CELEBRATE

My birthday falls on the 13th of January so for me New Years has always felt a bit early for resolutions. I don’t really do resolutions. Instead, I set an intention by choosing a word that represents my hope for the year, and it makes more sense to align my intention with my upcoming year of life rather than just the upcoming year. 

A few years ago when I was trying to get a teaching job, the word was “yes.” Yes to everything. Yes to every sub assignment that came along. Yes to every opportunity. So it’s not surprising that the next year’s word was “no.” No to everything that didn’t excite me or align with my morals and desires. It was a year of boundaries. Other words I’ve chosen over the last few years have been truth, courage, listen. This year I have chosen the word: CELEBRATE.

My intention is to celebrate. Everything. I intend to celebrate not only myself and my life but those around me as well. I want to celebrate everything big and small. You started a business? I’ll celebrate you. You washed the dishes? You better believe I’ll celebrate you. There’s a tweet by Brittany Packnett Cunninham going around that says:

“Normalize celebrating your people while they’re on the journey, before the big win.” 

Brittany Packnett Cunninham

This is my hope for my 35th year of life. I want to celebrate myself. I want to celebrate you. I want all of us to celebrate our people as we are, here and now, and all the intentions and dreams we’ve been lugging around. I want us to celebrate how far we’ve come and how far we intend to go. Because life is precious and short and we don’t have time to sit around waiting for people to get engaged or have babies or win awards. Let’s give each other awards. Let’s throw each other a “You Didn’t Have a Baby” shower where we give the recipient tons of booze and a pair of skinny jeans. 

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When I realized I was a writer, it was some of the most thrilling days of my life. I wanted to have a vocation reveal party where I baked the word “writer” into a cake or shot a cannon filled with confetti made out of shredded newspapers because I wanted to share my joy and excitement with the world. Alas, no such party exists, but wouldn’t it be far more interesting to hear about someone discovering life-long passion than the assumed gender of their baby? 

I still feel this way about writing. If I can get out of bed every day and write, all is well. Notice that I’m not saying that I’m going to get out of bed and write a life-changing novel or win a Pulitzer. I don’t need that kind of pressure, and I doubt that any Pulitzer winners sat down to write with the expectation of winning an award. I write because it is an act of meditation. Writing centers me and empowers me. I haven’t won any awards for writing (yet), but the fact that I even realized this love and purpose is a win all by itself, and I will celebrate it. 

And I will celebrate you. Lord knows we need more reasons to celebrate. 2020 locked us up and forced us to face the truth. The truth of our violent and racist systems that literally take lives every day. The truth of the history of inequity for people of color, Black people, Indigenous people, trans people, and the impoverished within this country that still continue today. If you were lucky, you learned the truth of yourself and how you participated in upholding these systems in place, and hopefully you learned how to disrupt it. I did, and if you did too, I will sure as hell celebrate you.

And I will keep celebrating you because we’re not done. We’re not done learning and growing. We will never be done. I intend to learn and grow until my last breath. If life is the capacity for growth then death must be when we cease growing.

So if you are alive and growing and you want to share your journey, I celebrate you. More importantly though, I want you to celebrate yourself, and I want you to tell your people about your hopes and dreams so they can celebrate you, too. We need to see each other in the process. We need to see each other’s journey because it’s hard and messy but it’s real and we’re trying. Plus we don’t need any more perfect Pinterest posts. We need joy and truth and we need it now. Not after we tidy up the house. Not after we lose 10 pounds. Now. Right now. 

This upcoming year of life, my intention is to celebrate. It doesn’t matter if you are learning to bake, writing a play, practicing an instrument, or starting your own soap making business, I promise to celebrate the hell out of you (for the next year anyway 😉).

I Lied

About two months ago I realized that my ex-boyfriend had moved into my neighborhood. One morning on the way to work I thought I saw him drive by. I drove behind him for a while, wondering what he was doing in my neighborhood. Then I saw him pull over in front of a house just down the street from mine. That’s weird, I thought, maybe he’s working and has a client in this neighborhood. 

