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The Imperfection of Writing Vulnerably



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.


Oh god.


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…





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