Elora Nicole Ramirez's Blog, page 10

on friendship and choosing to stay.

I've been thinking about friendship.

If you were to ask me to categorize my relationships these past few years, I would probably grimace and drop them into something akin to tumultuous. 

There's the cluster that was our adoption falling apart and the awkwardness of grief. I've never been great with verbalizing emotion. Because of this, those closest to us had difficulty knowing what to do with the bomb that just went off in the middle of our lives. For a few weeks, we heard nothing. After a period of silence, I sent emails to two of my closest friends at the time. I tried to make them as graceful as possible. Grief is weird. I know I didn't word them perfectly because I literally had no precursor to fall back on with this situation. 

They were the ones I sent pictures to when I got them from the birth mother. They saw the baby first — before our family. But in my stumbling around, I could not articulate the importance of them being there for us while we grieved.

One of those emails resulted in me sitting at a Taco Deli, crying while working through the messy middle of expectations and forgiveness. The other one didn't go so well. I wrote that I felt abandoned during a huge period of need, she responded she was busy with her new son. We volleyed back and forth until it ended with a puttered sigh of exhaustion that I would later realize was the death knoll of our friendship. Someone I once considered my person would eventually unfriend me on Facebook with no warning, and leave me to wonder where I could have remedied what was broken.

The truth: I unfollowed her feed long before she unfriended me, the pain of seeing her grapple with motherhood too heavy a weight to bear in the new silence between us.

And then there was the necessary breaking. The one who labeled me her Elora. The one who not-so-timidly grew to possess everything I reached for and considered. The breaking point came one night while I held her in my arms, her tears flowing freely. Suddenly she took a breath and screamed obscenities with such ferocity that it took every molecule not to push her away in fear. The words were directed at no one in particular, which made it that much more haunting. I inhaled and closed my eyes and swallowed against the whisper of my Spirit, "those words were directed toward you, love. Leave." 

Shortly after, she would speak darkness, and exhausted, I would stammer. To this day I wish I would have stayed a second longer to speak. Instead, wounds went deep and shrapnel flew. I knew I was done.

The cut was painful but exact. Root bound relationships are like that — the ending always takes a piece of you, but the healing is quick once the necessary is cut away.

This time though, the healing was marred by other relationships. Those who left when they promised to stay. Those who disappeared with nothing to explain. Those who cut me outside their own boundary line, for reasons of their own I'm sure.

This is why I think of tumultuous when presented with my relational landscape. It makes me want to run from any kind of intimacy, which is probably why I haven't confronted a close friend about blocking me out of nowhere. It's also probably why my hands shook when I hit send on a text asking someone why she unfriended me on Facebook. If these people left me at a moment's notice, what's stopping everyone else?

I know the answer to this, but I don't like it.

It's choosing to stay. It's the risk. Most importantly, it's recognizing who my people are by their willingness to dig in the trenches. These are not the ones who wallow in my vices and celebrate my mistakes. These are the ones who carry me from the battle field when I'm too tired to take another step. They're the ones who grab my hand and whisper, "where you go, I'll go" as I'm walking out the door.

It's my husband's hands on my face while I sleep, checking to see if I have a fever when I'm sick.

It's texting my best friend that I'm currently stuck in traffic and crying because I feel like I'm stuck in life and have no idea what I'm doing, knowing that she's going to say the perfect thing to get my ass back in gear.

It's talking to my sister about purpose and pride and the distractions that get in the way of all of it. 

It's changing plans for dinner with a friend in the midst of heartbreak. 

It's rooting deep, even when the fear of abandonment starts making an appearance. It's choosing to believe that leaving is not the norm, and that my people with me in the arena are just as bruised and broken as I am, but refuse to call it quits. 

And because they stay, I will stay.

the audacity of productivity

Every few months, I'm reminded of rhythms.

Usually the reminder looks like me staring at the computer while the cursor taunts me. Only then do I blink and think, "oh yeah. Rhythms. It's about that time, isn't it?"

Here's the thing — as creatives we all experience dry spells where our words feel as if they're falling on fallow ground. We can't ever be always on — always producing. Yet, every single time we brush up against our own humanity, we see those limitations as weaknesses.