A week or so later I saw his wife outside of the very house that I had seen him pull up to. What? I thought, It can’t be. So I did some internet stalking research, and thanks to social media, I saw that he does not work in my neighborhood – he lives in it. 

Because I’m perpetually 12, I freak out and call best friend. She laughs but ultimately doesn’t think it’s a big deal. She’s right to feel this way. Out of all of the people I’ve dated, he is undoubtedly the kindest one. He was just a kind-hearted, all around good guy. So what’s the big deal? Well, this is my neighborhood. I live here. We bought a house here. It’s not like we can just get up and move, but it’s not like they would ever give us a reason to.

It’s just that I’m awkward. 

In the morning, I like to look out the window in our front room and watch the sunrise while I drink coffee. I’ve always found this relaxing until one morning when I saw them walking by. I ducked. I fully ducked and spilled my coffee. 

This childish behavior continued for the next two months. On morning walks I’ve jumped behind hedges to avoid them. I’ve run into my house when I’ve seen them coming. I kept this information from my husband for the last 2 months only telling him 2 weeks ago. How did he respond? He doesn’t care. I’m the only one who seems to care. I’m the only one this is awkward for.

So earlier this week, I was outside with my 5 year old as he practiced riding his bike. I’m in sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Out of the corner of my eye I see them walking down my street. I contemplate grabbing my son and running into the house but he would probably scream and that would only draw more attention. So I decide this is it. My ex is going to see me. In my head, I plan out what I’m going to say. We are going to acknowledge each other. It will be done, and I won’t have to feel awkward anymore! This is it.

Except he turns around right before he gets to my house. Then after months of hiding from him, I find myself trying to get his attention. I’m WAVING and YELLING his name. He still doesn’t turn around. So I yell LOUDER and wave BIGGER. His wife sees me, taps him on the shoulder, and draws his attention to the crazy yelling lady (me).

actual footage of me waving

What follows is the most awkward and disingenuous conversation of my life. I’m overly nice. My voice is an octave higher. I’m smiling and I imagine my eyes are wild. (I’m cringing as I recall this.)

It’s all small talk, of course.

 “What are you doing here?” I ask as if I don’t know. 

”I live here,” he says. 

“WHAT?! NO WAY!”  

Fake. I was so fake. I took an awkward situation and I somehow made it more awkward. I recall this interaction and my most authentic self asks, “Who was what? Not him. We know who he is. Who were you? Who did you show up as?” 

Just like the news that my ex-boyfriend moved down the street from me, this interaction is probably not a big deal either. For some reason, it makes me feel icky. Like I said, he’s kind. He’s a good guy. The ick-factor stems from the way I acted. I don’t like the way I showed up. I value authenticity. It’s the foundation for my closest relationships, yet I was completely inauthentic. 

It’s not that serious. It’s really not. I know this, but I also know that the more I strive for truth and authenticity for myself, the more difficult it is to show up any other way. This experience was definitely another way to show up. 

I could just confess everything the next time I see him, but I don’t think we’ll do anything more than give each other a friendly wave from across the street from now on. Plus, I don’t need forgiveness from him. I need it from myself. Once again, my humanity humbles me. I can read the books on authenticity and listen to the podcasts about being vulnerable, but there’s still a chance I might hide behind a bush if I see an awkward situation up ahead. There’s still a chance I’ll duck or run inside, and there’s still a chance that when I do show up, I’ll leave truth and authenticity behind.

I’ll get better at it, though. I know that this experience and the shame residue it left behind is a reminder that fake is gross but also that no one cares except you. So tell the truth for you. It will still be awkward but at least you can walk away knowing you were authentically awkward. 

