On Rawness and Worries

Years ago, I blogged almost daily. I was a new mom and a new business owner and newly diagnosed with depression and anxiety and I was just all cracks and rawness. To write a blog post was to spill out bits of me that I then tried to shape into pictures. I blogged about life and motherhood and building a business. Not once did I ever feel like I had an answer. To anything. At all.

Today instead of cracked and raw I feel powerful. I feel whole.

Back in the raw days, blogging was so easy because I believed (and still believe) that my rawness was my gift. It was what I had to share, and at the exact same time it was what I had in common with my readers.

I was so tired in those days. My cells were tired. Everything I owned or touched was tired. There was stress.

All the stress, all the time.

My business stressed me out. My children. My mere existence. The laundry. So much fucking laundry.

I don’t know how I went from cracked and raw to powerful and whole other than this: I focused on what was working, I always tried new things, I didn’t hide (or hide from) the rawness, and time passed.

Time passed, and I kept moving.

Time passed, and I kept moving.

Time passed, and I kept moving.

Today when I try to sit here and crack myself open, to touch the things inside of me that are tender, that twinge when I reach for them, it’s harder. Where once I was all exposed nerve endings, now I’m myelin-sheathed, baby. There are still gaps and questions and misfires, but the intensity is gone. The pain is gone. The panic.

But even still, there are worries.

  • I’m worried that the things that have worked for me in the past (in work and in life) will stop working.

  • I’m worried that the laziness I’ve cultivated as a way to counteract my over-achiever-ness is a cop out. Or a sign of my own limitations. Or a burden to my family.

  • I’m worried that I have more answers than questions.

  • I’m worried about what that means for my creativity.

  • I’m worried that instead of touching the raw places, my writing now is safe and boring.

  • I’m worried that I don’t know how to be likable without being broken.

  • I’m worried that I don’t know how to connect without my rawness.

  • I’m worried that I won’t get to know you, and that you won’t get to know me.

  • I’m worried that I have nothing for you.

What are you worried about? What are your work worries? Your personal worries? Your silly worries and your serious ones?