I got carried away in a magnetizing conversation last night and completely forgot to write my words for the day. My friend, Jolie, asked if I’m alright with it this morning, Are you okay with breaking the commitment?
I looked at the text and laughed. Not at my friend but at the way I used to be, and the distance between then and now.
I felt none of the remorse or guilt or shame for forgetting to uphold a commitment, especially one to myself. There was no need to.
I made the commitment;
I decided for myself my terms and conditions;
and I lay the final verdict that whether I complete the 100 days or quit at 35 days, I’m a mothereffing G.
I am the owner and director of my time and energy, not a beggar for scraps of resources.
I am partnered with God and the universe, not contracted to be overworked and underpaid.
I am committed, not enslaved.
I once thought that if I treated myself like a racehorse, driven by the whip of ambition and future glory, chasing, always chasing what I didn’t have, I would perform like one.
I once thought my suffering and pain were my trophies, things I could show around as my justification for success. But no.
They only hurt me. No, they killed me.
They dimmed the joy, the creativity, the light and wonderment of the process, of doing what I love and loving what I do.
They stripped the color and wore down my resolve and desire.
Commitment became a prison.
But I think I sort of get it now.
There is no prison that I don’t have the keys to.
There never was and there never will be.
So I got out.
And I made writing my bitch.
Hahahaha. I kid. But there was a certain level of ownership change that had to happen.
It showed up in the way I took back my time and energy and stopped feeling shitty about not writing for a day.
It showed up in the way that I stopped mulling over my losses, my inadequacies, my lack of drive.
It showed up in the way I felt amazing just for being me.
It showed up in the way I could see the world in color again, run again in joy and deeply sourced energy.
It showed up in the way I found my deepest fulfillment in just being able to write and convey myself, rather than the words that could litter the screen with or the unbroken number of days I could keep up.
What did it take to get here?
Generosity for myself and my craft.
Deep appreciation for what I’m capable of, and who I am, with and without my writing.
Lots of it. Lots and lots and lots of it.
And that’s why I’m able to wake up the morning after skipping a day and keep moving without giving one more thought to anything other than actually writing.
Plus, the conversation was on-point, wouldn’t have missed it for the world.