Between My Sheets—Episode 11: Cracked Open
When the door cracks open instead of swinging wide.
What if perfectly imperfect is what (re)building a writing life actually looks like?
New here? You may want to start at the beginning . . .
Because it turns out I’m writing a book disguised as a literary business model, disguised as a memoir unfolding in real time.
Between My Sheets is a living memoir about (re)building a word-centered life—with a Frenchman now back in Paris, a growing goat flock, a Nightowl lamb with a hoarse Maah, and a front door that just cracked open.
Can I just say I’m glad you’re here?
Well, I am.
Now sink into this Friday moment—roughly an 11-minute read.
Welcome, you.
This week?
A tooth cracked.
A door cracked open.
And I cracked open in the driveway as The Frenchman pulled away.
Three cracks. One week. May 1st arrived anyway.
Hot damn.
The Frenchman left Saturday—Paris bound—and because Lamb Chop (as I’ve been nicknaming her this week) doesn’t let me off the farmette without a loud meltdown—a friend took him to the airport.
That same friend I said—”I’ll just delete you” if he signed up for my email list—back in Episode 6: The Opening.
I know—crazy.
The Frenchman hugged me hard.
And I felt the weight of it all envelope me just as his arms released me.
The weight of his love.
The weight of the week ahead of me—and the return to all the chores he’d been handling.
The weight of Lamb Chop’s hoof resting on my foot as she leaned against my leg.
He kissed me a few times, then pulled back to toss his nearly empty rucksack into the trunk of the car.
As they drove out of sight, past the goats and up the long drive, I walked the opposite way with my faithful companion glued to my side.
The tears didn’t surprise me . . .
But the need to verbally give thanks did. Almost like a whispered prayer—a flood of words, of love, of gratitude flowed out of me . . .
and I know, somehow, reached him.
And then I gave thanks.
For that wonderful—annoyingly wonderful—man.
The one who did so much these last weeks it was a full-stop moment of oh hell, I might be in trouble.
He brushed Donkey Donkey for the love of it.
He warmed bottles before first light.
He made sure the milk was always at the ready.
He carried Lamb Chop’s milk-making weight . . .
all without a single complaint—bless him.
He doesn’t read this.
He doesn’t speak my style of English—scratch that, he speaks it perfectly when he wants to. He just doesn’t read this.
But I want it on the record—I love that man.
And while we’re getting things on the record, Lovely Reader, here’s something I think I’ve said in pieces but haven’t said straight:
Until Moo Baah, my first rescue goat, I didn’t know how to trust unconditional love from him.
From anyone.
The Frenchman has given it to me from day one.
For fifteen years . . .
I just didn’t know how to receive it—until more than half of those had already passed.
It took a day old baby goat, umbilical cord still attached, walking straight into my arms to teach me.
That life-changing moment—the one that shifted something in me—happened eight years ago tomorrow.
Eight years . . .
I was in the cottage.
Renovation underway.
Kitchen cabinets in pieces on the floor.
Drill in my hand. Music playing.
The back door was wide open and the music not so loud as to hide the sound of something . . . crying.
I moved to the door and there he was.
Precious.
Tiny.
Alone.
A black and white ball of fluff.
Unsteady on his four hooves.
Yet, determined.
As I moved closer, he did too. Walking right up to my cottage door and screamed, “Maah!”
Then came oh-so-trustingly right into my arms.
No hesitation. No question. No introduction.
He stole my heart in that instant.
My first.
Moo Baah.
Because he looks like a black and white cow but sounds like a—baah.
And today he’s eight years old.
He is the reason I stayed on this remote island for more than one year.
Learning how to care for him, protect him, love him.
There was a moment during Moo Baah’s early months when I rocked him in my arms all night long.
Three months in, he wasn’t sick. Just off. I felt it in my bones.
God forbid I woke up to tragedy.
That I just couldn’t bear.
And somewhere in those long hours before first light . . .
I’d gone and done it. Become wildly attached. To a baby goat. As if he was my child—and in many ways he was.
Which is interesting, because long before that night, I’d made a conscious choice not to have children.
There were moments where that choice could have swung toward the yes, but it simply wasn’t meant to be.
Not for me. Not in this lifetime. No regrets.
