I started this post last September.

I had a draft saved in my backend with this title and nothing else.

There is vulnerability in here. In where?

It has been over a year since I have written on this blog. I’ve done interviews, written things for work, scribbled in my journal, but an undertone of fear has kept me away from this space–a space I had made sacred for myself and others to land in. I realize it doesn’t take much to capture things here, just a few minutes of letting my fingers hit the keyboard, letting out whatever I have kept in.

Writing to me has always been a form of escapism–I write also to be found. Last week, surrounded by other writers and artists during a virtual reading event I remembered the power of listening to those who also do the thing that you do.

I heard something yesterday that resonated as true with me, that we often look at people (often online) and think, they are doing what I want to do and they make it look so flawless when the truth is, there is nothing flawless about what they are doing. In fact, there is a often a team of people supporting this person, so that they can be doing what they are doing. We think we have to go at it alone. We have to make the dream come true, hit the goal, reach the followers, not only successfully, but without failing. Ha.

I remember thinking how easy it would be to do so much. Everything seemed easy in my 20’s in a way that at 30 has fallen away.

Ease is not my goal anymore, but finding the thing behind the ease is. Like the smoke behind the mirrors, I want to get familiar with the activity and lose the sense that this is just for show. So much of what we do can fall into the category of “performative.” For example, we post the stylized photo on Instagram, 30 failed attempts in our photo library, refreshing the app to watch the hearts gather.

We seek to make a home, perfected by adjusted shams, color-coded books, and extravagant placement of items because if everything appears just so, then maybe we will to.

There is vulnerability in here.

There is a pile of undone laundry. A sock without its pair. Kitty litter below foot. There is a hastily written love note. An indented pillow. Reminders of life. Lean into life. Lean into vulnerability.

What does it mean not to expose the chinks in the armor, but to rip the armor off entirely? What does it mean to engage in the present moment without pretense, but only with stubborn everlasting hope?

Don’t let the smoke behind the mirrors keep you away. For too long, the page has seemed daunting because what if it doesn’t work out?

Hear me when I say, but what if it already has?

 

Welcome back,

Haley