First of all...

I don’t think I know how to write any more.

In truth, it’s been quite a minute since I put pen to paper…or fingers to keyboard. Which is odd for me, or was once. Every writer gets blocked, but this felt permanent a little bit. Which, to say the least, sucked. Writing has been my safe space and the best way I knew how to express myself since I learned how to write. Even back when I was just wanting to mimic the joy that reading Junie B. Jones gave me or the same dramatic catharsis that listening to “Shape of my Heart” created, I found a home in writing down something, anything at all. For better or worse or everything in between, I didn’t grow up feeling free to be vulnerable or even really to have and own my feelings. When I found a medium to do that through, in a spoonful-of-sugar-way that made the medicine of feeling out loud go down a little easier, I was enamored by it. Finally, a way to express myself but not let word vomit get in the way. Finally, someway to make this overthinking, over-caring middle-child feel heard. It felt like the dream and I did my best to pursue it because, honestly, writing to me was as easy as breathing, which is cheesy as all get out but, also, such a writer thing to say. My need to write has always been so deeply innate, so when I stopped feeling like I needed to write, I didn’t really know what else to do.

After almost a year of writing nothing more than tweets and texts, I tried journaling as a way back into really writing again, the kind that has my voice, the engine that propels truthful, risky, and worthy divulgence forward. Maybe it was that I was so obsessed with making it honest and relatable for others that I had lost the part of it that was, at the core, simply and necessarily me. I truly stand by sharing this piece of my brain with people. As someone who spent most of her life believing her overwhelming sensitivity was a fault, the thing that made me feel encouraged and heard was reading that other people not only feel the things I do but feel at all. I believe feeling with an audience is important and necessary and brave sometimes, if not more often than not. So, when I really tried to commit to journaling, I found it did help a little. At the very least, it got me outside of my head, a place I will gladly make camp in if not encouraged to live in the real world every couple of days. After a few weeks, though, it brought me back to the same place: missing being able to long-form write and share it with others. It made me want to find whatever lost puzzle piece would make me sit down at my laptop and spend hours feverishly typing like time was running out again. In those moments though, the Mass Comm. degree collecting dust on my dresser would start screaming that mediums like blogs are dying, that people don’t want to read anything longer than an Instagram caption anymore, sometimes they don’t even want to read that. I’d hear the voices of all of my favorite professors warning me that print is going out of style faster than side bangs and Livestrong bracelets. (Ok, so that last part was my own poetic license, but you get what I’m saying.) Ultimately I’d stumble back to this question that all 9 (very appreciated) readers of my last blog might be all too familiar with: Why does it matter?*

Now, my imposter syndrome does not make itself secret. People have been very kind and encouraging of my writing in the past, but I have yet to see what makes my voice worth trying to cut through or even join the noise of social media and performative journalism and the world of “influencers” along with the very worthy writing of other brave and vulnerable creators out there making a difference. Because, sure, I could write this just for me. In many ways, I do, but that misses the point for me. I have only found what semblance of self-love and assurance I do have by reading the words of others who found strength in pursuing and embracing feeling out loud. Not because they gave me permission to, but because they taught me I needed to give myself that grace. If I could gift the freedom that reading and learning about vulnerability gave to me to even one other person, I would write until my fingers went numb. (Nothing if not a poet, read as “drama queen.”) God does it feel ridiculous, even egotistical, though, to assume that my little words hold that kind of power. I was asking a friend this question* about 6 years ago, (Oh my god, have I really been harping on THIS for 6 years?) she told me, “Sometimes you just have to assume that people will care.” Which is not easy for me. As much as I am a bowl full of feelings, I also need answers, logic, a solid foundation to base my confidence on. I need outside validation like a fish needs water. I have no idea how people just trust themselves. I have made so many mistakes, I have chosen way too many wrongs when I knew the rights, I have been flawed, careless and sometimes just plain mean. How do I trust the girl whose very human track record I have memorized like the theme from “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.” Thus begins the spiral that led me back here.

Now, something I have established in my writing and just in life in general is how talented of a spiraler (totally a word) I am. It’s almost tempting to list it on my resume. I’d hate to brag, but I really am a champ at it. If only practicing the saxophone in middle school had been as easy to keep up with as my nightly, stare-at-the-ceiling spiral session, maybe I would have been the next Kenny G. When I find myself too dizzy with my own thoughts, I love to just drive, blast my music and cruise through endless Midwest farmland, letting it all get unspun with the wind blowing through the windows. No matter whether I watch the sunrise in the East or follow the sunset to the West, I always find myself traveling back to the same place in my mind: Why and how does anyone feel confident?

I’ve had this critique time and time again. Whether it be personally or professionally people always seem to come to the same conclusion, “Mary, you just need to be more confident.” Which is true, I really can’t deny it. There are many things I can’t totally wrap my mind around in life but confidence is my biggest mystery. Which is one of the worst things ever to admit. The most basic advice people give whether it be about jobs or relationships or just living your best life, is to have confidence and (hahahahaha) I simply do not have it. I mean, I have faked it ‘til I made it like you wouldn’t believe, but they don’t tell you that “making it” is not the end. You have to then continue to pursue it or nurture it or fake and make something else, and upholding it is where I falter. I mean, I have my good and great days. Sometimes my outfit works out the way I wanted in my head, the sun is shining but it’s not sweltering, my coffee tastes perfect, people are complimenting my make-up, I actually get out the door on time. I can obviously feel like hot shit when the whole world is working in my favor, sure. It’s hard to lose when you’re the only one playing the game. However, the strength and power of perseverance has never been achieved on a Hoku kind of “Perfect Day.” If confidence was built on the days where we all found our inner Sasha Fierce, well I doubt we’d even have a Sasha Fierce at all.

Now, I preach far too often that the worthy lessons are learned from the hard seasons of life, but, man, am I sick of believing that sometimes. It’s tiring to time and time again hit the same wall, to spend 6 years asking the same exact question, to have your friends look at you helplessly (or annoyedly) as you seem to trip over the same root on the path. It doesn’t feel better than it did as a 22-year-old wannabe writer, and I’m sure it will feel even worse as a 34-year-old wannabe writer. I can look back at my history, say over and over again, “Here’s how I got here,” but, the best that will do is propel me here, to exactly where I am. Which was important once, I actually am really liking who I am right now, most days. Now, though, I realize confidence is a moving target. Looking back to who I was is not helping to propel me toward who I want to be, and the future is tomorrow and every day after. Something's gotta give and soon.

So, this is where the journey begins for me. The search to find my more confident self. Do I think every day is going to be a win, ever? Absolutely not. (Though I guess I’ll find that all out as I go.) I think happiness, confidence, self-love, etc. is a rollercoaster. It’s exciting and worth living because it’s a ride. If you’re willing to come along with me, I’d love to have your support, but I also know that I have no idea what I’m in for and that the tumult of life can be too much when it’s not the season you’re in and the journey you’re on. So, thank you for stopping by and I hope to see you at the end a more confident and more well-learned person. For the rest of you coming along with me, fasten your seat belts, keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times, and thank you for joining me on this journey.

-Mary