The words I feel compelled to write always come to me at the most inconvenient times. Tonight it was while I was in the shower, because water is the best companion to thinking, and I barely dried off before sitting at my laptop to type this out. These are the words that begged to be written, especially after a few weeks of silence from my little corner on the Internet.
I lost over 50 followers when I unfollowed accounts that I wasn’t truly invested in, set myself to “Private”, and stopped focusing on when I posted content or what it did to my theme.
That would have been my nightmare about six months ago. I wanted to be a blogger. I wanted to work with brands and take pretty photos and have every happy detail of my life spread across a dozen tiny squares. I wanted it so badly, but I wasn’t willing to put in the effort. I wanted it, but it wasn’t the niche God has for me on the Internet.
The problem with the type of blogging I dreamed of is that it doesn’t compliment my writing style. It didn’t allow me to be authentic; it made me feel like a different brand of myself. It promoted an image that fit social media, but was nothing like who I am in real life.
The kind of writing that I know how to do is raw and emotional and hard. And so these past few months, as I stepped away from dreams of being Instafamous and having the perfect fashion blog, I realized that I didn't know what to write. I wasn’t interested in sharing my closet or my recent travel photos or even my reflections from Scripture. My heart was heavy and some days were hard, and that wasn't the type of writing that is popular on Instagram lately.
The writing from the last months would have revealed a lot of anxiety, some hard days of depression, and confusing fears. It felt hollow to share photos of coffee and skylines, so it became easier to share nothing at all.
And the hardest part of sharing, the hardest part of that raw side of writing that begs to be written, is not the fear of strangers on the Internet. It’s the fear of loved ones on the Internet.
It’s the friends and family who don’t know your struggles, and who read your blog religiously. It’s wanting to bear the burden of making everyone happy, and in turn keeping the less than happy parts of yourself private. It’s wanting to take care of everything around you, and not knowing how to let yourself be taken care of and trust that it’s okay.
No one ever placed these demands on my shoulders. No one ever told me or manipulated me or gave me any reason to believe that I need to be in control, that everyone’s happiness depends on me, and that I have to be okay so that they can be. It’s just how I am wired.
I have this thing about conversation. I truly believe that conversation around the dinner table and when hanging out with groups of friends reflects something about whether or not people are enjoying themselves. Silence = no enjoyment. Constant chatter = the best time ever.
My boyfriend doesn’t subscribe to this belief, and silence has been one of our trivial but significant points of disagreement. But is constant, meaningless chatter really as enjoyable as a few heartfelt words and shared silence of understanding?
Is constantly being happy and together really better than confessing weakness and moving on with your life?
Because that’s the thing... Confessing weakness doesn’t mean you stay in that confession. It doesn’t mean that everyone treats you differently or looks at you like you’re fragile. It just means they know whats weighing on you, and can check in once in awhile. It means you’re less alone. It means you’re authentic with the people you should be most authentic with.
Knowing my readers, and knowing why I haven’t posted in weeks, brought these words to life. A little confession that some seasons are harder, and sometimes you don’t know why that is, and it’s okay to be there and have happy days and sad ones.
You’re not letting anyone down.