Column: Otherwise, I'm Not Fine and that’s okay thanks to Barbara Presnell's upcoming conversation
Barbara Presnell’s Otherwise, I’m Fine isn’t just a memoir—it’s a mirror. It reflects the kind of truth most families only whisper about, if they speak of it at all. Grief, aging parents, the military, siblings, complicated memories—it’s all there, unfiltered and unmistakably human.
Her reflections on her father stirred something deep in me. He was a military man, a storyteller, someone who shared his experiences with anyone willing to listen. That sounded familiar. My father, Floyd Alexander Kerr, also served in the military and also shared. These weren’t silent, stoic men. They were loud with life, full of stories they felt should be told. And thank God they did. Because when I read Barbara’s words, I didn’t feel alone. Like Barbara, I’m the youngest daughter—and maybe that’s why her story echoed so clearly in my own bones.
The other day, I had to confess something to Barbara. Her journey—her telling—stirred up a lot in me about losing my father. I was 19 when he passed, but truthfully, I lost him long before that to a stroke that changed everything. I told her how much the book brought that back up in ways I wasn’t expecting. We talked, the way you do when grief is the guest who won’t leave the porch. By the end, we laughed and agreed that I have lovingly inserted myself into her family (as I tend to do). She closed the conversation with, “Otherwise, I’m fine,” and we both laughed—because we knew it was both completely true and not true at all.
On Saturday, May 17th, I’ll be in conversation with Barbara at the Library Annex in Lexington, joined by her sister Ellen Smoak. Their brother Ed won’t be there in person, but his voice will be heard in a letter to be read aloud. Siblings don’t always remember things the same way—that’s half the beauty, and half the mess, of family storytelling. And that layered complexity is what makes this memoir resonate so deeply.
After reading Otherwise, I’m Fine, I didn’t just feel like I’d finished a book—I felt like I’d been through something with Barbara and her family. In fact, we’ve had what feels like deeply held conversations about grief, writing, and what it costs to tell the truth. People often ask us both, “How can you put such personal details out there?” My answer: “If you live by the pen, you die by the pen.” I admire Edward, Barbara, and Ellen deeply. We share a love of poetry, writing, and a commitment to honesty that we all appreciate—and lean into, even when it stings.
One of my close friends, Kim Pevia, once told me, “You can’t outrun grief.” They were right. I’ve stopped trying. I’ve learned to sit with it, to ask it questions, to let it change the way I write and the way I live. Through HOSPICE of Davidson County grief counseling and the sacred work of people like Barbara Presnell, I’ve found comfort in not being fine—and in saying that out loud.
Barbara says there’s still “so much more to tell.” Is that a nod to a sequel? I’m definitely asking her that on stage. Because the story doesn’t stop with one book. Not for her, and not for any of us walking through loss with open hearts and ink-stained hands.
For years, I wrote a column in The Dispatch called Just Sayin’. It was my way of ending awkward or difficult conversations with a wink and a nudge. Barbara’s title does the same thing—offering closure, while letting the door stay just slightly open.
So come join —The Friends of the Library on Saturday, May 17th, 2–4 p.m. at the Library Annex in Lexington. Bring your stories, your questions, your curiosity. You’ll leave with something deeper than answers. Books will be on sale by Pig City Books.
Otherwise, we’re just fine?
