Me: Write.
Also Me: Writing means saying the truth. The truth is painful. I can’t hold any more pain right now.
Me: Write anyway.
Also Me: I’m so tired and so sad and so lonely.
Me: Write about it.
Also Me: I can’t. It’s garbage. I would rather produce nothing than garbage.
Me: Maybe someone else needs to hear your garbage right now.
Also Me: But then they’ll know I’m tired and sad and lonely.
Me: Maybe that’s not so bad.
Also Me: Maybe it’s not…
This is the extent to which I can show up in the world right now. Nothing is harder than giving myself the space to be tired and sad and lonely and NOT rushing to fix it. Nothing is harder than listening closely to what the hell is really going on with me, what I am lacking on a deeper soul level. I can’t say this enough: Every day is so hard. So very hard. But I am still here, still showing up. Of that, I am proud.