On allowing myself to be myself
This is an old post that I wrote years ago, but never published (or completed). I found it in my drafts today and even though my reality is a bit different now (still not doing everything I’d like to, but allowing myself to experience life more fully), I feel like it will resonate with someone.
It gets better, but you have to work at it.
I used to write a lot, once upon a time. Sit in front of a screen (or an open notebook) and write my heart out, just pour out my emotions. It was cathartic. Those days, I knew I wasn’t perfect, and I embraced it. I wrote about my thoughts, and dreams, and struggles, no matter how insignificant they were. I felt human. It allowed me to feel human.
When I wrote, or blogged, or journaled, I was either escaping reality or fully immersing myself into what was my reality. I allowed myself to think, to feel, to live. Now… Now, it’s different.
I’m caught up in this busy-ness, where I’m never not doing anything, but I never get anything done. And with that, I found I’ve lost that bit of myself that is me. That me that loved music and taking long walks, and could disappear into a book for hours. That me that was a dreamer and a storyteller, that wanted to travel the world and experience absolutely everything. And I kid myself, tell myself that it’s all a part of growing up, “settling down”, that this is what happiness is. And I am happy, I love myself, and my family, and my work, but I keep thinking that there’s more. Not more wider, but more deeper. Does that make sense? I feel like I’m just living life on the surface, moving from activity to activity without really experiencing anything.
I look at my son, and I see the light in his eyes, and I wonder, when did I lose that? When did I get bored with the world?