Once upon a time, I started a blog; the year was 2012, and I was living in a yellow camper van with a bumper sticker that read, Relax You’ll Get There.
But I was anything but relaxed.
The trip lasted well past its expiration, going past the month’s vacation mark and into an eleven-month van-living lifestyle. Instead of pursuing my passion as a counselor or a meaningful relationship with a partner, I entered into a vortex of wasting time, spinning out, and side trips.
During that time, the blog gave me something to do, a semblance of purpose that I hoped could financially support my escaping reality way of life. I got followers, and people liked my stuff, but everything felt unbearable.
The too-bright spotlight. The rubberband tight feeling in my chest. The need to escape indefinitely. Shame. These insecurity-related symptoms eventually became a giant stinky elephant separating me from the page. Not knowing instead of normal meant I was stupid, or a grammatical error wasn’t just a measly mistake, but instead was something that’d forever banish me from belonging.
Writing – my hobby, a soft place to fall, home – became a nightmare. So my final post – came after agonizing ongoingly – was published at my friend Peter’s house in Venice Beach, California four months after I started.
Today’s elephant is cute and pink and sits on my shoulder. She whispers advice into my ear for the page; I appreciate her vulnerability and am grateful for her insights. Four hundred and eighty-three days in a row of writing. I’d say I’ve made progress.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 