"It's just writer's block," we reason. "It'll pass if I just have more discipline." And sure, there's some truth to the beauty of discipline and what it can mean for our creativity. But sometimes — most times — the pause in our breath is just that: a pause. We're filling our lungs with air in order to breathe again.

I call this relentless pursuit the audacity of productivity. We get so focused on continued creation despite exhaustion and rhythms that we fail to see what we're finishing around us. There's no gratitude. No letting things go completely before moving on to the next project. No allowing white space to rejuvenate us. In fact, a few months ago, as one of my best friends worked on my back and wrestled with the knots firmly tangled in my muscles. she asked me this question —

I'm wondering if you have any idea just how much you've produced lately. 

I breathed through the release of tension and chuckled. But then I took a breath of surprise because somewhere inside, somewhere deep, something clicked into place. I squeezed my eyes shut and let the tears fall as I remembered everything I've built and completed this year. "There's something to that question," I said. "I don't — I don't think I have any idea. I don't think I've let myself rest in those accomplishments."

And isn't this the way? Don't we always want to work-work-work and produce-create-write-produce until we're breathing our last? I wonder what would happen if we breathe. I wonder what would happen if we flipped that audacity on its head and thumbed our noses at expectation and said instead, "I know my worth. I know my creativity. And right now, in this moment, I rest in that." 

how to invest in your creativity

When I worked full-time as a high-school administrator, one of the most difficult things for me to learn was that investing in my creativity was just as important as creating a daily rhythm. It just wasn't a priority. Maybe a huge piece of this was because I was exhausted the moment i walked in the door, but also it was because I couldn't see myself as a true artist yet. 

But once I started to take my art seriously, things fell into place. It's more of an equation than a magic pill. More investment = more production. Little investment = little production. 

The Investment of Cash

I'm going to go ahead and get this one out of the way because it's pretty much where our minds run to when we hear the word investment. Someone once told me that we hold more value over something we purchase. Especially with the online market, I find this to be true. 

This past fall, I knew my creative side needed some help with branding. There was a well-known eCourse going viral on Facebook that was completely free. I signed up fast for that opportunity, and then never made it to a call. However, around the same time, I found Hey, Sweet Pea and fell in love with their message and signed up for My Own Irresistible Brand, their online branding school.  This was instrumental in me owning my voice as a creative entrepreneur. It took a calculated investment on my part to carve space large enough for this to take priority. (No really. The day I signed up was the day my husband lost his full time job). But I did it. For half of October and all of November I hunkered down, watched the videos, and completed the worksheets. What you're reading is a result of those moments of investment. 

What this could look like: buy books on topics you're wanting to research. Some of my favorites on creativity are When Women Were Birds, Manage Your Day-to-Day, Bird by Bird, and Walking on Water. Purchase the necessary supplies to paint that canvas collecting dust in the corner. Sign up for story-coaching.

The Investment of Time

Creativity means nothing if we're not willing to spend time on it. This goes for whatever stage of life you find yourself. I've known people who write books in ten minute increments, between soccer practice and dirty diapers. I've also known people who write books in one fell swoop, digging deep for a period of a few weeks in order to knock out the words. 

But this is more than just producing a product. For me, the investment of time looks a lot like whether or not I'm art journaling. Am I creating just for me? Am I taking the time I need to remember why I love paint on my fingers or words on the page? If I'm not, the heavy-chested feeling is close behind and threatening to take over my busy schedule. 

What this could look like: take a serious look at what information you're consuming on a day-to-day basis. THIS TAKES TIME. How much time is spent on Facebook? Twitter? Pinterest? Netflix? What would happen if you flipped that time and used it to jot a few notes down in your journal or fling some paint? Maybe you could read some of the books you purchased in an attempt to invest cash into your art?

The Investment of Emotional Attachment 

This is a big one for me. Without an emotional attachment, I can't get anywhere with my creativity. I have to want to write. And in order to achieve that want? I have to believe it's worth it. That I'm worth it.

Spoiler: you're worth the investment in your creativity. 

