Leaning into the Desire to Write

I'm one of those people who endlessly scrolls through quotes on Pinterest. Reading quotes has always brought me solace. It can be so comforting to read the words you need to hear, but can't yet eloquently string together yourself. When I was a teenager, I wrote quotes on pieces of paper and taped them all over my walls. I filled notebooks [that I still have] with quotes, long and short, happy and sad. They detailed the highs and lows that I've come to know so well. As an adult with technology to utilize, I have thousands of quotes saved on Pinterest, organized on various boards. I recently had to start a new section for quotes about creativity and writing because so many were resonating with me.

The desire to write was planted within you for a reason.

These words have stuck with me since first reading them a few months ago. They've been a constant reminder to show myself who I really am, and to never let fear stand in the way of becoming who I know I can be.

It's not who you are that stands in the way. It's who you think you're not.

Time and time again, I hear myself say out loud when I'm a writer, as if I'm not already one. I get really down on myself and list all the things I'm either not enough of or too much of, so I could never be a real writer, a published author. Doubt enters along with the fear of judgement, criticism, and shame - all things that trauma has tried to use against me. Together they try to make me feel small.  They try to keep me silent. They tell me that I'm being a baby, that I'm whiney and annoying. They try to make me feel like my words don't make sense and are unimportant, as if my experiences aren't valid or deserving of being documented or shared. They try to convince me that I'm alone in my experiences or struggles, and that I'm the only one who feels the way that I do. But I know they're wrong. I know they try to deceive me. As Brene Brown says, shame hates having its name spoken. Shame will do anything to keep us from opening our mouth. Shame will do whatever it can to keep us from taking action against it.

With each instance of fear that arises, I recall an instance of showing up for myself and doing the work. I recall the countless hours [and thousands of dollars] I've spent attending weekly therapy, committed to healing. I recall the support group meetings I've attended, often shaking and scared, but physically present. I recall moments of rising above the fear, and speaking its name. I recall the endless hours I've spent writing, and becoming enveloped in the safety of showing up on the page. I recall each and every thing I've detailed, many times over, becoming comfortable writing about things I had never spoken or shared. I recall every piece of writing I was so proud of that I had to overcome the fear of sharing and just publish. I recall moments in conversation when people caught me off guard by complimenting something I wrote - things that people have to go out of their way to read.

I hope I never forget the words that a client said to me as I was dropping off a completed order. She stopped our conversation, looked up at me and said, Your writing is so profound. Of all the people who have the ability to see and access my writing, it always shocks me to discover who is actually going out of their way to read what I have to say. I never really know if writing about my experiences with trauma and trauma recovery resonates with people or if it really is just for me. Rarely do people publicly comment on my writing or give it a like. It can feel so lonely and isolating to share writing knowing this. At the same time, it's humbling to know that the lack of interaction has little to do with quality or content, but more to do with what the writing brings up for people personally. Commenting on something lets the world know that you showed interest and made a connection. It puts you out there, which can feel uncomfortably vulnerable. An acknowledgement of shared emotion or experience, or even just feeling sympathy for someone, can be so overwhelming to put into words that it's often easier to turn away immediately after making the connection than it is to sit with all the came up. I think this is why I'm always taken aback when someone tells me in person that they read something I wrote and really liked it. Online, the lack of comments and likes makes it appear that no one is there, but I know that you are.

Every time someone I know subscribes to my blog, I take a screenshot of the notification as a reminder of how special it felt in that moment knowing they showed up and showed interest. A year or so ago, one of my friends sent me a message to say that she read the most recent thing that I wrote, but then had to go back to the beginning and spent hours reading everything I've written and shared on my blog. To this day she continues to read as I post, which makes my heart smile bigger than I knew was possible. I still don't know how to bring these things up to people in person, but I know how to write about them. Even when you think you're alone, even when you think your words or your experiences aren't valuable or important, even when you think no one is listening or paying attention, know that someone does find value in what you have to say and share. Know that someone finds value in your brave attempts to show up and let yourself be seen.

Since starting my blog in 2020 and sharing some of my darkest experiences and most difficult emotions, people have started to open up to me more. These moments when people feel safe enough with me to share a glimpse of their inner world are the reason I share my writing. People feel so incredibly alone in their pain, so it can feel like being seen for the first time when you realize that another person knows that same pain that you carry. It makes you feel a little bit lighter knowing that another is carrying a similar emotional weight, like it's not just on you anymore. That person is carrying that boulder too, distributing some of the seemingly unbearable weight. Thank you for reading. Thank you for sharing. Thank you for carrying the weight with me.

I made immense progress in therapy in 2023, yet I documented very little of that progress (see my last post if you're curious about why I wasn't writing). Throughout the year, I thought about all the things that I should be writing about, but wasn't. Those things stick with me. Quite often I think about the hard days, the days when my EMDR therapy sessions were filled with tears and ended with me in a dissociative blur. So many days where I vividly revisited the most disturbing times in my life, but then had to enter and navigate the present world as if I wasn't just reliving the terror of the past. Many days I sat in my car after therapy, just breathing. Sometimes crying. Sometimes smiling. Often scribbling down an important realization that happened during that session. Always in awe of the work I'm doing to heal the deep seated wounds that I didn't tend to for so long. I think about the days when I made major breakthroughs, dumbfounded by the success of the therapies I'm utilizing that people need to know about. I'm eager to look back and start to detail some of those things that were too big to write about as I was processing them.

This month, I celebrate four years of attending weekly therapy. Four years of showing up for myself, getting to know and love parts of myself that I once called demons. Right now, I feel healthier than I ever have before. For the first time in my life, I feel like I can show up and be present and whole. That credit is mine and is very deserving of being written about.