It’s finally time.
I’ve spent 2+ years and every single coaching session with my Coach this year talking about “writing more for myself.”
And by “more” I mean AT ALL.
Now it’s just annoying.
Why do I refuse to write like I used to? That’s perhaps my greatest question. Maybe I feel I don’t deserve it. I feel like I should be making money not writing about life. Like it has to lead somewhere important and valuable or it’s not worth doing. But writing about life is how I learn, how I contribute, and how I understand the world -- and myself.
Writing IS my currency.
When we first met, Maggie used to say she could feel the energy in the house change when I was writing and she loved it. There was a sort of magic about it. I miss that. I can tell she does, too.
When I stopped writing a couple of years ago, it was difficult not to write at first, but then, like all habits, I got used to neglecting my love. I abandoned it and now that I want it back, I find it difficult to find.
Where did it go?
Where did I go?
Why did I stop?
Now, where do I begin?
If I remember right, I stopped writing because I hit my own existential roadblock. I thought that in order to be a Coach, I had to say “coachy” things, do coachy things, and appear to have it all figured out, which didn’t feel real or genuine to me, and definitely wasn’t true. I just wanted to keep sharing and being curious and interested in the world. During that time, I was questioning my worth, my career, and my value.
So really, what was there to write about?
Certainly nothing I was ready to share at the time.
That leads me here.
It’s been a few years and the only thing left to write about is REAL life.
I have to be brave, real and vulnerable. Just like the curious and soulful writers that I so adore. I have to let ego go and allow imperfection.
I have to let you see me be an imperfect human. My chest feels tight with fear as I acknowledge this. I’ve avoided that for most all of my life. Perfection always kept me safe… captive, but safe. I want to raise my hand to my face and nervously chew my fingernails just thinking about it. Sharing my imperfections makes me feel unworthy, like a failure, and a fraud.
I feel like I have to tell you everything and lay it all out on the table.
I feel like you already know.
My mind spins webs of fear that tangle me in lies.
I feel like you’re judging me.
But not before I judge myself first.
If I share what I really think and feel, what will you think of me?
Will you think differently?
Will you stop reading right now?
Will you think I’m a mess?
Do you even know me?
Do I know you?
I find myself frantically searching archives of old writings to “see how I did it.”
How did I write?
How did it just flow through me without resistance or thought?
How did I write with such ease?
How did I reread it later and learn even more from myself?
How did I lose it?
Did I lose my ability to write?
No, I don’t think so.
I think I left it.
Why did I abandon that?
Who does that?
How do I get it back?
So here I sit… giving it time and space to return.
… I just found an excerpt from one of my old blog posts. I wasn’t kidding when I said I was searching past writings for clues as to who I was and what I knew.
I found it. My writing is leading me back home.
The last paragraph of one of the last blog posts I wrote a few years ago read:
“I write because that’s how I learn about myself and about the world. I write because that’s how I process. I write to always remember this day, this moment, this life right now. I find that I become a better person, a greater lover, a more brave human, a loving soul, an empathetic creature, through writing. I write because it leads me home, to myself, to greater connection and being. I share because people tell me it helps them and because I believe that if we know something that can help someone, it’s our responsibility to share it.”
That’s IT! That’s my clue. That’s me. That’s who I am.
It’s time to begin writing again.
Let’s see where this goes…