One of the biggest reasons it took me so long to begin to consistently invest in my creativity is because I couldn't make the mental shift from my creativity is a habit to my creativity is essential in how I live. Once I made this shift, investment was easy. I recognized the inherent need to tell stories and work my thoughts out through paint. Even if I'm focusing on cleaning the apartment, I'm still investing in the aesthetics of my living space. 

What this could look like: in writing, it's simple. Do you want to write what you're writing right now? If not, why? Write what you want. For everything else — consider your motivation. Are you painting so you can post it on Instagram and get lots of likes? Are you writing so you can pay rent? (Ha!) Are you starting a business so you can be rich? 

Or can you not help but write? Do stories find you? Do you spend time daydreaming about white space? Is the texture of paint on your fingers one of your core desired feelings? 

Most of all, believe that you are worth the effort. Let the words I am an artist or I am a writer or I am an author roll around your tongue. Do it until it's second nature. 

And then create. 

A Definition.

This is a post about flipping the script.

There are a lot of thoughts out there about what makes a writer.

A daily discipline. 
A published something.
A prestigious degree. 
A list of accolades. 

And it's so easy for us to buy into them. It's so easy for conversations to naturally bend toward oh well, I'm not really a writer or yeah it's just a hobby or oh you're a writer? But like...what do you really do? 

This is a post for writers on the run.

You don't have a daily discipline, but when the words come they fall pointed. They sizzle with heat and purpose. You haven't published anything, but you dream of people seeing your words — recognizing them and knowing they belong to you. You don't have a prestigious degree, but you know what makes a sentence sing. You don't have a list of accolades, either. 

In fact, you may have your fair share of moments where people shake their head and whisper, "yeah but writing? You're not a writer...." 

If you've ever felt the weight of words sitting on your chest, if you've ever felt your throat grow tight because you're swallowing a story you're meant to tell, if you've ever been moved to the page because you just have something you need to say....you're a writer.

You don't have to have dreams of publishing a book in order to claim the name writer. You don't have to spend your time creating characters and working on blog posts to fit the bill, either.

All you need is a love of words and the desire to tell a story well. 

You don't need to hide the shadows anymore. This is your permission to take the stage and speak into the mic — I am a writer.

And spoiler: you don't need my permission at all. What you have — what you need — is already inside you. But I think you already know this.

It may be a whisper at first, I understand. It may even take a few tries for you to really let the truth sink into your bones. But I want to flip the script on what it means to write, because there are no gatekeepers for the story in your bones.

Whether you're an entrepreneur aching to find a way to tell your story to your clients, 
or you're a budding novelist just waiting for the right publisher to find your words, 
or you're a tired soul weary for just 30 minutes of time spent journaling, 

You are a writer.

Go ahead....say it. 

I'll wait. 

When the Words are Full but Tangled

The last time I blogged, I forced myself to sit in this chair and write. 

"I need to just do it," I told Russ. He agreed, and then kissed me before shooing me into another room so I could focus. It was my birthday, and I had so many thoughts and stories and words floating in my head that I wanted to share, but when I tried to write, it came out forced. And while I'm all for getting out the mess so you can find the gold, I also understand that just because you have the words doesn't mean you're ready to write them.

I finally managed to write a post about my 32nd year, and hit publish resolutely because at least I wrote something. But I knew even though it was something, it wasn't the one thing. 

The words are not the issue this summer. I have them. I have plenty. What's blocking me is the how. 

You see, in June, my life took a characteristic sharp left into full time employment. Even though I was looking for this, I never expected it to quite turn out the way it did. For the past three years, I've worked my ass off as an entrepreneur. I've written thousands of words and published countless blog posts and pushed hundreds of emails into the ether. By the time I stepped foot into the training room, thoughts were already starting to twist themselves into formation. 

Thoughts like, why does going corporate mean you're selling out? and how in the world did I get so burnt out? 

Here's a spoiler: I don't think I've sold out in any way. In fact, so much of these past two months have felt Right and True in ways I struggled to find working for myself. But that doesn't change the fact that there's this inherent perception that unless you're chasing after the sun and living life solely on your terms, you're not living right.

