3 years ago today I started this blog and wrote my first post. I’m not going to talk in detail about how my life has changed over the course of these past 3 years because truthfully I know it, and those who are reading this blog know it too. And even if I didn’t remember I could go back and read all about it (which I sometimes do).
Instead I want to write about how in the past 3 years this blog has changed me.
Some days I sit down and write out a post that I think is thoughtful, I proof it, and I actually feel damn proud of what I’ve written.
On other days I let my stream of consciousness flow and my sentences start far too often with “but” and “and” tangled together with “—“, creating awful run on sentences with misspellings, missing words and grammar that my Mom would probably cringe at.
But I don’t care because they are my words. And somewhere along the line in the past 3 years I’ve realized that my words are beautiful and honest.
The truth is, years and years ago, in my diary days – I always thought of myself as a writer. I’d write short stories, poems, biographies about family members, and even mundane daily recaps. In my high school days (after my younger sister found my diaries and I therefore tore them up and burned them) I used to secretly write in an online journal forum. I guess it shouldn’t be too surprising that I found the blogging community a few years ago.
Today if you were to ask my husband, my family or best friends I don’t think a single one of them would describe me or know me as a writer. They might say I was great at writing a fast term paper (true fact, I can spin up a class paper a mere 2 hours before it’s due, including references) but not a writer in any other sense. How could they? I’ve kept it hidden.
I don’t entirely know why it’s always been something that I’ve kept hidden. Maybe because I just want it to be mine. Maybe because I didn’t truly think I could call myself a writer (the same way I sometimes struggle to say I’m an athlete or a runner). Or maybe because it’s not something I thought other people would think I was good at since I still struggle to capture my moments into words the way I wish I could. And maybe most of all, because my writing and my words are probably the most exposing thing I could share and I’m still not ready to share them with everyone.
Today, after 3 years in this space, I can finally say, I’m a writer. Maybe many still wouldn’t describe me as a great writer (or even a good one), but I’ve openly captured some of my most vulnerable thoughts and moments and I have continued to share them – even as my identity for long time readers has been found out, or after I shared this space with a few close friends – and I’m proud of that.
There are days that after I hit publish, I regret it. And there are days that after I hit publish, I seriously feel like I’m standing naked for everyone to see.
But not once have I deleted or taken back a post. Even when pride should have maybe made me…umm, hello crying on my bathroom floor during B breakup time posts.
But I didn’t and I’m glad I didn’t because like clockwork the comments or emails come in. The responses to my words, as mundane or grammatically incorrect as they can sometimes be. Those responses immediately remind me that I am a writer, and this outlet is the most amazing internal growth experience I have had for myself in the past 3 years.
I sincerely love this outlet. I sincerely love all of the relationships that have formed from it. I sincerely appreciate all the thoughts, comments and emails. And so with that, I have to say thank you and goodbye.
Kidding! I’m clearly not going anywhere. A writer’s gotta write.
So here’s to another 3 years of writing. Who knows what’s to come, all I do know, is that my words will keep flowing…