It’s only a few months after I decided to restart my blog and do a newsletter and write all the things in all the places, for the sake of remembering how to write, and wanting to do that publicly,  I have kind of lost track of why that was a thing anyone would want to do… or read.

Like, isn’t there just SO MUCH content already? Isn’t everyone out there writing and writing and videoing and putting their story out or… worse, screenshotting someone else’s story and making it their story, or just copying it word for word and posting it as if it was theirs… I feel weird about adding to that world of too-many-words, to be honest. Every time my hands hover over the keyboard I somehow talk myself out of it all. I get bombarded with a rush of bad thoughts about how little the world needs yet another person building their version of the world out loud, creating nostalgia for their own life experience in real time,

And not feeling sure that I want to add to that, I slowly, quietly, carry on living-without-documenting. And it doesn’t make me feel more content, or happier. It just leaves me with twitchy fingers and a head swirling with words that aren’t getting out and end up swirling faster and faster and attacking each other as they run out of space.

So… I come back. I Am Here. I want to make myself write down my stories because NOT writing them doesn’t make anyone else not do it. They still carry on, and I just lose my voice and my sense of who I am in the flood.

Does this sound a little sad? I have been. I am. There’s been a lot of stuff happening in real life that is complicated and hard and that cannot be talked about in a useful way in public. But not wanting to talk about that doesn’t mean that I can’t talk or write about anything.

I think I did, though, just have to write down, to acknowledge that things have been hard, and sad. And leave it there. And then tell a better story, and let the words out of my head, to make room for something else. Or just to make room.