The Knot
I’ve been enjoying the Summer Writing Project immensely in these first few days, but I’m also feeling self-conscious as hell.
Not only because publishing anything is inherently vulnerable, but because I worry I’m doing this whole non-fiction/essay/memoir writing wrong.
Worried that I’m not sharing anything valuable with the world. I read the work of Glennon Doyle, Erin Loechner, David Sedaris, all of whom share their life and the inner workings of their mind with the world, and it feels profound.
But I sit down to do it myself, and wonder, “Am I just hitting publish on my diary? Are people going to read this and think, ‘Um, you sound like a self-indulgent hot mess … no need to share your every issue and thought and gripe with the world.’
To combat this feeling, I started watching David Sedaris’ Masterclass. It’s already immensely helpful, especially as it relates to people I know reading what I’m writing.
But I also started digging into myself. About why I want to write. Why I feel called to share the deeply personal, even when it comes from deep vulnerable places. Especially when it does.
Part of it, I think, is ingrained. I’ve never not wanted to write.
But my desire to share the personal goes back to a very specific moment.
First, indulge me in a little backstory:
It was late 2022, and the pandemic lockdown had largely lifted. Social lives came back online. The world seemed thrilled.
I was … conflicted.
Here’s something the extreme introverts in your life might be embarrassed to say aloud: We didn’t mind the COVID lock down. Yes, the death and stress and loss was horrific. Hard pass on that. We of course wouldn’t repeat it.
But not having to be anywhere? Go anywhere? See anyone? All without having to come up with an excuse? We did not hate it. We thrived.
And so while I was delighted to have the threat of the virus itself in the rear view, I was faced with the startling realization that I was less happy in late 2022 when normal life had mostly resumed than I had been in 2021 when my days were full of … nothing.
Suddenly my calendar was full of stuff again. And I pasted a smile on my face and nodded along eagerly to all of the “It’s so great to be out at a restaurant again!” declarations.
But beneath the surface? There was a knot in my stomach every time there was something on my calendar. Anything. Fun stuff, stuff with people I care about, things I should enjoy, that in theory I do enjoy, and yet:
There was a knot. Not quote dread, I just already felt weary and eager to be on my way home, and I’m not even there yet.
And I know most people delight in a free day—once in a while. But in the deepest authentic “real me” part of myself that I try to bury? I want them all to be free days. Not so that I can never see people or leave the home, but so that it’s spontaneous and organic and of the moment. If I feel like it. Because sometimes I do feel like it! I just don’t know today if I’m going to feel like it next Saturday.
But here’s what I hated even more than having something on my calendar:
Myself.
I hated myself for feeling that way in the first place. Convinced to my core that I was broken for not being excited about dinner reservations, or shows, or travel plans, or happy hour.
And so one morning, when I found myself dreading dinner plans three days from now and feeling like a Horrible Human Being, I googled this exact phrase.
“I hate having things on my calendar.”
It was a hail mary. A desperate call to the universe to reassure me I’m not broken, or at least not the only one on the planet who is.
And you know what?
I’m not the only one. I know this, because a stranger named Kelly wrote this on a random blog:
When I have something to do on my schedule, I can’t stop thinking about it all day. Even if it’s just one thing, I base my whole day on it. And having MORE than one thing scheduled in a day? I instantly feel my stress rise.
Having a clear day with nothing to do feels like a dream. No stress, no obligations, and I can make my own decisions. Ahhhh.
I don’t even know if Kelly’s a man or a woman. We’ll never meet. But those few lines written by a stranger on the internet changed my life.
I’m not the only one!
I don’t know if Kelly meant to be brave when they put that out there. I don’t know if it was just a throw-away musing for them.
But for me, it was pivotal. It didn’t eradicate the knot in my stomach whenever I have to be social. That’s still there. But now I know I’m not the only one. Even if it’s just me and Kelly, and least it’s me and Kelly. Not just … me.
Why do I write? Why am I trying to be brave enough to write the deeply personal?
I write to be someone’s Kelly.
If not that you relate to The Knot, then something else here on my website. That I hate ketchup, that I struggle to balance my ethical disdain for Amazon with my love of convenience, that I don’t know how to define myself, and am not sure that I want to.
I write the darkest, weirdest parts of myself, the parts I sometimes hesitate to share even with Anth, in hopes that a kindred spirit will find it, read it, and their soul will sigh in relief. I’m not the only one.
I write to feel less alone.
Ironic, I know, for someone who loves to be alone :)
Below is the link to the Kelly’s post if you’re curious, but I will warn you: the website is completely smothered in janky ads I don’t remember from last time, including one pervasive pop-up that takes over the entire page repeatedly.
