Laurie Anne King

07/12/2026

It's live.
Disclosure Day and the Story Hollywood Still Can't Tell.
I went to see Spielberg's Disclosure Day carrying a private hope.

I wanted the film to go deeper. Past spectacle, secrecy, government fog and past the usual machinery of threat, proof, pursuit, and powerful men deciding what the rest of us can handle.

For me, disclosure has never only been about craft.
It has always been about communication.

The receiver.
The child in the dark.
The adult who learns that contact is not an event to be proven, but a relationship to be lived with integrity.

In this piece, I write publicly for the first time that I am an experiencer.
Quietly. Carefully. Without making it a performance.

I care not if you believe me or not.
I'm asking whether we have made the story too small.

I believe Disclosure is simply a present responsibility.
Read it on Substack.
Disclosure Day and the Story Hollywood Still Can't Tell
https://open.substack.com/pub/laking1111/p/disclosure-day-and-the-story-hollywood?r=12mqa9&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

07/10/2026

I have never written this publicly before.
This Sunday, I'm publishing a piece that began as a response to Spielberg's Disclosure Day, but it did not stay there.

It became something more personal.
A piece about being an experiencer.
About contact that began in childhood.
The feeling of being observed by something benevolent, clean, and more coherent than the world around me.

About the difference between proof and responsibility.
AND what happens when disclosure stops being only about craft, wreckage, agencies, files, and government secrets, and starts asking a harder question:

What have ordinary people been carrying quietly for years?

This one has grit in it.
It also has a nervous system.
Coming Sunday on Substack.
Disclosure Day and the Story Hollywood Still Can't Tell.
Follow or sign up to get notified when it is published.
MY SUBSTACK:
https://substack.com/

07/09/2026

07/07/2026

How many of us have survived beautifully yet still haven't fully arrived in our own lives?

The response to this essay tells me a lot of people are standing in that territory right now.

The Creature That Came Out of Me is about a tattoo, yes, but more than that, it is about grief, ageing, ritual, and the moment survival stops being enough.

It is about what comes forward when the old camouflage begins to fail.

If you missed it, you can read it here: https://laking1111.substack.com/publish/post/203154294?r=12mqa9&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

07/05/2026

Today's essay is live.
The Creature That Came Out of Me is a piece about the Fenghuang I had tattooed on my forearm at 63, the dragon already living on the other arm, and the strange mercy of becoming more visible to yourself.

It is about grief. It is about ritual.
It is about chosen suffering held cleanly.

It is about the body knowing when it is time to stop hiding what has already become true.

If you have ever crossed a threshold and known there was no real going back, this one may speak to you.
Read it here: https://laking1111.substack.com/publish/post/203154294?r=12mqa9&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

07/03/2026

Something in me refused to keep walking past the 'gate'.
This Sunday, I'm publishing a new essay called
The Creature That Came Out of Me.

It begins with a tattoo, but it is not really about a tattoo. It is about grief, threshold, chosen pain, and the strange moment when survival is no longer enough.

It is about what happens when something buried deep within the being is ready to surface.

If you have been feeling the old self loosen around the edges, this one may find you.
Coming Sunday.

07/01/2026

I thought I was writing about delight.
I wasn't.
I was writing about exile.

The strange loneliness of becoming less and calling it maturity.

The woman who stopped raising her hand.
The man who cannot say what he feels.
The older woman who wonders whether she disappeared or the world simply stopped noticing.

I keep returning to one question:
What happens when nobody rejoices in your existence?

I don't have a tidy answer.
I do know that the body remembers.

And I know how many people have quietly built their lives around protecting the places where delight once went missing.

It's live now at Substack if you missed it…
If this stirs something in you, come sit with me awhile.
https://open.substack.com/pub/laking1111/p/a-lost-benediction?r=12mqa9&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

06/28/2026

I once photographed weddings.
Everyone assumed I was just photographing dresses, flowers, or first kisses.
I wasn't.

I was waiting for a particular moment.
The instant the groom saw her.
Not the dress.
Her.

Sometimes his face fell open in wonder.
Or he'd laughed nervously.
Sometimes tears came before he could stop them.

And then she would see him seeing her.
The whole room changed.

I've never forgotten those moments.
Because I think many of us are quietly starving for them.

Not applause or admiration.
Just the experience of arriving fully and watching another human being soften.

Join me… just published at Substack!
It's called:
A Lost Benediction.
Come sit with me awhile.
https://open.substack.com/pub/laking1111/p/a-lost-benediction?r=12mqa9&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true