On starting before you’re ready — #1
I woke up the other day like Rip Van Winkle, realizing somehow the past seven whole days on the calendar were scribbled over with a thick, black sharpie marker.
I woke up the other day like Rip Van Winkle, realizing somehow the past seven whole days on the calendar were scribbled over with a thick, black sharpie marker.
Like many, I had been violently taken down by one of the bugs in the current “Tridemic,” which completely overshadowed the time of cheerful, nostalgic reflection from my whirlwind trip to Sedona, AZ.
Instead of returning to Portland refreshed and riding the high of an impromptu girls-trip, on the flight home I morphed into a groggy, coughing zombie, who would spend the next week passed out on the couch—waking seemingly only to shower, slather another thick layer of Dr. Bronner’s arnica menthol salve on her chest, change into an alternative pair of 24-hour pajamas, and carelessly leave the days past pairs of comfy clothing in little random heaps scattered across our bedroom floor.
Coming out of the fog to realize December 8th through the 14th were simply gone, elicited feelings of panic, guilt, overwhelm, and ultimately appreciation. My husband, Ryan, and I have been approaching the holidays with a “let’s just get through them and to the other side” attitude this year. This level of avoidance may sound Grinch-y to some, but experiencing the holiday season for the first time as bereaved parents, believe me, it’s appropriate.
I’m not here to rain on anyone else’s parade of festive, jubilant, enjoyment; it’s simply something we prefer abstaining from this year. Shielding our battered hearts from cruel reminders of our new reality—a season no longer filled with the wondrous grins and effervescent giggles from our seven-year-old son, as we joyously carry him through neighborhood displays of Christmas lights.
Unconsciously escaping seven days of the holiday season lead-up—while my body rested and fought off a virus similar to the ones Ryan and I had spent the past eight years avoiding at all costs in keeping Leo healthy—in one way feels a little like I duped the system. In another, I feel like I lost seven days of time to get my Substack newsletter up and going before the new year, which has been my goal since early-November.
On my first day in Sedona, I vowed to hit the ground running upon my return: utilizing the magical energy harnessed during sunrise and sunset hikes, among sacred red rock buttes and along dusty dirt, cactus-lined trails, to inspire and bring this new venture to life. This would be the precious crunch-time of dedication and thoughtful prep, where creative planning would turn into work, and eventually lead to the careful cultivation of something amazing.
I could view my situation as being one week closer to the end of the year, with nothing to show for my week of rest. Or, I could embrace it for the gift it is: the elimination of the buffer of time likely spent over-thinking, doubting myself, wondering who exactly will want to read my work, all being ripped out of the equation. I can give myself the opportunity to simply start before I’m ready.
The truth is, I’m not sure where this newsletter is going or who precisely I’m writing it for. My current plan is to publish once a week, sharing a short story from the past or present, hopefully in a somewhat relatable way.
Being “relatable” is one of those cringe, eyeroll words for me, but it’s important. It’s also extremely difficult. This means showing up as myself—in my full grief-stricken, existential crisis experiencing, albeit joy-seeking glory—in a way that translates for others. Having your life fall apart is complicated. And unfortunately, in our world of social media, the messy, beautiful complexities often get left out or misunderstood.
Long-winded musings paired with a simple photo seem to be a thing of the past on Instagram, encouraging this pivot. I’m looking forward to offering a thoughtful newsletter, which will hopefully lead to a fun experience of community in a slowed-down space to be enjoyed without ads.
This past year has been… a lot of things.
» witnessing our beloved son pass away while cradled in our arms,
» feeling love and support from near and far while also feeling utterly abandoned and alone,
» traveling and immersing ourselves in nature’s wonders of the Southwest and Pacific Northwest,
» being physically rejected from the home we spent years searching for in Colorado,
» reading and writing as a balm for my broken heart,
» selling our home in a hasty fury to haphazardly end up in Portland, OR (a place we never even visited before leasing our townhome) because losing a child apparently makes you crave rain and the ocean,
» witnessing unreal happenings that can only be explained by a warmhearted and tearful “Hi, Leo!”,
» and settling on the idea that sometimes everything needs to be turned upside down to make sense of a fresh start.
Where does one go from here? I’m not sure. But I’m starting before I feel ready—leaving space for adventure, surprise opportunities, and mistakes to propel me forward.
Thank you so much for reading and coming along on this new adventure with me!
If you’re in the process of giving yourself extra time to start something new, have you considered just starting before you’re ready? I gotta say, it’s an exhilarating way to end the year.
xo
Lewann
On starting before you’re ready — #1
Lewann, I've finally made it to Substack! I love your writing and I will follow you wherever you go 😉 Thank you for keeping your heart open and sharing your journey with the world. I look forward to seeing what the new year brings you! Thinking of you. 🧡🌞
(P.S. How interesting that I am also exploring other paths to share my writing.)
Here for all of it my friend. The journey is long but I know you’ll find your footing. Grateful I get to be a witness to it. And inspirational. I’ve have my Substack up but haven’t felt comfortable yet writing here. Maybe 2023 will be my year to try new things. ❤️