And this is where my words have gotten tangled. 

Because what I feel when I'm at work is not my soul banging against my insides because I'm selling her out. What I feel is happiness and connection and gratitude.

Every day, I walk into work and build relationships with businesses across the US and Canada. Every day, I have countless conversations with people just like myself, people who are hustling to make it in their industry. I hear it in their voices and I recognize it in the way the words fall fast and hot from their lips. In another moment, on another day, these people could be me.

But what slows me down are the stories. How they found themselves making a living doing what they love. How anxious they are to get settled so they can start creating. If there's one thing I've learned with this job it's this: creative entrepreneurs are my people. The risks, the beauty, the hustle, the freedom — all of it lights me up like nothing else. And working with them daily? It's moments like this that have me whispering words like thank you and wow because out of seasons where I felt completely misaligned, I'm right in the middle of one that feels purposed. 

And slowly, a tangled piece of syntax comes undone.

because I'm into you, 32.

Squad goals activated.

A year ago, I sat on my couch and snapped a picture of me with a coy smile. I remember thinking to myself, this is my year. 

I had no idea what was coming. Six weeks later, my life completely changed. A lot of it was my doing — I made a significant choice and the fallout was immediate and severe. I was just barely be over the shock of September when Russ lost his job. Our fall consisted of beans and rice, more than our fair share of tears, relying on our people, and lots and lots of prayer. 

It wasn't that 32 was horrible. It was, however, a crucible — the fever before the breakthrough.

Earlier this morning, I sat in my office and thought about what I wanted to feel this year. It's easy to chase goals, but I'm learning to chase experiences — to reach for those moments that take my breath away. As I was writing, I kept thinking back to things that happened this year, often right in the midst of the darkest days, and I would find myself smiling. 

It reminded me of something I wrote back in December, about how ready I am for a new beginning and that sometimes, it's not because the year was so difficult or horrible but because I lived it to its fullest: all of the pain, all of the beauty, all of the wonder. 

This was my 32. 

books read :: 

Yes, Please — I mean, it's Leslie Knope. But outside of me wanting to scream all of the things because of my love for her, I also so appreciate the reminder that it's the doing of the thing that counts. When I listened to this and heard those words I just about had a spiritual experience. Amy Poehler, I love you forever amen.

Conversion — Label anything as Prep meets The Crucible and I'm here for it. This book didn't disappoint. I read it in one sitting and then promptly had a moment of blind jealousy because WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THIS IDEA?! Mad props, Katherine Howe. 

When the Heart Waits — I read this book in one sitting as well. There are few books in my life where I felt as if the author crawled into my brain and wrote about my life. This is one of them. I will be re-reading this every year at least once I'm sure.

I'll Give You the Sun — There are no words for this one. I read it back in March and I'm still trying to articulate what it did to me. Just get it. Trust me. 

books wrote :: 

I finished Somewhere Between Water and Sky last summer, publishing it September 20. 

In November, I started writing Secrets Don't Keep and I am so excited about it going live in a  couple weeks. I claimed this year as my #novelistwild and even though I haven't started on my second novel of this series, I did complete a 90 page eBook on indie publishing and started the memoir that's been in my gut for the past five years.

But that whole story is another blog post.

for the love of poetry ::

do not choose the lesser life.
do you hear me.
do you hear me. 
choose the life that is. yours. 
the life that is seducing your lungs.
that is dripping down your chin.

- nayyirah waheed

television :: 

If I had to choose one series from this past year that made me praise hands all day, it would be American Horror Story: Coven. 

But also, Broad City and Scandal and Pretty Little Liars and Parks and Rec, respectively.

music ::

How does one categorize a year into music? It's almost as impossible as choosing favorite books. But, LION BABE has been a favorite along with this playlist for Secrets Don't Keep. 

on beauty ::

I dyed my hair purple and fell in love.

32 was definitely the year I began to understand my own style. Purple hair and lace, bohemian with a touch of grit. 

everything else :: 

The night we painted our skin with #fff and our cars were towed. Only after we were in the impound lot limbo did one of us admit to wishing for adventure earlier in the night. 

