Just. Start. Writing.

Enough with the pressure of thinking I need to have something important, witty, or thought-provoking to say before I could even start. As if the process of writing itself doesn’t come with a barrage of edits and re-workings. (I’m over here still trying to wrap my head around single spacing after a period.)

I’ve been ignoring the call to start writing again, yet it keeps pulling at me, knawing away inside, knowing that there’s got to be a thing or two lingering around, keen to get out. I suppose, in part, I hesitate to write because it’s as scary as it is enticing. Acknowledging the likelihood that if I pull and tug at just one thread, I’ll start to unweave a tapestry of reflections that a year in pandemic isolation has granted me the rare opportunity to explore; both gift and curse.

I’ve spent a lotttt of time alone with myself recently — even though with two littles, you’re never really “alone.” And because I’m spending so much time with myself, I’ve realized rather quickly, I better genuinely like who I am. One thing I’ve learned is that I spend an enormous amount of time “in my head.” Since I’m homebound the majority of the time (especially for the forseeable future), I better learn to in fact love who I am. Appreciate all the uniquely personal ideas percolating in my mind and try to navigate positive roadways for myself.

Of course these are not ordinary times, or typical circumstances, but still, holding a magnifying glass to one’s inner workings can only prosper growth or even healing, right? So what’s under the hood? What ails me? Stress. Anxiety. Guilt. SAG. Ha! No wonder I feel so aged and weathered as of late!?

Quite frankly, ‘SAG’ is a drag. So, in an effort to revitalize and rejuvanate, I’m going to write with abandon to lighten my load, lift my spirits, and pull up my mental health bootstraps like some psychological nip tuck magic. The good news is, you can’t botch elective enlightenment surgery.