on writing my way through it all
whatever you do, keep writing
on december 4th and 6th i wrote what would become two very prophetic little captions on instagram (more on this in a later post). in short, these posts talked about (a) grief and then (b) the fact that a long life isn’t promised to any of us. people had kind things to say; a lot good friends and family sharing their love. but shortly after the second one i received a message from my favorite aunt that i haven’t been able to get out of my head. in short, she simply told me to “keep writing”.
fast forward…
filled with insecurity and doubt, i published my first post here. as soon as i hit the publish button i immediately doubted my decision. having grown up being told i was too dramatic and now living in a culture that seems obsessed with policing what has become known as “oversharing”, i watched myself want to shrink. “no one is going to read this,” the boogyman said. “do you know how many great writers are on substack these days? who do you think you are??” unable to fight the boogyman on my own in that moment, i simply made a deal with him: “i’ll consider what you’re saying before i post again.”
i thought i’d have a lot to consider. turns out, i was very, very wrong.
on some umpteenth day in the hospital, i reached out to a friend who had been texting me daily (a ritual which i now recognize was instrumental in keeping me alive). i didn’t know what to do with all of the wildly immense emotions i was experiencing. i didn’t know what to do with all of the internal spinning that i usually manage by taking it out for a morning walk or hike, as if my own energy is an eternal puppy that requires constant stimulation between long naps. i wanted to keep writing but between sepsis brain and medications, trauma and grief, i couldn’t put two sentences together that made any sense. steph directed me to something known as morning pages; essentially a free association practice for clearing out the gunk in your mind so you can get to what really lies deep in your soul.
i took her advice—i do actually love the way that desperation reminds me to listen to the wisdom of others—and was shocked by what came out of me each day. grief of many lifetimes. terror. pain. rage against others. rage against myself. rage against the universe. there was a lot of rambling. a lot of wandering. a lot of half-finished thoughts that meandered into descriptions of what i could see from the third floor window of my room. in truth, when i look back now at the journal pages from that time, i have to admit that i don’t even remember writing for many of the days. part of this is due to ptsd, another part is due to a boat load of medications. but i also think a large part is due to the fact that it’s what i remember after that has had the most impact.
somewhere along the way, the frantic purging transitioned from a roaring river at the peak of snow melt season to a lazy one on a summer day. in this way i came to know that what landon poburan says is truth: writing is how you figure out what you really think.
for me, this has meant confronting what i really think thought about myself.
that i am was unworthy of love that is stable and consistent
that it is was my job to save people from the abandonment they have already endured
that i am was a discardable piece of trash
that i am was a dangerous monster
that being ill and disabled makes made me worthless
that the only way to receive love is was to give my power away
for me, this has meant confronting the fact that by not writing i have been able to avoid being intimate with myself.
these days, i write every single day. cleared by the docs to take my angsty puppy energy out for morning walks (with my trusty backpack and my dogs, of course), it’s been a minute since i’ve touched morning pages. instead, my journaling is a bit more directive. healing conversations with my inner child. answers to questions that drop in while i’m meditating or out in the park. insights that scream at me from the pages of books i am reading. insights i am having as i get real about what i believe and what i want from the remaining years/months/days of my life. reflections on tarot cards, songs and poems. it’s a journal i never expect anyone to read so, at least in that space, i am able to hush the inner critic. the more time that passes the more i realize that i have come to be someone who—at least for the brief moment i am writing—no longer turns away from myself.
it turns out others aren’t turning away from me either. shortly after my first post here i received text messages from many people telling me that the post had given them things to think about. had inspired them. while out to meet my partner for tea, i was even approached by someone who told me that my post had given them courage to start writing too many of these people told me that they had been reading my instagram captions for quite some time and really enjoyed what i had to say. i had no idea.
the boogyman i mentioned? he was dead wrong. and yours probably are too. because here is what i have come to recognize. most of our influence in this world—for better or for worse—is rather quiet. whether it’s in our writing, our art, our interactions with neighbors… we are forever carrying a thread of repercussion wherever we go. what’s more, the mark we make on ourselves by putting our thoughts and our soul into the world… by exercising proof that we know we belong… this can change the trajectory of our lives.
and always remember this: your impact may never be loud—keep writing anyway.
Love love love 😍 keep on keeping on, my friend!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️