My feelings are split. On one hand I am so happy – I feel more fullfilled and inspired with writing back in my life. I feel like I am being more true to myself and following my passion. I am proud of the creations I am putting out into the universe. It just feels good.
But I am also a little disappointed. I definitely thought there would be more dialog, more conversations, more interactions. I went into it with a “if you build it, they will come” mentality, that if I put the work in and was true to my voice, people would connect with it. I was confident that through sharing and putting so much of myself out there that there would be more coming back. “What you are seeking is seeking you” kind of thing. I thought I’d connect with more writers and more readers. I felt like there must be plenty of other single, 30somethings, caught between wanderlust and responsibility, between finding a husband and hoelife, between adulting and turnt-up-tuesdays. Maybe even other single moms who are great moms but don’t have a REAL “mom friend” because they don’t have a anything in common with other moms (besides the fact that a person also came out of them)… Or is that really just me?
Where are you.
Lets talk poetry and shit.
A year ago today,
I cried alone at the foot of the sea,
took this photo and called it 33
I began a journey to return to an authentic place, to be more open, more real, to not be afraid to express how I feel, to wander more and worry less, to love more but care less; to do more of what I love, even if I’m doing it alone;
to be more honest in the struggles I face, to not be so stubborn, prideful and stuck in my ways, to drop the facade of lying – “I’m good” and “I’m fine”, to stop trying to be some shining example, stop pretending there is no pain, burden and misery, to stop trying to make being a working, home-owning, handout-free single mom look easy;
to stop playing all the parts that were expected of me, to stop trying to wear every hat perfectly, to be all these different people that everyone in my life wanted me to be, to stop doing it all just to prove that I could;
so much of what I did was because I “should” or because that’s what the other mom’s “would”, and all that didn’t fit in one of the preset molds was put on hold;
but maintaining falsity is exhausting, and living on other peoples terms gets old.
I needed to reset and strip away, to let go of what was holding me back.
I had to unpack.
I worked through a lot of old bullshit I had let stew.
I started writing again and despite my fear and resistance I began sharing it with you.
This was 33.
Goodbye, you were a hell of a year🤘🏽🖤✨ xo. ©@wildcaughtword
The Trouble & The Beauty
The trouble (and the beauty) of being single at this age is that I am me; idiosyncratically, unapologetically and to some extent inflexibly.
I am me now. This is my person. I built her. I like her. I am proud of her.
I refuse to smooth her down. To simplify her. To take away from her. To make her uncomplicated, is to break little bits off of her.
I refuse to settle her. To make her accept less. To love someone who only appreciates pieces of her. I refuse to make her be only one version of herself.
I can’t hold her when she is lonely. Or stand beside her when she is scared. I can’t take away the pain or fill the void of a man. But I can write to her and remind her; her incompatibility does not define her. I can love her, accept her and tell her, yes she can. I can make her feel beautiful everyday. I can look back at her naked, unfiltered face, approvingly. I can smile at her, without criticism, without something to say.
Slightly Drunk Notes
All my formative years I was a writer. And then for ten years I just stopped.
Who was I when I wasn’t writing?
Where did I go?
I see now that I wasn’t happy there.
I wasn’t anyone there.
The last year that I’ve come back to my actual self has been terrifying but so worth it.
Yes, I ended up back to where I started BUT it doesn’t feel frustrating… it feels more like going home.
©wildcaughtword | For more follow me on IG @wildcaughtword | photos and writing may not be used without permission