Ernest Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
This blog can be a scary place for me sometimes. It feels a lot like I’ve actually bled just a little. But I’ve dedicated myself to being honest here, for writing about what is real. There is a sense of belonging within the world through vulnerability.
And it’s good for me too to type the tough stuff, and even better for me to type the over-the-moon awesome stuff. I’ve kept a lot of my life and feelings bottled up for a long time, and I know that it would have helped me feel less isolated if I’d had read about someone else’s experiences before I’d lived them myself.
And yet, I’ve been absent here in this space. I’ve been absent for myself in other ways too, but here, it’s evident when the last post is dated over a month prior.
I’d made a promise at the beginning of this year to notice what I was feeling, what made me light up, what broke my heart, and to write about it. I think recently, I haven’t been noticing nearly enough. And what I’ve found in my lack of paying attention to the pulling of my heart is that I lean toward making the same mistakes I’ve already painfully made. The mistakes from which I’d mistakenly believed I’d learned the first time.
So, I guess what I have learned again is that for me: noticing matters. Writing matters. Bleeding matters. And most importantly, trusting myself matters even if I have to relearn how every single day.