On Life

Why I Stopped Writing

A few years ago, I made my blog private and effectively hid it from the internet. I actually went to delete my blog, but a chorus in me protested. “You poured your entire heart into every keystroke, your heart built this blog.” So I did the next best thing –

My blog was once followed by people all over the world. I cringe at the thought of that. 300 some odd views most days. People from Russia and Canada and the Netherlands. Reading my life in lyrical detail. Me writing DRAMATICALLY about my life in lyrical detail. Writing about my existential crisis’ and spiritual encounters and relational struggles acting like it was the ordeal it wasn’t. I gave them all a rating of 10 when they were truly twos and threes…. But then one day something terrible actually did happen to me. A true 10. And I didn’t want to write about that at all.

I decided I no longer wanted to share. I no longer wanted to stop and type about how the roses smelled. I decided it was embarrassing to technologically cry in front of strangers. And that even if I was good at it, and even if it once fulfilled me, there was no victory in it any longer. Just like that.

You can’t write without emotions, and when you write, you relive whatever you’re sharing over and over again. Every time you draft. Every time you edit. And, if you’re me, a hundred times after you’ve posted. There were things I didn’t want to relive. I was filled with emotion and I’m so grateful for the time I took (for myself) to train my heart to think more than it feels. And you can’t do that when you write.

Years passed and by the time I was ready to write again I wasn’t sure I knew how to anymore. I lost my style and, more importantly, my vulnerability. I spent so much time becoming a logical person rather than an emotional one. Thinking it would save me, carry me through. Someone without ups and downs, just routine. I watched as all color and rhythm left me. At first, it was lonely and disorienting, but it was a small price to pay to “keep my head.” I would’ve never admitted this, but I missed “old” me. The me that was often distracted by passion and inspiration. But, much like writing, I forgot how to do that, too. And, no matter what, I wasn’t going to summon it.

Until I…. met a boy. (I know. Cliché). But the very first night I met him, I opened up a journal and wrote about him. Eventually I married this man. (Last year). And I wrote and wrote and wrote and every time I wrote about him, I wrote about something else. A lot of something else’s. The beautiful thing about all of this is that this boy is old me. In the flesh. Adam is everything I used to be. Being around him is being around the color and rhythm I longed for. I have written hundreds of paragraphs about this. And yes, all in lyrical detail.

Before Adam, something inside of me just went on autopilot and created formulas for everything. “If I do this and this, then this.” I lived (and still struggle with) every day without inserting myself into it, just the behaviors I thought were appropriate. Things inside my heart were messy and resembled the tangled earphones no one wants to deal with so… I decided to live inside my head, then, not my heart. My head can formulate my life. It can organize it. It’s an incredible strength to think more than you feel, but it became my only dimension until Adam. One who fearlessly feels even if it hurts. Even if it’s messy. Even if it makes him look stupid or be unpopular. He is addicted to feeling. He lives because of it. He is the most genuine person I know. So I married him. A mere 10 months after we started dating. I’ve never looked back.

They say the first year of marriage is paper but I’m a millennial so… happy anniversary, Adam. Thank you for being who I’ve longed to be in ways that allow me to be a better version of what I’ve become. Thank you for your color and your rhythm.

We make beautiful art and we make a beautiful harmony.

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