The Rockstar

In the hustle of life it’s easy to forget what’s important. To get so lost in the fray of responsibilities and self-imposed stress that we forget who we are.

My first written post in weeks was a blurb on Facebook about the state of things. Since it had been a struggle to put a single word to the page, I forced myself to feel triumphant after posting it. No matter how terrible or self-piteous, at least I finally had words! As they poured like sludge from my fingers to the keys, understanding was dawning. None of the things I was hung up on were actually problems. NONE. In fact, there was only one: I had forgotten who I was.  

I preach simplicity then go out of my way to complicate my own life. It’s not enough to enjoy one book, I have to dip a toe into seven. My focus on health sends me down the rabbit hole of “what is really healthy?” and instead of doing easy things like adding more veggies to my meals, I stress about why I haven’t juiced in months. I’ve turned my job of simple administration into a high wire act where I’m balancing the business on my shoulders and any misstep will send us careening to the ground. I give lip service to “trusting the flow” yet forget to relax when creative inspiration takes a backseat to rest. In short, I’ve been focusing on all the wrong things, which only brings more wrong things, and more reasons to feel lost.

I can be a bit of a control freak (try to hide your surprise), so my first instinct to get back on track was to control life down to the minutest detail. I held so tight to the way I thought things should be that I lost sight of the way they actually were, which—to no one’s surprise—only made me feel even more out of control when nothing went according to plan. After a few weeks of this madness, my body cried out in opposition so loudly I had no choice but to listen. The horrible burning in my stomach was a desperate plea for me to stop. RELAX. Let go.

Surrender.

I’d been operating in constant fear, fueled by variables outside of my control. As the ego scrambled to protect me from all the things that could go wrong, fear and worry quickly blotted out the trust and love that would have otherwise carried me through the hard times. In the end it didn’t matter how many books I finished reading or how many pounds I did (or didn’t) lose by the end of the year. The world would not stop spinning if I took a hiatus from writing, and I wouldn’t improve my work situation by staying up half the night dreading my next shift. The fear-based living had to stop. But what would happen if the machine that was my mind suddenly shut down? Could I survive without the noise, the lists, the posts, or the plans?

As it turns out, yes. Yes I could. And when I got quiet for five seconds I realized that after everything I’ve done this year a break wasn’t just deserved, it was due.

In 2018 I started this blog, which took courage I didn’t know I had, and I’ve posted almost every week since May. Last year at this time I was still jotting down notes, trying to come up with a name. I might not have knocked out anything worth publishing in weeks, but I’ve written more in the last year than the previous ten years combined—and some of it isn’t even terrible.

Unlike a few years ago, the Chiari malformation doesn’t rule my life. Most days I don’t notice the part of my brain that took a detour south until I laugh just a little too hard—and even then the pain is so fleeting I forget to let it bring me down. I was strong enough to pass on a surgery that could’ve helped me but didn’t feel right, and followed my intuition to South America for a different kind of healing instead. I also gave up the best money I ever made (from in my pajamas, no less) because I decided money wasn’t the most important part of work. I was brave enough to leave a good job with no plan, trusting that the universe would align and I would be OK.

And I was. I am. I survived five months without alcohol and, more importantly, have since learned to drink mindfully (yes, mindful drinking is a real thing!). I convinced my hubs to adopt a dog, and the little mutt is now the light of our lives. I’ve asked for what I needed—at home and at work—even if it meant rocking the boat. I’m experimenting with sound therapy, cellular meditation, regression, and online courses about self-love, and I’ve even somehow gained a new appreciation for this beautiful, doughy temple that used to be my prison.

Maybe I didn’t read every book (or write one of my own) or lose all the weight this year, but looking back on everything I have done, it should come as no surprise that it’s December and all I want is to sit down with a hot cup of something in front of the fireplace and my Christmas tree to enjoy the fruits of a wild year before the next one begins. My keyboard, walking shoes, pile of books, and work demands will all be waiting for me after the ball drops, so what’s the rush?

It took some serious introspection, but I finally see that I’m not some burnt-out failure, or the same writer-who-doesn’t-write, or pain-ridden mass of misery I was a few years ago. I am strong. I am brave. I am a fucking Rockstar.

And this Rockstar is tired, so if you don’t hear from me for a few weeks, Happy New Year!