I started this blog two years ago today. And I used to wonder what sparked it. Sure, it was a ‘creative outlet.’ But it ended up being so much more.
Now I realize—I just granted myself permission. Permission to feel exactly how I feel. To have the guts to sit with those feelings, and tell them that they’ve been felt. What a wild gift we have to choose in favor of a healthy heart. That feels, that loves and that aches—but does not choose to stay there.
When you choose to write your life into a public display of lessons made metaphor—an exhibit with memories spilled in ink, for people to read and to dig their feet through—to make what they want out of the scattered letters that you made into words. You begin to wonder who will have the heart to sift through the unfinished thoughts and collect them into a box. To collect everything—the mess, the hurt, the misfit. And then carry them into a room and adorn the walls with your metaphors and nostalgia.
Thank you. Thank you for reading my messy, my odd, and my growing story and for making it one worth holding on to.
It can be a scary thing—deciding to share a part of yourself. Deciding to root for yourself and deciding that you really aren’t too shabby after all. Deciding that what you have to say and the bad jokes you have up your sleeve, are genuinely of value to someone. Even if that someone is yourself.
Everyone is so busy with their lives, we sometimes don’t have control over what people think of us. But we can always tell them who we are.
Tell them you are a bit nuts. You watch too many Youtube videos about dogs and kangaroos. You are thrilled out of your mind when you find a penny on the sidewalk. Tell them about your weird laugh and about your passions. Tell them how relaxed you feel when you finally let go. Tell them about what gets you up in the morning—about the thing you love so much that your stomach flutters every time you talk about it. Tell them what you’re awesome at— as well as what you’re not so awesome at, but love anyways.