two hours and thirty-five minutes

It can take two hours and thirty-five minutes of driving to mentally unpack two weeks.⁣⁣

Two hours and thirty-five minutes buckled behind the wheel watching a summer sky burn and flicker through deeper shades, racing to see who will get to rest first. ⁣⁣

It’s been days on days of fighting injustices at work. Of cheering friends on through incredible new stages of life. Of seeking and chasing what aligns with my values. ⁣⁣

But underneath what’s good and true and solid is another side. ⁣⁣

I’ve uncharacteristically started looking for spicy foods. Just to feel my lips burning. ⁣⁣

I downloaded a dating app and deleted it in less than a day, way uncomfortable and wigged out.

⁣⁣I’ve been struggling to eat alone, oddly numb about it. ⁣⁣

At the first sign of fear or doubt, I’ve been running face-fucking-first through every opportunity. As if to prove to myself I can create stability through sheer willpower. ⁣⁣Instead of waiting to see if something will be unbearably painful or scary, I’m forcing myself to go through haphazard boundary checks. ⁣⁣

Sometimes it works out fucking brilliantly and I find a new job that is everything I’ve been looking for. ⁣⁣However, clearly, there are also costs when it doesn’t pan out to success: insert the above weird and unhealthy shit.

⁣⁣I haven’t figured out how to move on after losing one of my longest ride-or-die, be-there-no-matter-what kind of friends. ⁣⁣The kind of trust that was years in the making (and seems daunting to create again).

⁣⁣I’ve been unknowingly measuring how connected/loved I am by how useful/helpful I can be to friends and family to distract from my cravings for more deep connections (and fear of not being able to build more).⁣⁣

There’s a point when driving in the evening where the sun sits just under or around every possible sun visor adjustment – even if I squirm and rest my weight in a weird way. ⁣⁣

Similarly, that’s what acknowledging the messy, painful parts of this journey feels like.

Especially out loud.

Let me know if you can relate to any of this – I’d love to hear more of your story.

do you love you

I want to say I love you 
but on my own terms 
this love is not an empty echo 
thoughtless response 
vague reflection 

I want to start saying it more to me 

it’s caught in the back of my throat 
because I haven’t been saying it enough to myself 

“I love me and I’m enough”
“I love me and I’m already enough”
“I love me and I have peace”
“I love me and I’m plenty good enough for me me me”

so instead of telling me “I love you” 
please remind me 
ask 

“Do you love you?” 

I’ll blush 
we can show each other exactly
what it looks like
to love ourselves 
guide our love 
to love each other 

you’ll know that I love you
when I’m loving me well, too

songwriting and snotting all over myself

I stumbled onto an old Dropbox account full of photos and memories from the past that took me out at the knees (which is why my gut reaction is to purge most things so they can’t sneak up on me later). 

Struggling to process usually turns into songwriting and snotting all over myself. 

While walking home. 

In the shower. 

Driving over to a friend’s house. 

Processing hovers in the back of my mind and I scramble to throw a couple words or phrases into the notes app on my phone while continuing on with whatever else is happening at the time. 

I used to think I couldn’t multitask and then I realized that processing is a fierce force of nature that happens at the same time as everything else. 

Never giving a shit about convenience. 

forgotten storyline

Today I sat down and wrote out every creative soul project that I want to tackle.
The kind that give me an excited chest-static-buzz.

⁣⁣As I was writing the list, more and more ideas re-awoke and filled the page. ⁣⁣

The joy surprised me. ⁣⁣

Each line a small, loving ode to my creative spirit. Filled with grace and patience, welcoming me back. ⁣⁣I went back through my 100 Day Project (aka #100DaysofThrush) working drafts and ideas and found the note below in my phone:⁣⁣

Weeks before experiencing hollowing grief firsthand, I explored the idea of helping children or others through grief and loss in the story I’m building.

⁣⁣My first reaction to the realization was shock; a pang. I didn’t remember writing that part of the note. ⁣⁣

Then a bittersweet (more bitter tbh), slow breath. ⁣⁣The complexities of stretching and growing through grief is humbling and exhausting and yet – ⁣⁣there is still space to feel sparks of inspiration. ⁣⁣Seeing both parts of myself – the aching and the inspired – has made me closer to me.

Unlocked more gentleness. ⁣⁣

Every time I share a little bit more is a win. A hard and vulnerable and resilient-feeling win.