Nearly every time I’ve sat down to write my daily blog post I want to start by saying “I really don’t want to write today”. It’s almost true. I want to write, I just don’t know what to write, so because it feels hard, I don’t want to do it. I know I don’t want to quit, but I also don’t want to disappoint anyone or have them skim my post and go, ‘meh.. next’.
Yesterday when one of my fellow NaBloPoMo’ers got tripped up and talked about quitting, she talked about the expectations of others, the fear of disappointment, and of not writing anything ‘good enough’. So, basically, my life. Which made me wonder – who is she doing this for? And of course, who am I doing this for?
I started blogging in 2005 because I saw one of my friend’s blogs go rather viral and saw how connected she seemed to other women, creators, bloggers, writers and mothers. I wanted that. I was dying for that. So I wrote and I hoped, but the magic didn’t happen. I didn’t have whatever she had. I moped about it, sure, but then I kept writing anyway. I wrote because some of my family and friends read and it was a way to stay connected, I wrote because it felt good to have an outlet for my voice that had been quiet so long, and I wrote because it shined lights on scary places and showed me that whatever I thought was there wasn’t always so scary after all.
I still get stuck sometimes. I left that old blog when some life stuff got very messy. I waited quietly, so quietly, for a place to put my words again that felt like a safe harbor. I go through dark phases where I hinge my worth as a human on whether or not people perceive me in a certain way. I get it.
Everyone wants validation, to feel connected, and to feel like they matter; a lot of us look to find that through blogging. Except I realized, eventually, that when I try to write for someone else, I fail every time. Every. Time. But when I write for myself, I never fail. It might be messy and disjointed, but I always get something, however small, out of putting words that I need to say down in black and white. Those words might not matter at all to anyone else, but they matter to me. Every single time.
When I made the committment to write and blog every day this month, I also made a committment to myself that I wouldn’t write for anyone even if every second of it was torturous and messy.
I’m writing to prove to myself that I can commit to this practice of sitting and putting energy into something so part of my core, but so often neglected, even when it gets hard. Especially when it gets hard.
I’m writing to convince myself that I can write shit and the world will not crumble.
I’m writing to show myself that I have to write through the storm in order to get to the sun.