Flash mob dance parties to SHAKE IT OFF in my living roomSecond chance proms Releasing toxicity Growing lavenderHarnessing my intuition Watching Barton Springs-turned-Rapids while tornados formed around us Investing (and taking the leap) with My Own Irresistible Brand Working with 90+ women in finishing their booksDeciding to go strictly indie with my booksSharing #thekeyofus on Instagram EVERY SHATTERED THING in top 100 free books on Amazon (4500+ downloads in a week!)Getting my WILD Giving Key with a lion engraved on the backWatching Russ risk and dream and pursue his passionGiving our first no in the adoption process Going back to work full time

Bringing home this guy in January. 

I'm past the point where I feel as if I need to wonder what 33 will bring. Maybe that's maturity? In so many ways, my life doesn't look anything like I expected it to this time last year, but for the first time, this isn't disappointing. Even after everything that's happened, I know I'm right where I'm supposed to be in this moment. 

And this makes me more than ready for 33. 

The 9-5

I've been looking for a full time job. 

I've been searching since January, but only really now am I able to talk about it. As a creative entrepreneur,  it's a hard pill to swallow. I was working for myself. Now I need to work for someone else.

I've gone through the gamut of emotions. The failure, the fear, the anger, the relief, the excitement — they're all there, battling for my focus. It's a strange thing to know that when everyone else in your circle had a job, you left yours to pursue writing full time. And now, three years later, those same people are leaving their jobs to celebrate the successes of their own start-ups while you are returning to the 9-5.

This is not a failure.

Failure would be me hanging up the hope of ever gaining traction with Awake the Bones. Failure would be to close up shop and refuse any more clients. 

I would be lying if I said Fear never had me wondering if this is what I should do. That's usually when I battle Anger. Why me? Why now? Why this? 

And if I'm completely honest with myself, the answers to these questions set me straight all over again because it's not about giving up anything. It's not about taking steps back or rewiring or starting over. 

It's about doing it right. 

If these past few years taught me anything, it's this: I know my core. I know, because of starting a business and publishing two novels on my own, who I am — and most importantly, who I am not. I forgot for a moment. I let voices steer me in directions I wasn't ready or willing to go. I mentioned before a lot of this stemmed from needing to pay the rent. I got anxious, desperation sank in, and I reached for anything. I don't want to do this again. 

I want to be cohesive. 

Maybe this doesn't make sense. But I'm about the sharp lefts. My life has never been sequential. 

I got my teaching certificate after I started teaching. 
I signed with an agent after finding a publisher. 
I went indie after experiencing the traditional market.

And now, after developing a business and finding my core, I'm returning to full time work. Who knows? Maybe my office hours will be shorter lived than I expect. Maybe three months from now I'll be in a corporate position I never saw coming. Maybe clients will come out of nowhere and I will learn the fine art of balancing full time work and freelance. Maybe Secrets Don't Keep will climb the charts and I'll become a millionaire with one book (wry grin). 

I don't know. There's a lot of maybes, but one very sure thing: I want to build something I'm proud of, and to do that, I'm going to need time. I want to give my clients the focus and care they deserve without this added stress of OHMIGOSHCANIMAKERENTHOWDOIMAKEANOTHERBUCK. There's something to be said of the slow-burn of creativity and how it forces you to hone in on what makes you pulse with excitement. THIS is what I want for Awake the Bones. It's what I want for everything I write. I don't want to live my life in a frenetic motion. I want my wildness to be flavored with intention and soul. 

Every story has a plot twist, and this is one I never saw coming. But it feels right, and it feels true. This year is about me doing the opposite of what's expected. In a world that celebrates the walking away, it makes sense that I'm signing the dotted line. 

with women.

"The word midwife means with women," she said. 

I think a piece of me always knew this, given the way my heart would constrict and find breath again every time the word was used. But something clicked in that moment, the resonance too large and weighty to ignore.

There are all kinds of meanings behind the word with. 

It can signal accompaniment, possession, attitude, and responsibility. 
It can mean walking alongside someone. 
It can also mean opposition. 