“I’m Fine” and Other Lies We Tell

They say it takes a village to raise a child and in some very real ways it’s true. Villagers are trusted people that you rely on to babysit your kids, get together for meals, playdates, etc. Villagers are so necessary but also very tricky. I truly appreciate the villagers that come and support my family. So it makes me wonder…is it awful that while remaining grateful I sometimes wish the villagers would just shut up? I’ll explain. 

I understand that unsolicited advice is just a normal part of parenthood (and life). I get it. I’m also familiar with the ways people ease into advice giving. A gentle segue is “you know what I used to do?” Whereas “you should really just _____” is reserved for those who most unabashedly give advice. But it’s not the advice that bothers me. It’s the 2 words that people use in attempt to comfort me but in reality it makes me feel insane. High on the list of statements that make parenthood feel both lonely and crowded is the phrase “they’re fine.” This phrase usually comes after I’ve shared a concern about my children or explained a conscious parenting choice I’ve made and the villager turns to me and says, “they’re fine.” I’m assuming it’s intended to be comforting, but it feels dismissive. 

Then more often than not the villager will go on to tell me about their childhood and all the hazardous conditions in which they were raised finally ending with “and I turned out fine.” A mild example of this is “I grew up watching TV all the time and I turned out fine. A more distressing version I’ve heard is “my mother smoked and drank when she was pregnant with me and I turned out fine.” To which I tilt my head and smile while my insides scream “but ARE you fine?” Out of all the people who are walking around saying “I’m fine,” how many are actually fine? 

Is anyone fine? Judging by the copious amount of opioids and antidepressants our society is currently consuming I would dare to say that we are not fine. Despite what our Instagram stories look like or how we manage to perfectly capture a family photo, how many of us are fine? Also, is fine all we want? Really? That’s what we’ve decided is acceptable? We’ve gotten so used to carrying around our burdens we don’t even notice that what may have started out as a pocket of grief is now the size of a dump truck, yet we insist we’re fine. In a society that would rather prescribe you a pill than a therapist and values production more than people, suffering silently has become the norm. I’d even go so far as to say it’s the expectation. How are you? is really just a pleasantry. Answering honestly and sharing your struggles can be considered inappropriate because often we’re so crunched for time that we can’t really listen to how people are actually doing. So we say, “I’m fine.”

As adults we understand this, and so we go around telling little white lies to everyone. “How are you?” they ask. I’m good. I’m fine. I’m doing well. We say to our bosses, our coworkers, the bank teller, and it becomes a habit. Our lies spill into our personal lives. We start lying to our people – people who actually want to know how we’re doing. I’m fine, mom. No really, I’m fine. We lie to the people who truly care and who can provide the outlet we need. This is our opportunity to heal, but we’re so used to saying I’m fine that we miss it or maybe we don’t think we have time because we’re so busy. Maybe we think it’s selfish or worse, maybe we’ve gotten so used to burying it that we don’t want to talk about it for fear of the grief it might unleash within us. 

Most of us haven’t given ourselves a chance to heal. We’re so consumed with productivity that we stand in front of each other bleeding and broken but proclaiming with conviction, “I’M FINE.” I’ve seen this. I’ve stood in front of friends, I’ve seen the grief in their eyes, I’ve heard them say, “I’m fine” knowing they weren’t, but those words have halted any chance of connection between us. We believe we’re fine. Maybe because we have to and it’s a way to cope, but maybe it’s time to aspire for something more than fine.

COVID has hit us hard. Collectively we have lost just about everything we knew to be true about society and life, but maybe that’s exactly what we needed. Maybe we need more stillness and less hustle. Is it possible that we need a moment to stop living the crazy-busy-life that has just become the norm? Is it possible that there’s another way?

Quarantine has given us an opportunity to reimagine what our lives might look like, how we might spend our days, and who we might want to be sooner rather than later. 2020 is beautiful and painful just like growing up, just like finding your purpose, just like motherhood, just like everything else in the world that’s difficult and necessary. This year has forced us to live our lives without live sports, social drinking, parties, restaurants and basically everything we have used to distract ourselves. The pandemic has removed the crutches that have so long propped us up giving us the illusion that we are upright. 

