It's been too long.

(I guess I am back?)

Hi, my friends. It has been quite some time. There are so many new readers here, and some of you that have stayed during my hiatus. Thank you for that.

The truth is that it’s hard to come back here and write. It’s hard to know what to say when you don’t know what to say anymore, when your heart is sad and content and so full of nuance for an extended period of time.

I can’t say that I’m doing bad because I know I’m not, and I know I could be doing much worse. But there’s a part of me who feels resistance to “doing well”, because I know there are so many people struggling. And I tend to discredit my own struggles.

The truth is that I don’t want to post newsletters. The news is not great. I don’t want to preach anything to anyone, I don’t want to be an educator or content creator or influencer. I am an artist in my heart. I miss blogs. I crave connection. I miss being able to write about how I’m really doing and relate to others in such an intimate way. On that same hand, it is equally as terrifying to do so.

The truth is, these days, two cups of coffee don’t do it. Staying in bed doesn’t do it. Nature doesn’t do it. Belly-breathing doesn’t do it. Laying on the floor doesn’t do it.

Every day is different in my brain, and I don’t know how to explain that to people who don’t immediately already understand. Some days, I can wake up and find the strength to take on whatever comes my way. Some days, I can’t at all. And it’s different as an adult than it was when I was younger—my depression doesn’t feed me as much as it wrings me dry now. Now, it’s matured, like a dull ache around my ankles, begging me for something.

I try listening to it: nothing. All I know is that life is not what any of us thought it would be, even if you have lives that are good. I know I do. But I didn’t know the world would become this way.

I’m currently working on writing my third book, a book that ultimately puts all of this into one giant nuanced thought process. Heartache and love, of all kinds, something I know so many of us struggle with. I know I’m not alone, and actually, that makes me even more sad. Because I drive down my street and I don’t see children running free, I don’t see anyone outside, really: I see a lot of afraid and deeply sad people, and rightfully so. On the days where I am trying not to be one of them, I am reminded that I am. So I drive back home.

I don’t know if anyone will resonate with this, especially online. But I’m really tired of writing about the positive perspective and hoping that it lands because it’s just not realistic. I can’t even pretend to write about the positive side of things. I know they exist, and believe me, I do try to find the joy as much as I possibly can. But I think it’s really important to let others know they aren’t the only ones struggling and that starts with being vulnerable.

I don’t know what I’m doing here, Substack. I’m just going to consider you my journal. Is that alright with you?