I haven't always walked with women well. 

I think I've always tried. But I don't think this is enough. I still failed. I still listened too much to the voices beside me instead of the one in front of me — the one craving space and rest. Slowly, the word with would grow fangs and rot into opposition and jealousy. 

She's too needy, they said.
...too weird.
...too zealous.
...too demanding. 

Be careful, the chorus chanted. She'll cut you when she's able.

.::.

I watch us. I watch me. 

I want to believe the only ones with knives are those who fear the depth of their own story. 

.::.

A friend of mine speaks of ladders. It's something that was told to her by a woman who knows her power. 

"We can be ladders, you know. There are women who will carry you with them as they climb." 

When she says this I wonder what it would look like if this were the norm. If stepping on fingers and toes wasn't necessary because we all held on to each other. 

I wonder what would happen if we let ourselves be rocket fuel for another. Celebrating and ricocheting stories of worth instead of pain and blame. Whispering tales of bravery instead of dropping seeds of hate and suspicion. 

She radiates life, they would say. 
...and hope. 
...and connection. 
...and poetry. 

That woman isn't on fire, the chorus would chant. She's a galaxy. A supernova. 

.::.

Midwife means with women. 

Most times, this gets messy. The birthing process is slow and hot and fierce and sharp with pain. Together though, we can move mountains.

Breathe, says the woman next to you, holding your arm up and rubbing your back. 

Speak, says the one on the other side, wiping your tears and lifting your chin. 

A Good Woman.

“ I’ve learned sometimes it is enough to let yourself feel the anger. It doesn’t mean that you have to always act on it. Anger can actually bring a searing clarity, and moving through that anger can eventually bring peace”

— Joy Williams

At first, it was just the pain. 

It felt like amputation, like a collapsed lung. I couldn't do anything — I was frozen. I stood in our kitchen and leaned against Russ' chest as I struggled for air. 

"Did I just ruin everything?" I asked between sobs.

"You ruined nothing, love," he answered, his arms squeezing me tighter for support, holding me up when I couldn't even stand anymore.

It was a decision based from the deepest places of my intuition and story. When it all came crashing down around me, I oscillated between stunned silence and sobbing into my pillow. Thoughts kept circulating in my mind like a stalled record — It wasn't supposed to be this way. The shrapnel shouldn't have spread so far. 

For weeks I walked around like a zombie, inhaling negativity left and right. I woke up anticipating the battles I would face that day, and fall asleep exhausted and beat, the tears still running hot down my cheeks.

Until one day, an email found its way into my inbox and as I read it, I could feel something shift inside. 

You are a wolf in sheep's clothing, it said. To this person, I was a reminder of the dangers of duplicity. 

There was more. But I couldn't handle it. My hands shook as I forwarded the words to my husband and dropped the email into a folder where I could forget it. I never forgot it, but I also never responded. 

I never responded because of the anger. The anger that came fast and hot and ready for war. 

.::.

I lay face down as she worked her hands up and down my neck, focusing on the spots that needed the most care. 

We were talking about life. Namely, disappointments. Specifically, the anger I kept feeling about everything happening around me. The problem? I couldn't hold on to it long enough before I would douse it with a healthy dose of good will and peace-keeping. That's what a good woman does, right? Close her eyes and move along, pretending not to feel? 

"I normally advise people to let it go, to not allow it time or space. But for some reason, I think you need to speak it. I think you need to be as specific as possible — naming what angers you — and allowing the space to empty on its own." 

I swallowed, the tears coming fast all over again. Nothing I said would be a surprise. She's one of my best friends and knows the roots of all my stories, especially the ones that bring me pain. I started listing them one-by-one, my voice shaking and my nose growing more and more clogged as I tried to hold back sobs. 

There was a long list. Relationships and jobs and adoption and faith and fear — it all surfaced. 

And then I remembered the email. My breath caught. I cleared my throat and whispered, "I'm angry this still holds power over me and my story." 

Her rhythmic motion paused for a split second before she let out a breath in solidarity. 

"I'm angry too," she said. 