We are stuck at home and we are all we have. We’re forced to face ourselves, but this can be so painful. So what do we do? We modify our crutches. We bake, we binge watch, we creep on social media. We’re grasping for other ways to tune out, other distractions so we don’t have to sit alone with ourselves. And sometimes, friends, distractions are so necessary. Sometimes distractions are the only way we can survive because life can be painful and heavy and scary and so we welcome distractions. 

I do hope, though, that one day we will be ready to face ourselves. One day we will feel brave enough to sit in silence with our thoughts and our memories and reckon. I hope one day we will bring forth the courage and strength it takes to have those hard conversations with the people we’ve been avoiding. I hope we can say what has needed to be said, and I hope we can heal. Then I believe we’ll actually be fine. 

So in summation, we’re not fine. Stop telling me you “turned out fine” despite doing all the things because I have this radical idea that I want my kids to be more than fine. Also, if I suffocate them with mindfulness then so be it. May they be bubbling with so much awareness that they see the world for what it is – beautiful and painful. May they recognize their own crutches whatever they may be. And may they be audacious enough to one day set them down in order to experience what it’s like to walk through this Earth feeling the weight of their bodies. 

And I hope the same is true for us. I hope when this pandemic is over, we can walk out of our houses and leave our crutches behind. May we limp. May we fall. May we feel the weight of our bodies on this Earth, and when someone asks how are you I hope we answer with whatever is true whether it be grateful, happy, or struggling – anything, ANYTHING – other than I’m fine. 

Death and Love

I’ve always feared death. For a few years when I was little it felt like everyone around me was dying. Within a 5 year span, I had lost both grandfathers, one grandmother, an uncle, and my grandmother’s brother. In my twenties, I lost an aunt and I was talking to my boyfriend at the time about going to her funeral. He told me he was nervous because he had never been to one, and I remember trying to imagine what that was like…to be so sheltered from death. I couldn’t imagine. Death always seemed like it was just around the corner.

This fear of death isn’t a fear of dying but a fear of others around me dying…a fear of losing someone forever. I have vivid memories of asking my mom why people had to die. My mom would take a late lunch so that she could pick us up from school. She would pick us up from school, take us home, and have a few minutes left before she had to return to work. During these few minutes I remember grilling her about death. What happens when we die? Why do we have to die? Every day. I would ask her these questions on her lunch break every day. My poor mom.  I couldn’t have been older than 7 or 8, and I didn’t understand why God would allow us to love these people so much if we were only to be separated from them.

My mom would explain as best she could. She said that we had to die so that we could go to heaven and be together forever. Forever… that didn’t seem right either. I couldn’t imagine being anywhere FOREVER. 

I became obsessed with death. I worried about my mom dying all the time…so much that I didn’t want to be away from her for long periods of time. At night, when everyone would go to sleep, I would lay in bed praying that my mom wouldn’t die in the middle of the night. I would pray for God to forgive me of my sins so that He wouldn’t punish me by taking my mom away. I would fall asleep terrified of what I might wake up to. Being raised to fear God is a huge reason why I am no longer religious, but that’s a story for another time. Right now, we are talking about death. 

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My last living grandmother died two years ago. I lost almost all of my grandparents before the age of 10, but I got to have Lala for twenty more years. She and I had a strained relationship earlier in my life, but that could be said about me and most people. However, in the last 5 years of her life I was able to reconnect and (I think) redeem myself to her. I did this through soap operas. 

You see my grandmother had a severe stroke. She was singing karaoke at the senior center and dropped the mic in the middle of her song and couldn’t sing anymore. She was rushed to the hospital. After the hospital, she was sent to a rehabilitation center down the street from my university. Every Tuesday and Thursday after class, I would bring my laptop and notepad to the rehabilitation center. She would watch her “stories” on my laptop, and I would draw in my notepad. It started out as doodling, but I was eventually bringing paint and having a full blown Bob Ross moment. 

