i’m currently in an airbnb in western maine. i spent most of the morning curled up in the old corduroy recliner that has a beautiful view of two horse paddocks and their respective residents, cody and mojo. mojo and my journal have been my main sources of entertainment here, which is just how i intended this solo 30th birthday trip to be.
lately i’ve been getting really into photography, which has me thinking about another thing i got really into at one point: this blog. i started to worry that maybe my interest in photography would wane just like my interest in this blog did, and maybe that meant i shouldn’t buy one of the extremely expensive cameras i was eyeing.
but then i decided to think a little harder about why my interest in blogging waned. i wouldn’t say my interest in writing did; i’ve kept up with journaling pretty well. i think mostly i just didn’t want to write publicly about my feelings for the past year.
after my post from march 2022, my life got extremely busy and extremely emotional. i quit grad school to pursue an organizing job; i fell madly in love with my partner; i got consumed by said organizing job and then quit; i sold my condo and bought a house; i moved into said house with said partner. it’s been a (great, fun, dramatic, stressful) whirlwind, one i have barely had the time to process in therapy, let alone in a blog post.
i don’t regret not blogging. it’s taken me a long time to drop enough of the obligations i accumulated over the past year to get to a place where i feel like i can pursue hobbies again. if i had put any additional pressure on myself to do anything else i think i would have snapped.
so now that i’m at a relatively stable point in my life/brain/schedule, do i want to return to dealing weeps?
honestly, not really.
it’s incredible how in just a year and a half so much can change. when i started this blog, my grief was so fresh. i was navigating a whole new way of existing. i couldn’t carry the emotions i felt alone, and they made too big and terrible a wound to heal with a diary or a therapist. i’m loath to call blogging an art, but i guess writing is, and sometimes art is the only way out from under the crush of pain that huge.
now, i also blogged about sunscreen fucking up my day, so it hasn’t all been existentially significant. but the impetus behind creating this space was to process my grief, and while i will never ever ever EVER finish doing that, this space isn’t the one i feel i need right now. i am not in the heavy, dark place i once was, and for whatever reason i feel less comfortable sharing my life’s joy and love than its pain and heartbreak, so THAT’S something i’ll be talking about in therapy this week!!!!!!!
while i certainly may start again, for right now i’m going to pause this project indefinitely. i’ve got some other ideas about where else i may share my writing, so if you know me in real life you may hear about that but also please don’t expect anything from me i’m just a 30 year old baby trying to figure things out.
thank you for reading this or any of my other posts. knowing that my grief was seen and heard was a crucial part of surviving the worst of it, so please know that any interaction you had with this page has helped me immensely. thank you thank you thank you