Sorry, was I loud? – Writing Even When It All Turns To Shit
There was a season in my life when I stopped sharing online. Those years were brutal. I was treading water, trying to find my footing, and all that internal work left me with no desire to create or connect with my words. Sharing online is tricky enough as it is. Part of me will always wrestle with it. But it’s nearly impossible when you’re walking through hell.
The so-called ‘beautiful mess’ I used to write about? It just felt like a pile of bullshit. The rock of certainty I built my life on was not as steady as I was told it would be. In fact, a lot of that foundation was the problem. It always had been. I put my heart into what was supposed to be a fireproof safe, but when the fire came, the damn thing melted
All I was left with was a feeling of betrayal.
It’s strange seeing one’s life without the pink haze of false security.
And in the middle of that unraveling, there was no beauty to write about, and I refused to pretend there was. I also didn’t know how to write about a world stripped of beauty – not publicly, anyway.
How does one share terror and hopelessness? How do you trust people with that kind of vulnerability without trying to reassure everyone that you’re okay? Did not the psalmist get to cry out in despair without resolution? (Well, I suppose by the time we read his words, he was dead. Maybe that’s the trick. Hit publish, then die?)
Or maybe some things aren’t meant to be shared until everyone involved has had time to process them. Sometimes, the journey deserves more time, and it’s okay to honor that. Still, when I really thought about it, I had to admit that there was more holding me back than simply giving everything more time. I had a list of fears that often stopped me.
- Fear of other people.
I have always been careful about posting about anything involving anyone else. I want to be respectful toward others. This is a good thing, but to what degree? Is there such a thing as being too careful? Was I hiding behind it? Was this just another way of people-pleasing?
2. Fear of being misunderstood.
People love assumptions. They love to read between the lines. (This is where one of my kids would chime in: “Oh yeah? Well, read between these lines,” while holding up three fingers.)
Is sharing online just handing people a blank canvas to paint their own version of me? I’d be stuck over-explaining every paragraph, just to keep the record straight. I am super guilty of this, and it’s so annoying.
3. Fear of changing my mind.
I am a Libra, Enneagram 9 wing 8, and an INFP. I can easily understand multiple perspectives. I like to feel as though things are fair and balanced. And if I’m firm about something, I still want the option to change my mind. This should be a good quality, but could be seen as hypocrisy?
4. Fear of losing people.
Then there is the huge risk in writing about topics that are so very polarizing. We live in the age of cancel culture, after all. Still, how much worse it is getting canceled by friends or family? Is it worth writing on my silly old blog about politics, faith, or pain, only to risk people walking away? To write is to be brave, but how brave was I willing to be? Often I settled on the idea that it is simply better to be quiet.
Fear of judgment is deeply rooted in me. In fact, that troublesome season of my life taught me a lot about it. It was key in overcoming so much of that fear.
In real life, I’ve made progress. But the online world? That’s the final frontier.
Online is taking a public stance.
Online is the risk of being misunderstood, picked apart.
Online is wearing my heart on my sleeve.
Loud isn’t encouraged unless it’s a very specific, acceptable kind of loud — the ministering, polished, pre-approved kind.
A “good Christian” doesn’t challenge ideas. A good Christian provides the right answers. That message was stitched into me… until it unraveled.
One day, it hit me on the head. (Cue Taylor Swift’s quote, “Sorry, was I loud? In my own house? That I bought with the songs that I wrote about my own life?”)
This is my very human life.
It’s my happiness. My grief. My questions. I’m no longer afraid to talk about them.
I’ve been preached at my whole life by people eager to share their version of the story. It’s only fair to offer mine.
The messy parts. The complicated parts. I’m not putting pretty bow endings on everything.
Some stuff is just shit, and that’s okay to say.
Anne Lamott said, “Write straight into the emotional center of things. Write toward vulnerability. Risk being unliked. Tell the truth as you understand it. If you’re a writer you have a moral obligation to do this. And it is a revolutionary act—truth is always subversive.” And if I’m being honest, it’s the subversive part that tugs at my sleeve like a persistent child. I’ve said this before, documenting my life is an act of defiance. It doesn’t matter whether I’m speaking into the void or to a group I’ll either please or piss of, I am here and I have something to say.
Writing helps untangle the swarm of thoughts spinning in my head and forces them into clarity. Sharing them publicly gives those thoughts weight and meaning. It’s how I process, and how I allow myself to be vulnerable with the world. Quietly, I hope the world meets my vulnerability with its own. To stop sharing would be to abandon myself and I’m not doing that anymore.
This is my very human life.
It’s my happiness. My grief. My questions. I’m no longer afraid to talk about them. I’ve been preached at my whole life by people eager to share their version of the story. It’s only fair to offer mine.The messy parts. The complicated parts. I’m not putting pretty bow endings on everything. Some stuff is just shit, and that’s okay to say.
Recently, when something suddenly challenged my idea of reality again, I realized something had shifted. I was in a different place this time. This time, I internally fought to hold onto my need to write no matter what transpired. I vowed to respect someone’s right to privacy and still find a way to be honest about parts of my life. Something I wish I could have done a long time ago.
I now feel completely comfortable with the reality that time changes everything, including my opinions and even possibly who I am. Time changes everyone around me, as well.
What I love today may not be what I love tomorrow. Someone can love me today and decide they hate me tomorrow. What feels true for me now, might unravel for me in time. That’s life – it’s ridiculous, absurd, wonderful – and also total shit sometimes.
But I’ll write my way through it.
That, I can guarantee.
“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”
― Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird