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  During one of our visits at the rehab center.

She recovered and was released because she is strong and determined. However, that stroke was the first of many that would eventually leave her half paralyzed and without the ability to speak.  That first stroke though woke me up. It was a big flashing neon sign that read you will not have her forever. Yet I had been living like I would. I started visiting her twice a week. When she left the rehab center and moved into her own senior apartment, my boyfriend and I would visit her every Sunday night. She would sit in bed. We would sit in rocking chairs and sing karaoke on her Magic Sing. So loud. We were so loud. She read aloud the word “lousy” that would flashed on the screen if I had inevitably bombed a song but she would also clap and say “galing” if I had done well. Side note: this “boyfriend” became my husband because anyone who visits your grandmother every week in a senior living apartment is a good man and will have your back for the rest of your life. 

She was in and out of rehab centers, and we continued to visit her. She was able to attend my wedding and walk down the aisle with her brother which is something that I’ll forever be grateful for. It got much more difficult to visit after I had my first baby, but we made it work. The visits, although less, were more meaningful because I brought Ben with me. We got some good memories, too. 

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Lala,

You told me you were afraid that we would forget you. We haven’t, and we won’t. I remember you, and when I think about you, I don’t see you in the hospital bed, restless but voiceless, grasping for communication and sustenance. I see you walking next to me, albeit with a walker, around the rehab center. Smiling and waving at everyone you see. You were beautiful, and your beauty was generous. You gave it away with every smile and kind word. You told me that you say hello to everyone you pass, and even if some don’t say it back you still greet them because then, at least, they will know that they are seen.

I see you walking into the dining hall on Valentine’s day and setting your walker aside to dance with a stranger. You are laughing and smiling. I see you sitting across the hospital room pointing at letters on a paper and practicing each letter sound trying to regain what the stroke had stolen from you. I see you playing charades with us in the backroom and being terrible at it. I see you in the beauty mark above my son’s lip. A reminder that he and I and my mom all came from you. 

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  Dancing on Valentine’s day 2013

Strokes are petty thieves. They chip away at their victims. First taking a little, a sound here, a movement there. You recover quickly, but when they return they take more. My beautiful, strong, intelligent, resilient grandmother was fated to live out the last 3 years of her life out of her home, sharing a room with a stranger and not being about to speak. She asked for specific dishes so we knew she still craved food. She could write down sentences so we knew she still had thoughts until the thieves took those as well. She deserved better than that. Although she were so humble she’d never admit it. 

Loving her, seeing her live, and knowing how she died is one of the greatest experiences this beautiful life has given me. I’ve always feared death, but I didn’t fear hers. Maybe because I felt like I tried to soak up every visit we had those last 5 years. Maybe because I know the time I spent with her can never be taken from me. Maybe because she lives on in the stories that we tell and the memories we have. Maybe because the love she showed me will be poured outward into the world as an offering under her name…because the fearlessness of her love should be shared. 

To all the grandmothers and granddaughters in the world, I wish you more love than fear.

Time to Move On

In late September as my school was preparing to return to in-person learning, I made the heart wrenching decision to take a leave of absence for the rest of the school year. Initially, I had asked for accommodations to continue to teach from home, but I was denied. The way I saw it, I had two options. I could go against my instincts and report to in-person learning, or I could finally listen to the knot in my stomach that’s been saying, “this isn’t working.” 

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Engaging students in self-reflective activities was a favorite of mine.

Even though it felt like this decision had been a long time coming, it still wasn’t easy. There was a time when I loved teaching. I would get up in the morning and be excited for the day. I met one of my best friends at school and had the privilege of working on the same team. The students were incredible, and for a while it felt magical.

But lately, I was miserable. 

