I haven’t written in a while. It’s a weird thing to say or think about—ever since I learned how to form letters, writing has been an activity I cherished. As a strange little girl, I was fascinated by pioneers, and, also my mother forced me to watch Roots and Queen from a young age, so, I wrote stories about a little freed slave girl named Savannah who, along with her family, loaded up a Conestoga wagon and moved west to start a new life. I’ve always found a way to write.
For weeks, I’ve been trying to figure out why I couldn’t write, why nothing was coming to me, and why I stared at many blank Word document, the curse taunting and blinking at me. And finally, finally, I figured it out. Last fall marked the start of a trying time in my life—which I managed to write about in November. It was cathartic to write about everything that happened, and acknowledge publicly something real and painful that I had been struggling with privately. While it felt good to be so open, and to talk about something that I believe happens all too frequently to many women, a new kind of fear crept up on me. I thought that if I spent too much time thinking or talking about it any further, I wouldn’t become paralyzed with grief and sadness. And so, I stopped allowing myself to feel the full strength of a variety of emotions—even the good ones. And that’s when I stopped writing. Sure, there were some Bachelor recaps and a couple of posts about Toronto, but in re-reading those posts, I can see there’s no real heart behind them. I even stopped writing Bachelor recaps halfway through the season because I did not enjoy anything about what I was doing. I knew that I should be writing, but my heart wasn’t in it.
As fate would have it, one of the darkest periods of my life also coincided with the start of a romantic relationship I’m so proud to be in. And for as honest as I can be with him, I know there’s more depth to what I feel for him, how I feel about us, and how I feel about my future, and to get there, I have to let myself really feel things again. I have to forgive myself for all the things that have happened over the past six months, hell, since November 2014, and I have to allow myself to really heal. And not just function.
When I set up this blog, I thought that the act of writing about anything would be satisfying. But I’m not really a lifestyle blogger, and part of the challenge I’ve faced in regularly maintaining this blog, even on good days, is that it does not feel authentic to me to try to emulate the other blogs I see when surfing Twitter or Instagram. I like telling stories. And some of those stories might have to do with a cool bag I bought or a trip I went on and the things I packed. But sometimes, I might need to overshare my thoughts and feelings and experiences. The posts I’ve been most proud of have centered around me reflecting on some situation in my life, and with my rediscovered emotional awareness, I’m hoping to get back to that kind of writing.
So. The blog title will stay the same. What I write about? Who knows. Whatever strikes my fancy. I don’t know how often I’ll post, but I am back. And ready to begin, again.