devoted to the mess

asking: "what happens next?"

dot and i laying in the grass, the early whispers of fall, 2022.

greetings, greetings to you, dear reader.

the sun is slipping in and out from behind the clouds, i have pulled my second-thickest set of socks out of the sock drawer. the windows no longer can stay open all day and all night long, it is too cold. i sit at my desk, writing this dispatch to you, dear reader, with a long-sleeve shirt on and a heavy sweater, the sweatpants i slept in still tucked around my limbs.

this week, more than most weeks, i’ve felt splayed open with vulnerability. i said the hard things, not just once, not just twice, not just three times. over and over and over again. a love in my life said that i looked in the mirror and learned a lot about myself. and it isn’t without tears.

the vulnerability, the honesty wasn’t perfect. they weren’t planned spurts of dialogue. i knew that the heart of my truths needed to be shared in some way, but i wasn’t sure how the person (or people) on the other side of the conversation would react or respond. it was messy. messier than messy. but also exactly how it needed to go.

in learning to recover from perfectionism, to drop the mask, to find a way to be my full self even when it’s terrifying, i’m learning that honoring myself, my story, and my feelings are my first priority. that letting go of control means a devotion to the mess. a devotion to trying to get it right and missing the mark. and then standing up and trying again.

if i honor myself, if i honor my story, if i honor my feelings, and give them all space and time, then there really is no such thing as failing. there is no such thing as missing the mark. there is no such thing as too messy or too much.

i’ve looked in the mirror and didn’t like what i saw. and with each new look, each new layer of openness, i’ve liked myself more.

i liken this to an experience of throwing myself continuously at a brick wall. my heart, and its suffering, have been caged in by a tower of bricks, placed delicately by the younger versions of myself trying to protect all of the versions of me from some inevitable pain.

even when the vulnerability ends up painful, in tears, i’ve learned that the pain or the longing or the sadness doesn’t last forever. and instead, it departs quicker if i can give myself the opportunity to sit fully in the feelings and let my body process the emotional quality. to be as kind to myself as i would be to a friend. and not run away from the pain or the hard feelings.

and each time i’ve thrown my body at the brick wall, bricks come loose. the tower slowly crumbles to the ground. i am freeing myself from the inside out.

when we’re tasked with showing up as our full selves, we’re really tasked with the mission of finding authenticity and vulnerability in our daily lives. this means telling the truth. this means having the hard conversations. this means saying the things you really don’t want to say, because you’re not sure how other folks will respond.

when we find a growth edge, when we find the things we’re scared of, when we place heavy expectation on outcome, instead of running away, we have the opportunity to ask the question, as pema chödrön puts it: “what happens next?”

often times, the words we’re looking for aren’t as difficult to say out loud. the reaction we’re expecting is significantly softer. the world unfolds in a place between pleasure and pain, and releasing the need to hold onto either releases us from this burden of prediction.

when we live a life trying to predict the next stop on the trip, we forget to admire where we are right now, to listen longer in our conversations, to hold the gaze softer for a few more moments, to enjoy and appreciate the time we have right now. because nothing like this will ever be the same as this exact moment. this moment, right here, is the only one we can be fully present for. and so predicting our own suffering, or creating a mental picture of a changed outcome from what we have, end up placing us in a cycle of despair.

when we find a place of fear within ourselves, asking the question “what happens next?” can open a different option to us. we can make a different choice than what we’ve believed to be true in the past.

i’m holding myself tenderly this week. i’ve scheduled walks and coffees and facetimes with those i love. i’m reminding myself of the community i have in front of me. i know that the choice to be open and vulnerable and authentic to myself, my feelings, and my space will only benefit me in the long run. even if it hurts right now.

onward,

sara