Under the Cover with Jen Winsor, author of Ship Moms

Ship Moms is a collection of behind-the-scenes true stories of cruise ship crew members and the babies we brought into the world. The book begins with a journal entry from 2015: the day I left Newfoundland to join my first ship. The journal itself was black embossed with gold lettering, an Oscar Wilde quote: “With freedom, flowers, books, and the moon, who could not be perfectly happy?” It was a gift from a cousin who likely knew I needed it to work through my major transition. At the time, I thought I was just scribbling random musings into a notebook, like, “Please don’t let me puke during lifeboat drills.” I had no idea that scribbling in that little book would later snowball into a book of its own, let alone a memoir that would get published.

Here’s the thing: not all writing is meant for public consumption, but sometimes it sneaks its way out there anyway. Some pages are just for venting, sorting out tangled feelings, or, in my case, trying not to cry in crew laundry at 2 a.m. Journaling has been like therapy for me. Unlike writing for publication, I acknowledged that journaling requires nothing but honesty. It’s messy, raw, and deeply personal. You can spill truths you’d never admit out loud and not worry about spelling, plot arcs, or whether your mother-in-law will approve. You simply write, honestly and unfiltered, and somehow, in the process, you stumble into clarity.

Memoir, though, I’ve come to learn, is quite different. It takes those raw fragments and shapes them into something to be shared. Writing a memoir means standing up and saying, “Here’s my story. Maybe it will resonate with you, too.” Journaling and memoir both fall under the umbrella of life-writing, but they wear very different hats. Journaling is like sweatpants: private, comfortable, unflattering, and not meant for an audience. Memoir, on the other hand, is like putting on actual pants (sometimes even with a zipper) and leaving the house. It takes the raw material of your experiences and shapes it into something worth sharing, a story that invites readers in and, hopefully, makes them feel less alone.

Looking back, writing in that journal and later writing this book changed me. The long hours, the moments I wanted to give up and throw my laptop out the window, the doubts that told me I was not good enough, all of it stretched me beyond the safe, familiar edges of myself. And somewhere in that stretching, I grew.

The other most impactful and inspirational part of the project was interviewing all the different ship moms. I spent countless hours on virtual calls with these women who were located all over the world. Sometimes we laughed about ship life and the craziness of pregnancy at sea, and other times they would open up about the hard days, and we’d cry together. I had each individual ship mom review their chapters to ensure they were comfortable with what was communicated, as their support and approval are of the utmost importance to me. My process of capturing their stories was simple but intentional. I listened first, recorded their words, and then wrote their stories with as much compassion as I could, trying not to polish away the grit of their experiences. I wanted the reader to hear their voices as clearly as I had.

One of the biggest hurdles was (and still is) wrestling with impostor syndrome, the sneaky inner saboteur. It had already chased me out of performing music years earlier, quite literally silencing me. My throat would tighten with anxiety when I tried to sing, so eventually I just stopped.

Which brings me to another truth. I was stepping into writing with no track record. Full disclosure: this is my first book. I have no writing experience or literary accolades apart from winning a writing contest in the local newspaper in grade three. Unlike music, writing has been a slightly different experience. The saboteur still whispered, “Who do you think you are, writing a book?” but this time I didn’t listen. I kept going, even when the doubts tagged along like unwelcome cruise passengers who’d clearly smuggled their own booze onboard. Slowly, they lost their power and passed out. In the end, I finished something I never thought I could: an entire book. Apparently, the saying is true: writers are just amateurs who didn’t quit.

What helped most was naming impostor syndrome for what it was. Saying, “Oh, hello again, you ridiculous liar,” took some of its bite away. I also realized everyone, even the people I admired most, had felt the same way at some point. Apparently, self-doubt is less a personal defect and more a universal membership card to the human race.

I started reframing the doubt. Instead of taking nerves as proof that I was failing, I took them as proof that I cared. No one gets anxious about things that don’t matter to them. On rough days, I’d scroll through kind messages from the ship moms whose stories I’d shared or reread a supportive email from a friend. These were little life rafts reminding me I wasn’t drowning, no matter what my brain insisted. Most importantly, I stopped aiming for perfection. Perfection is a trap; progress is where growth lives. And when impostor syndrome still rears its head, I remind myself I am doing this to connect, heal, and share something meaningful.

Writing these stories forced me to see my life through a new lens. I wasn’t just narrating; I was the main character. And let me tell you, it’s a humbling experience to realize your protagonist is making questionable choices and desperately needs character development when that protagonist is yourself. But that’s the beauty of memoir: you can’t dodge your own story arc. Yes, it was scary. Yes, there were nights I lay awake wondering what people would think about me airing out this much truth. But then I remembered the quote often credited to Dr. Seuss: “Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.” A mantra I repeat whenever self-doubt tries to RSVP to the party.

When I first began journaling, I treated it like a private appointment with myself, ten or twenty minutes of writing without judgment. The words were often unfiltered and sometimes dramatic enough to rival bad soap operas, but they were mine and they were healing. In the end, writing this book gave me courage, clarity, and, most surprisingly, a sense of humour about my own messiness. There were days I felt like I was dragging myself across the finish line, powered only by Earl Grey tea and stubbornness. There were darker days, too, when the thought of finishing the book was the only flicker of light I could hold onto.

But I did finish. And in finishing, I closed a chapter of my life I wasn’t sure I’d survive. The book gave me back to myself: stronger, lighter, more rooted. I feel at peace now and ready to take on what comes next. After all, if I can survive ship life, late-night laundry meltdowns, and my own impostor syndrome, surely I can survive a book launch—and in the end, maybe even share something that helps someone else feel less alone.