Even though my reasoning for that childless choice was flawed—I can now see—I can also understand how it served me and my path.
That choice allowed me to do what I so naturally do.
Mother.
Other people’s children for a short time—as a teacher, a tutor, as a step-mom to two.
Mother.
All the animals—both big and small.
And boy am I a mother—and recovering mother(hen).
Worrying and protecting and overcompensating for the lack of mothering, of care, of protection I failed to receive as a child.
So that night with Moo Baah cradled in my arms, tears streaming down my cheeks, honestly afraid he might take his last breath at any moment . . .
I started a deep ReWrite of that story.
I realized, in the dark of night with Moo curled on my lap, that had I chosen motherhood for myself, I would have been damn good at it.
That goat.
All these goats I’ve rescued.
They have taught me so much when I pause, take a breath, and tap in.
He didn’t just give me a flock.
He gave me a new operating system.
He taught me to slow down.
To stop rushing through his bottle-feeding to do what? Check email?
Seriously!
Email could wait.
He couldn’t.
He taught me to enJOY a moment for the moment’s sake.
Cuddles.
Afternoon naps.
Sunshine and the tropical breeze on my upturned face.
I made him salads.
I chopped his vegetables.
I sliced his grapes in half because babies—even baby goats—can choke.
I even de-seeded his apples.
I know.
Crazy.
And here is the thing I have not told you straight, until now—
Moo Baah cracked open my heart in a deep way.
Eight years ago.
Through an open back door—something not even The Frenchman had been able to do.
He taught me how to truly love—unconditionally.
And be loved. And how to stop hiding my light.
But here’s what no one sees—
Moo Baah is the reason any of this exists.
The cottage.
The flock.
The farmette.
Even the book I finally wrote under my own name.
And my finally—finally—trusting The Frenchman’s unconditional love.
In a roundabout way, Moo Baah is the reason the front door cracked open Wednesday for a select few.
The reason this very publication exists.
Me—here—vulnerable, real, bare.
Trusting that the right reader who needs this slice of light will find these words.
He walked through my open back door eight years ago and taught me to love, to slow down, to accept love.
Today, May 1st he’s the focus.
The front door was always going to follow him.
Now—about that cracked open door . . .
I need to tell you something, before anything else.
The front door isn’t fully open today.
I know. I know what I promised. On or before May 1st.
Here’s what actually happened—
I cracked it open Wednesday. Just a little. To a small slice of my email list.
Not the formal flourish.
No big fanfare.
Just a quiet—Hi there, would you like to come in early and maybe share feedback on your experience?
And the delicious results . . .
In just 12 hours: 77 orders.
And the orders kept coming in—hot damn.
The phone has been dinging consistently and at times incessantly—You made a sale!—ever since.
Three things broke—just three.
And that’s perfectly imperfect.
I’ll fix them all today, after giving Moo Baah his birthday almonds.
(He loves them. Most of the flock does.)
That’s structured ease with a mug of something delicious.
That’s a door that’s open enough to let people in—and not so open I want to burn the house down if/when something goes wrong.
So I’m taking the weekend. Come Monday—or when I’m ready—I’ll open the front door to my word-world wide.
And soon I’ll be sharing—in delightful detail—how it all goes in The Balance Sheet—for now free to review and soon, part of the paid version of this word-experience.
(Full details are in The Balance Sheet Sneak Peek below—you’ll want to see this one.)
Hi there, Lovely Reader—
I want you to stay here and keep reading this delicious story.
So I’m just dropping this note to say—if you like what I’m writing, be sure to subscribe. The button’s waiting at the end of this post.
And I know you’ll want to continue this Friday journey with me . . . right?!
About the tooth.
It cracked Sunday or Monday and there’s no dentist on this little rock of island paradise.
So I’m St. Maarten bound soon, but not right now as it’s Carnival.
Which means half of that island is in the streets—partying, and probably most of the dentists are enJOYing the festivities too—or hiding from them.
The number of unanswered phone calls, messages left and WhatsApp notes sent but not yet seen makes me question my sanity for being on this remote, crazy place.
But then I wake up to this—no filters, no AI—just pure magic . . .
and I smile.
I know why.
So, I’m keeping calm and focusing on deep breathing through the occasional discomfort—until Thursday.
