Welcome to Mastering the Art of Being Broken, a sanctuary dedicated to the profound themes of grief, loss, personal growth and mastering brokenness.
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Mastering the Art of Being Broken was born from a simple, painful truth: we don’t talk enough about grief, trauma, or the quiet ways we survive. I’ve poured my heart into this space as a grief therapist, a writer, and someone who has walked this path myself.
The free blog posts, poems, and reflections will always be here for anyone who needs them. It's important to provide resources to anyone who seeks help and support. Join the mailing list at the right and you will be notified when there is new material.
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Recent Blog Posts...
Discover the latest blog posts by clicking the blog link in the. Here, you'll find a variety of content related to grief, including heartfelt poetry and narrative posts.
Additionally, you can explore chapters from my upcoming book, "Mastering the Art of Being Broken," as they become available. I hope that some of my writing resonates with you and feel free to share with others.
Monarchs
Monarchs revisits a childhood memory where fragile butterflies and family neglect intertwine, exposing how cruelty and silence fracture innocence. The poem will appear in the September 2025 issue of Beyond Words Magazine, an international arts and literature journal showcasing powerful voices and visual storytelling from around the world.
East
Grief has a way of fastening itself to the smallest, strangest details—the way a foot twists, the way clothing doesn’t quite fit, the silence around what cannot be seen. “East” traces how one such detail refused to let go, becoming both an emblem of anguish and a symbol of renewal. It’s a poem about bearing witness to what remains unturned, and how grief can both bloom and coil in the same breath.
Cub Reporter
A Novel
Welcome to Mastering the Art of Being Broken. I am delighted to inform you that Chapter One of the upcoming book "Cub Reporter - A Novel" is now available for you to read at your pleasure. As we embark on this exploration of the complexities of being broken, we invite you to peruse our site. For every 1,000 followers who join our community, a new chapter will be unveiled, allowing you to experience the unfolding story alongside fellow readers. Additionally, we encourage your insights and suggestions as they could play a vital role in shaping the narrative. So, please consider inviting your friends to subscribe to the free website and join us on this captivating adventure together.
Cub Reporter - A Novel is written by Lee B. Erickson. Copyright © 2025 Lee Erickson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work may result in civil and criminal penalties under U.S. and international copyright laws.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
1
Chapter One
Halfway through my brother’s wedding, I snuck out for a job interview. My older brother covered for me. My sister-in-law issued threats. We were there and back before I had time to breathe.
I needed a job, and this was my only lead so far.
The Hudson Star Observer was a small-town newspaper in Wisconsin. My dad, happy to come along—mostly to make sure I didn’t end up back home for the summer—seemed more invested in the process than I was.
When we arrived at the newspaper office, it was a giant brick building just off Main Street. The brick had been painted white, but it must have been a while ago—the paint was peeling, and strips of it littered the sidewalk. The building was old.
My dad strolled down Main Street to find a cup of coffee, and I stepped inside. The smell was familiar but hard to place—like a wet dog, stale money, and too much industrial cleaner trying to hide something worse.
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