Teaching is freaking hard as it is. Add in a pandemic and you have yourself a bonafide shitshow, people. No one knew what they were doing, and teachers were on the frontlines as per usual. I witnessed my colleagues rise to the occasion as they had done and will continue to do as long as there are children to teach. Teachers are some of the most resilient humans I’ve ever met. We are experts at compartmentalizing. We check our personal lives at the door in order to make space for the personal lives of our students. We work 14 hour days, have advanced degrees, and yet it always feels like it’s not enough. 

I noticed that staff meetings followed a certain pattern. They started with appreciating the teachers for all their hard work and their resilience but then would go on to present teachers with even more hard work and more opportunities to show resilience. 

I had changed grade levels (not by choice). I had taught 3rd grade for four years, and I was good at it. I knew what I needed to teach, and the best ways to teach it. I loved my team. They were the perfect balance of supportive yet independent. It was a great dynamic that isn’t easily replicated. I also loved 3rd graders. These kids were still little and excited for school, but old enough to understand humor and they were actually funny. I’ve heard someone describe 3rd grade as the Mary Poppins year because the children are practically perfect, and it’s true. 

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Before COVID teaching kicked my ass daily, but I had my team and my 3rd graders and I was happy. Now, I was trying to teach a new grade level entirely online during a pandemic while trying my best to “provide a robust learning experience with synchronous and asynchronous instruction.” 

I found myself glued to my laptop working day and night. After work, I took a break to feed my kids dinner and put them to bed, but once they were asleep I would open my laptop and get back to work. I worked on the weekends just trying to get a leg up. My mind was exhausted. My body was weary but even with all the extra time and energy I poured into teaching, it still wasn’t enough. 

On several occasions, I would close my laptop and say “Fuck it. I can’t do this anymore, I’m done” only to open it back up a few minutes later because you can’t be done. If you want to teach, there is no “done.” There’s only the decision to stop working for now, but there’s always more work to be done. I remember I was talking (probably complaining) to a colleague on a Friday afternoon and she so lovingly said, “Try not to work this weekend.” My response, “Oh my god, can you imagine if I didn’t work this weekend? I wouldn’t be ready for school on Monday!” 

I compartmentalized all my despair into the hours I wasn’t teaching so that when I showed up for my students, I was calm and kind. The patience and love I displayed while teaching 27 seven year olds how to login with a username and password over Zoom has undoubtedly canonized me into sainthood.  Outside of those hours though I was a mess. Now we were expected to go back and teach in-person while simultaneously instructing the students at home through Zoom. How much more of my sanity would I be willing to sacrifice?

I reached out to admin but found little support – nothing more than a “this is hard for everyone. Hang in there.” I started feeling trapped and lashing out in my personal life. I cried regularly. I can’t tell you how many times I turned to my husband, tears streaming down my face, and yelling “I fucking need antidepressants!” I can’t tell you how many times I yelled in general. I was outside of myself. Finally, my husband told me to take a leave of absence, but still I was afraid. I was afraid that a leave of absence wouldn’t change anything and that I was just a miserable person. 

Then one morning I got in my car and Time to Move On by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers was playing on the radio. It was like I was hearing it for the first time, and I decided it was time to leave. I told my students. I cried. They cried. The guilt was thick and heavy. I doubted my decision. I wondered if I could take it back. Fear tried one more time to hold me down. “You can do one more year.” Fear said, “Don’t leave like this. What about the kids?” which was a convincing argument because what about the kids? That’s all teachers ever think about. The kids. Teaching was like an abusive marriage you stay in for the kids. “No.” I thought, “I can’t live another day without joy” and that was that. I was done. 

I hadn’t realized the ways my job was affecting my life, my personality, how I showed up in the world, but it had. Once my leave started (and I’m not exaggerating when I say this) I was a completely different person. I looked forward to waking up in the morning. I started to notice that the world around me was filled with beauty and wonder. I found myself curious and genuinely interested in life again.