I closed my eyes and let the air fill my lungs. My phantom limb wasn't throbbing anymore. Today, I had won the war.

Check out the song that inspired this post here. 

The beginning: a mosaic of color and syntax.

I started blogging in 2001. 

There are a lot of stories within the almost-fifteen years I've been online. I went through college, I broke up with a boyfriend, I started dating my husband. I graduated, taught middle school, got married and voted for Bush. I got a job at a high school. I stayed there for almost ten years. 

I got my graduate degree. I went to Africa. I wrote a book. I met my therapist. I moved to Austin, began the adoption process, and quit my job.

I started a business and wrote two more novels.

I am — and I am not — the same Elora who stepped foot in this particular space five years ago.

There's something curious that happens when you allow fear to become your editor. Your entire being becomes heavy with untold stories. You filter dialogue and take care with opinion. Eventually, you just stop speaking all together. 

This is me beginning to speak. 
This is me taking back the mic and starting over. 

I started deleting posts a year ago. I started from the beginning and if any post didn't ring true to who I wanted to coach or who I wanted to be, I copied and pasted it into Evernote and deleted it from the site. 

I wanted to be cohesive. I wanted my brand to be manageable and recognizable. I wanted so many things, but got none of it. 

In her book When the Heart Waits, Sue Monk Kidd says, "God didn't prioritize the parts of me. God created my emotions, my instincts, my senses, and my body as well as my spirit and my mind — and pronounced them all good." 

Here is the truth of it: I used to write about faith, and then I didn't anymore. A lot of it centers on my own beliefs shifting, the doubts taking the place of once firmly held ideals. How do you accurately describe what it's like to learn how to live within the questions? Some of it though smells a lot like me hiding under the guise of discernment. The core of this facade? 

Fear. 

The internet can be a beautiful place filled with authenticity and vulnerability. Some of my best relationships have been formed within the virtual walls of various blogs and communities and social media channels. 

But the internet can also be a thinly-veiled Monster. I know this because I've been part of it. The spontaneous lynch mobs forming among Facebook threads and Twitter feeds, the private messaging and private groups filled with gossip and slander, the dissecting and deconstructing of words to fit your own meticulously contrived opinion — anyone can fall into it. 

And anyone can fall prey to it. 

I tried to write about myself for a little bit. I brought back the personal narrative and wrote about risk and what it felt like to go soft. But last year something happened. It was all mostly internal, but my focus shifted. I got tired. My inner circle got too large and I lost perspective. The fear took root and I decided to just stop telling stories. According to a few around me, my emotions were getting in the way, and so I shut them off. 

That's when I focused on the sale. 

I'm not proud of it. I think the entire time I fell into this rhythm, I knew I was flailing. I was a fish out of water. I knew I looked as desperate as I felt. But I didn't know how to stop. It's a vicious cycle when we try to grow numb to the stories happening around us and to us and instead we focus on getting. Usually, this means we're forced to live someone else's story — taking and mimicking their narrative and pretending the ill-fitting plot fits us perfectly. It's the most uncomfortable thing in the world to live as a character in someone else's story. 

It's equally as vicious and violent when you break yourself free. You know that saying about being the average of the five people you hang out with most? It's true. And if who you are aligning yourself with continually questions who you are and what you stand for, you better believe you'll begin to question yourself. 

You'll question your purpose, your story, your decisions, and your intuition. The very thing you built out of love and tears and hope becomes a mirage in their shadow. 

I broke free. I broke free and it hurt like hell. But somewhere within these past few months, the slow steady beat of my heart has returned. This is what happens when you allow yourself to let go of everything that doesn't align with your own internal rhythm — the one that speaks of purpose and strength and calling. 

I'm remembering the rhythm. 

I've archived the flailing. I saved it in a folder on my computer to remember on the days I'm feeling lost. I'm starting fresh, and I hope you'll join me.

Tell your story, the heart whispers. Tell all of it. Every fracture — every pin prick of light. 

I remember the parts of me — the shards that merged together create a mosaic of color and syntax. And so I open my mouth, take a deep breath, and begin.