As I complete a blog post and my mouse hovers over Publish, I sometimes have questions of fear and doubt.
They go something like this,
What if this is so weird?
What will people think?
What if no one gets me?
What if no one reads this?
What if this is really boring?
What if I’m crazy?
What if people I used to go to church with think I’m a heretic?
Yup. All real thoughts that flicker across my mind in .9 seconds before clicking Publish.
I feel very vulnerable at times. I’ve told people this when they compliment my blog or resonate with it:
These words are my heart of my sleeve.
If you get what the hell I say here, what I’m intending to convey, you get me.
And that means so much to me.
Can you get why posting makes me feel vulnerable?
Because when I write, I hold nothing back.
The things that need to be said to keep my sanity are said here.
This is both my most comfortable and uncomfortable place in the world, a place where my thoughts come to life, where my existence is validated by my words, where I am known for who I am, rather than what I look like, what I can do, what I have, how much space I take up.
I feel myself censoring less and less. I feel myself caring less and less.
I feel myself knowing myself more and more. I feel myself becoming more and more sure.
Don’t get me wrong. I still care what people think.
It’s just the number of people that has changed.
Things are beginning to make sense.
This is far from apathy. Very very far.
I’ve never cared more in my life.
Never felt more alive.
More at peace.
More in joy.
More compassionate. Big one.
And in that, more me.
It’s a nice place to be. A really nice place.
Like, so nice, it’s the only place I ever want to be.