It’s almost time for the obligatory year-end wrap up post where I re-share all my favorite posts (which aren’t always the most read or liked). As I was scanning through the archives, reading my own words from the past year, attempting to separate the good from the average, several posts struck a disharmony within me. It’s like they were written by another woman — some other thirty-something obsessed with glitter, sparkles, and dating. Who is this woman who writes about creating the perfect selfie or the art of color-blocking? That can’t have been my life this past year.
My life this year was not particularly glamorous or enjoyable. While my alternate ego seems perfectly happy and capable of posing, taking pictures, and in general, discussing all things beautiful, I feel way more qualified to speak on coffins and nails. I can speak for hours about what it feels like to be buried alive. How each day can feel like another handful of dirt thrown in an open coffin. How life can suddenly become a boa constrictor about the neck.
Perhaps you think that’s depressing; I prefer the term honest. The business side of me keeps it glamour and light and sparkly, but the other side of me is a survivor. The things that I could tell you about trying to breathe with dirt in your lungs. It isn’t that discussing fashion and makeup and being perpetually single isn’t like me (cause it is); it’s just one side of me though. As I’ve been reflecting on this past year, I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to be more honest in my writing because though you are reading this, I am always, first and foremost, writing for myself.
Writing is soul-work for me. It’s how I figure out what’s really going on. And I’ve got a lot that needs to be figured out. Step 1. Figure out an expeditious way out of this coffin. More to follow on that…