Assuming I can fly off island—sometimes it’s not possible.
Assuming a hoarse-voiced lamb can survive my absence for most of a day.
Assuming the goats stay friendly.
(They didn’t. More on that in a second.)
For now—no throbbing pain. The tooth is just there—cracked.
A quiet little reminder to do better with self care and self love.
And if the tooth drama wasn’t enough—let me share about these goats.
Last night, dusk into dark, Buddha Kiss Me Sigh decided to break down a barrier and visit her sworn enemy, Snow White.
These two have hated each other since Snow White came as a baby.
Girl drama. But instead of ripping off gold hoops like a 90s version of JLo, these girls headbutted each other with crushing horn-to-horn force—through a fence.
And they won’t stop. Ever. Not without an intervention.
First order of business, move Snow to a holding space before Buddha realized there was an opening she could pass through and be face-to-face with her enemy instead of being separated by a few pieces of wooden fence.
One goat secured, the next step was to get Buddha back—but no, she wasn’t budging and did find that opening.
Damn it.
So into the large pen to meet and greet others on their turf.
Which meant a lot of headbutts—but none, at least for the moment, with deadly intent.
So I was in the pen, drill in hand to fix that temporary barrier that had given up its will to live.
And mid-screw—the drill battery died.
You cannot make this shit up.
Sigh.
Meanwhile, poor Woolley Nightowl Lamb Chop raced up and down the driveway screaming—Maah. Maah. Maah.
Poor thing got hoarse fast.
Trying to sooth her by talking to her, and keep Monkey Love from joining what could soon turn deadly—Woolley just became more vocal.
Knowing I had no working drill and next to no light, I gave up the ghost and called for reinforcements.
The most helpful guy who had created the barrier, but apparently didn’t fully secure it—he answered.
Thank God.
“Twenty-five minutes,” he said, , but I think it was less than ten and he was there—with a working drill.
He probably heard the extreme stress in my voice . . . and dropped everything.
He also knows how crazy Snow White and Buddha can be.
His truck and headlights sent little Lamb Chop racing down the driveway to quiet-scream closer to the house.
Together, in the dark, we got everything sorted.
Eventually.
The barrier, an actual blockade, the goats returned to the correct pens, the calming of Lamb Chop.
By the time I came back to the cottage, Lamb Chop, like my drill, was out of juice and had no voice.
Her Maah soundings this morning are the saddest-cutest thing I have ever heard.
Bless her.
And on a side note—Moo Baah was not one of the trouble-makers. He turned eight today like the best boy-goat that he is.
About that pending bath . . . I thought it would happen.
I had it teed up in my mind as soon as I realized the Above-Me Neighbors were gone.
They slipped out Wednesday sometime; I didn’t notice until yesterday morning.
The thing I had been waiting on for weeks happened, and I missed it by a day.
Because I was busy being a goat-mama, lamb-mama, tooth-cracked, husband-just-left, sales-page-fixing writer, living.
The thing you’re waiting for might already be happening while you’re not looking.
So the bath was right there.
But after the goat fight last night—after Lamb Chop’s nerves were shot—she desperately needed to rest in a familiar spot. On her dog bed. In front of the sofa. With me by her side.
So I poured a chilled glass of white and parked my ass on that sofa to veg for a hot minute.
And then, while she slept, slipped outside to enJOY the full moon rise for a beat.
The bath wasn’t the win. The choice was.
Choosing her, again.
Choosing not to rush, again.
Choosing not to beat myself up, again.
Choosing structured ease, again.
I refuse to make this rather full, eventful week—wrong.
Not even the cracked tooth.
One more thing while I have you, Lovely Reader.
The system finally clicked.
Maybe you’ll remember back in Episode 6: The Opening I was playing with structured ease and the best system. I am so not a spreadsheet girl. So in that moment it was one Google Doc with tabs as products.
Well, that became a massive document fast. So in Episode 8: The French Kiss, oh-la-la, I switched to one doc per product.
Yet, neither was quite right.
Third time’s the charm. Haven’t I talked about the power of threes before?
One master doc—a single living document with every email, every note, every who-this-is-for, every customer thread.
Plus, one Big-Ass-Business Doc, with a tab per product—each with its own sheet of tags, URLs, every checkout page, every asset, every flow. Always there, in one place to find.
