small life, slow life

The truth is, since I stepped into my new role, I haven’t written a single word.

(Well, that is, other than work emails and business recaps and community plans.)

I did all that work last year clearing out the channel, scrubbing off the rust and corrosion, wrote 100 days in a row and then some…and then I simply told myself I was “too busy” and allowed myself to stop writing for almost eight months.

And not too surprisingly, like a tiny leak unnoticeable at first, happiness drained from my life. Little by little, the color left my world. Certainly, things still made me happy, but the bubbling joy I had submerged in last year, bit by bit, evaporated.

This brought on a low-grade depression for a while. I recognized it, and worked on it all the ways I know how: therapy, exercise, sharing my vulnerability with family and friends.

I did everything except write.

A few weeks ago, C asked me what I would do if the day was 27 hours long, and those three extra hours could be used for pursuing a hobby/passion. And I literally answered that I would work out, meditate, and read more.

(I’ve already read 54 books this year.)

A week later, I was like, Omg, I didn’t even say I would write.

“Okay, okay,” you’re saying, “so then why are you writing again?”

A few reasons:

1. I realized I was much more joyful when I was processing my days into narratives.
2. I captured more memories with V by writing daily.
3. I had a session with Ainslie Macleod, and he said I’m supposed to be writing.