And this is how it’s been. I still have moments of anxiety and depression but they don’t string together into days, weeks, and months like they used to. More importantly, it feels like I have room for joy now. 

You know the phrase “Choose joy” that’s printed on everything from t-shirts to signage? I think that’s bullshit. We can’t always choose joy. In the midst of despair it really isn’t an option, but maybe we can choose courage…and maybe courage can help us make the difficult life-changes with the hope that joy will be on the other side. Maybe.

Why though?

I’ve always written. Almost every day for a majority of my life, I have written something. This started when I got my first diary at 8 years old. I promised it (the diary) that I would write in it every day, and I did for a while because promises are very serious commitments for a child. I remember falling asleep as a child only to realize that I hadn’t written anything that day. I would find myself scrambling over to my bedside lamp, turning it on, then picking up my diary and writing something…anything…even if it was just a list of things I had done that day:

• breakfast
• school
• talent show practice after school
• home

I included the date and even time stamped each entry. I just wanted to remember. I wanted to remember everything. In my mind, I was documenting history. I really wanted to be famous when I was little (this probably stems from being a middle child). I thought that maybe one day someone would ask me what it was like growing up, and I would have my diary. Like an artifact.

• 

• 

Spottie Dottie was the keeper of my secrets.

Life has a funny way of showing you early on what brings you joy. Society has a shitty way of making you believe that these things are frivolous and childish.

Having written nearly every day of my life, it’s no wonder why I would want to have a blog, but for some reason I felt like I needed to justify this want. What am I doing that’s so interesting? What am I writing about that’s so important? These are the questions I would ask myself.

The critic in my head would ask, “Who do you think you are? You’re not in high school anymore. Why are you starting a blog?” and the writer in me would say, “Because I am a person with thoughts and opinions, but mostly because I want to. Also, I’m really bad at texting people back so how else will my friends know how I’m doing?” To which the critic would reply, “Well, that’s not good enough. You have to think of a nobler reason.”  

A “nobler reason” would have been to offer advice on teaching or motherhood. Traveling or lifestyle blogs have clear objectives as well. I have no desire to give advice, and I am not traveling during COVID. So why do I want to start a blog? Also, why do I feel it so necessary to explain myself? When did “because I want to” become an unsuitable answer?

As a person living in a country whose constantly heard the rhetoric “shut up and keep your thoughts to yourself,” starting up a blog in my mid-thirties may seem frivolous or even immature, and maybe it is. I’ve definitely asked myself these same questions. Why am I doing this? Who even cares? 

But then it hit me. WHO CARES. No one. The risks are low. There’s a good chance that outside of a handful of closest friends no one will read this. In fact, I take comfort in that thought, so why not?

I realized I had been asking myself the wrong question. It’s not why. It’s why not. That’s an easier question to answer. Especially when there’s a possibility for creativity, even something that’s frivolous and rooted in nothing else except joy and curiosity, why not? What’s the alternative? To not. To once again refrain from doing something that you want to do, that’s the alternative. How many other things have I stopped myself from doing because I couldn’t justify it to the critic in my head?

One of the biggest revelations I had was when my therapist basically told me know no one cares. Obviously, she was more eloquent. I believe she said that most of the time people are more concerned with what’s going on with themselves and they’re not thinking about you.

I was 25. I had lived a quarter of a century before I learned that. It was really freeing to know that nobody is talking about you because nobody cares that much. Almost ten years later, it seems like I needed another reminder.

The biggest critic is always the one in your own head, and at the end of the day I suspect that even she thinks I’m awesome. She’s probably just scared and needs me to remind her that it’s not that serious. It’s just a blog.

So here it is. This is my blog. Because why not?

With love,

Jenilee

ps. Big thank you to Aja who planted the seed of “why not” into my brain a month ago without me even realizing it. It’s just now sprouting.