stop pretending that preparation could protect me from disappointment, and learn instead to meet disappointment with humility.

I have added new systems since then. I test my recordings before I leave the studio. I save them in more than one place. But the more meaningful repair is internal. I am trying to notice when I start gripping too hard, when I treat control as the same thing as care.

Maybe that is the deeper work for all of us. To notice what we are holding so tightly that our hands ache. To remember that sometimes the most honest strength is in releasing our grip and trusting that what is meant to stay will stay.

We are all, in one way or another, trying to shape the outcomes of our lives. Sometimes we succeed. Sometimes life gives us a reminder that we are not in charge of everything after all. When that happens, maybe the invitation is to pause, breathe, and ask what is still ours to do.

To tell the truth.

To give ourselves grace.

To keep using our voice in the ways that matter.

Next week, the red light will come on again. I will press record and trust that what is meant to be captured will make its way through. And if it doesn’t, I hope I will remember this feeling—the quiet acceptance that control was never the point.

-Amanda