So a creative doc and a tech doc.
How simple-sweet.
When I do this for each offer, I can suddenly find anything I need at the drop of a hat.
At times boring as hell to create. Tedious like chop water, carry wood.
But built with intention, with structured ease and now working . . .
boring is what thriving sounds like in my head.
And I call that winning.
Maybe you can relate.
Maybe there’s a thing you promised yourself by a date, and the date came, and the thing isn’t quite ready.
And the universe handed you your version of a cracked tooth, a runaway goat fight, and a screaming lamb—and nothing went on schedule.
Maybe it cracked open instead of swinging wide.
Lovely Reader, I am here to tell you—cracked open is the win.
You don’t need the perfect anything.
Instead, consider cracking the thing open and just begin.
If you want to write—write for 11 minutes today.
It’s honestly that simple and yet so easy to make hard.
I’m learning to let it be easy.
To let a few people into my perfectly imperfect world.
Watch what breaks.
Fix what breaks.
Then crack it a little wider.
Rinse and repeat.
That’s the whole game.
I see you. I am you.
So here we are.
Lamb Chop is hoarse.
The Frenchman is in Paris—jet-lagged.
The tooth is cracked.
And the door is cracked open just a bit.
The bath is still untaken—but this weekend, it’s on.
Moo Baah is eight.
The Above-Me Neighbors are gone, and I missed it.
The full front door opens Monday or when it’s done.
And it’s all okay.
Oh and tonight, it’s a full moon. So the goats will either be uber calm or obnoxiously crazy.
And it occurred to me, somewhere in this cracked-open week—
I’m not building from scratch.
I’m building from the middle.
We all have a middle.
The (re)build starts with a single step forward.
And me?
I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
Writing from my kitchen counter, a hoarse-voiced lamb asleep at my feet, and finally creating my delicious life and divine business my way.
Until next Friday, Lovely Reader.
Just Jill “Moo Baah’s goat-Maah“ Stevens
💜
P.S. Moo Baah—he’s the reason any of this exists. This farmette, words written and shared as me, the deeply sleeping Lamb Chop at my feet. A birthday salad is definitely on the way. He’s my love, after The Frenchman.
P.P.S. There’s something else I’m building called Flip the Script on You—a deeper path into my words for the one in the messy middle and ready for a ReWrite.
Autumn, my editor and also a writer, looked at it, and loved it.
It’s not quite ready yet because, well, I’m learning to focus on one thing—not seven at a time. Ha!
Sometimes I win at that . . . sometimes not so much. But once the front door is open, I’ll be focusing on that side door. More soon.
A Sneak Peek
The Balance Sheet
Because the numbers tell a story too.
In two days, 311 orders.
From a door I cracked open just a sliver.
Let me say that again, because it deserves it—
311 orders in 48 hours.
12 hours in: 77.
24 hours in: 159.
48 hours in: 311.Out of forty-seven-ish moving parts—three broke.
Three. Just three.
That is a 94% success rate on a soft-cracked door, with a tooth out of commission and a husband en route to Paris and a hoarse-voiced lamb under my chair.
And I’m (old me) not even good at math!
Hot damn.
And here’s where the line bends, Lovely Reader.
Because the past few weeks of Between My Sheets have already been telling a quiet story:
Episode 8—$5,243 from quiet beta offers. No launch. No list. No social.
Episode 9—$5,756 from two emails sent between bottle-feedings. 51% yes rate.
Episode 10—$5,940 from one email to 83 readers. 44 new-to-me people walked in.All of it without the front door open.
All of it through quiet side-doors.And then this week—
A door cracked open just a sliver. Two days. Five figures.
The full math—the average cart value, the bump take rates, the upsell conversion, the email-by-email breakdown—is what The Balance Sheet itself will hold.
Hospital corners and a mint on the pillow. Coming soon. First access goes to readers who are already here.The front door isn’t fully open yet.
Build it, crack it open, and they shall come—if aligned.
And that’s divine.
The Balance Sheet—the paid extension of Between My Sheets—opens soon.
Inside: the full numbers, the real systems, the deeper behind-the-scenes of building this word-business in real time. First access goes to readers who are already here.
Watch this space.
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