“the only thing we have control over is where we put our attention.”
Hi. My name is Megan Falley—Andrea Gibson’s wife. Their partner of eleven years. Their editor. The person who told them not to put the words moon and firefly in every poem they wrote. I’m a poet, an essayist, a memoirist, and a poetry teacher. You can call me Meg.
I want to tell you a little bit about my Andrea, and the origin story behind this Substack.
In 2021, Andrea was commissioned to write a newsletter. They decided to call it Things That Don’t Suck.
Just a couple of weeks after signing the contract, Andrea was hospitalized for an emergency hysterectomy. The diagnosis followed: ovarian cancer.
“This is the worst time to be writing Things That Don’t Suck,” Andrea said to me.
Then, almost immediately: “Actually—no. This is the perfect time.”
That instinct—to gently nudge the kaleidoscope they were using to look at the world until an entirely different picture came into view—was one of Andrea’s great gifts. Suddenly: magnificent color.
And so began Andrea’s journey with this newsletter. For four years, they navigated aggressive cancer, multiple chemotherapies, canceled tours, and the singular grief of knowing you will say goodbye to everyone you love all at once—while still choosing to look for what was beautiful. What astonished. What didn’t suck.
This may sound a little woo-woo, but it feels true: when Andrea agreed to write this newsletter, I believe something in them knew—before facts, before language—what was coming. A self‑proclaimed hypochondriac, cancer was Andrea’s biggest fear. And so I believe it was their soul that signed the contract, committing to look at the years ahead through the filter of what doesn’t suck.
And they did.
For four years, Andrea didn’t just write bravely—they lived bravely. We danced through the diagnosis. We sang. We made art and love and magic out of the mundane. We laughed more than ever. We appreciated each other better than we ever had before. We called ourselves lucky. We were four-leaf clovers made from two-leaf clovers and glue. We felt brand new. We were plugged into the miracle.
And Things That Don’t Suck became my project to continue.
Once again, it feels like our souls made some kind of agreement—signed a cosmic contract. Because I could look at this time through the lens of this sucks. Of course it does! It is reasonable to find it difficult to train your eye toward joy when you are widowed at thirty‑six.
But I can hear Andrea whispering: No, baby. This is the perfect time.
Andrea often quoted their therapist, who said, “The only thing we have control over in this life is where we put our attention.”
To put my attention only on what is awful would be to miss the point of everything Andrea was guiding me toward—guiding us toward—over those four years.
So this is my inheritance from my love: to continue the practice of shifting attention. To hunt for truffles of joy in a sometimes‑muddied life. To keep asking the question Andrea taught us how to ask: What doesn’t suck?
In this space, I share my own writing—about staying present with sadness, my experiences with grief, and the love letters Andrea continues to send me from the beyond.
I will also publish Andrea’s never‑before‑seen poems and songs, and re‑release their older work with new context and care.
Why subscribe?
There’s enough bad news on your timeline. Things That Don’t Suck subscribers of all levels can expect a digital bouquet filled with flowers that bloom on the bright side at least once a month.
For now, Things That Don’t Suck is free. If you choose to contribute $5 a month, you help keep it accessible to those who cannot afford it. Paid subscriptions also support Andrea Gibson Poetry in continuing to publish Andrea’s words and in caring for their family, friends, and loved ones—exactly as Andrea asked in their will.
In the Jewish tradition, a person dies twice: once when their body stops, and again when their name is spoken for the last time. Thanks to your support, it comforts me to know that in my lifetime, I will never witness Andrea’s second death.
Perhaps joy is not a personality trait, but a practice—a muscle you build by dancing when you’re inclined to stay in bed. Grief, I think, is its own kind of emotional paint thinner, stripping everything back until only the truest thing remains.
Together, let’s shift the kaleidoscope, and look at the miracle of this life together, in all its fragments and color.
With love,
Meg (+ Andrea, forever)
