A Vulnerable First Something
Why is it that the moment I hit article all the words seem to evaporate? This is maybe the fourth or fifth time I’ve found myself here with a keyboard in hand following that pull to write, to share something. Yet, the moment I sit down or start it all slams up inside of me. Finding myself in the odd and unexpected challenge of learning to open again after years of pulling back.
It’s like I can’t see myself on the paper anymore, or I’m so unfamiliar to myself in this format that I forget the whole point is answering my own inner calling. Fuck performance, perfection, or putting on a show for an approval I once thought I needed in order to be alive. What it is that I’m actually interested in is the fumbling forward of remembering who I am in a medium that’s been there for me throughout the majority of my life. A lineage of connection to self first and others second through the courageous act of letting my inner landscape be seen. But shit does it feel weird doing a thing that you haven’t in a while. A mix of trying to remember what it once felt like while making space for it to be something entirely new.
Do I have a plan? No, but I am here and that feels like something.
A vulnerable first something as a love letter to myself.