A few days ago I read something I previously wrote:
”There are currently 19 drafts sitting in my folder, formed thoughts that are more than just blurry shapes. It would be easy to publish one of those that has nothing to do with how I am feeling right now. Less effort, less vulnerable and scary. It would be easier to publish a more polished version of me. And maybe I will.
But I know that some of the most transformative work is done in the middle. Not at the end, when it's figured out, neatly placed in a box, archived under 'life lessons', but whilst I am in in the thick of it, in the mess, while it still doesn’t quite make sense. Because writing is how I make it make sense. Writing is how I hear my own heart. Because letting others see the not-knowing, the naked fear, the uncertainty, is how we all feel less lonely. It's how we all feel less wrong. There is a time to let things mature. To leave them to rest, breathe and rise. But there is nothing quite like a raw place of momentary, uncensored, wild truth.”
And I realised that my favourite writing is the one I do in the trenches. While I am still experiencing the thing. The writing I do from resolve and conclusion might be more polished, might look more coherent, might look like ‘my best’ technically, might be the one that gets more engagement online, but it’s not my favourite.
It’s the raw and unedited words that flow to the page while I am in it, that are precious to me, it’s the stuff I am most proud of.
So here I am, writing from the trenches.
Recently I had to make a decision that pained me deeply. I have been sitting with grief for weeks, realising that there is no way around doing the thing I don’t want to do.