We are in the depths of mid-winter, crawling our way through, trudging along looking for early signs of spring. There are daffodils already standing tall in the grass outside my flat. Defiant and too impatient to wait. I look for bird nests in the trees while they’re still bear without leaves. My grandma told me when I was younger that the higher up a tree a bird makes its nest in winter, the more likely we are to have good weather. Otherwise, the birds would take better precautions, positioning themselves in the safe cover offered by lower-down branches. I don’t want to jinx it but things are looking good.
As January comes to an end, the first month of 2025 is over. We are 1/12th of the way through. It's a good time to take stock. Checking in on my mood boards and all the intentions I’ve set for the year. Not to chastise myself if I’ve under-delivered, or award myself gold stars for effort, but to make sure the threads of my life are aligning with my values and what I’ve chosen to prioritise this year.
Already a major sticking point has made itself clear. Well, it hasn’t spontaneously materialised in the last 3 weeks but it’s made itself well known. Something I have spoken about in therapy is my deeply ingrained fear of judgment. I have a desire to be liked by others and to form strong, enduring connections that can become so powerful it bowls me over, knocking me and my own interests out of the way in favour of acting and behaving how I perceive will make me more likeable. It’s exhausting. It’s created a glass ceiling of self-limiting belief and a fear of failure that keeps me tethered to what is familiar and predictable.
Drafting, and all the WordPress attempts before it, have been my small act of rebellion. I have loved writing since I can remember, it was never something I felt I had to admit until I did. Until I decided that writing was to be part of my identity, of how I identified myself. At that point, I realised I would be opening myself up to judgment, good or bad, from others. Even something I felt so sure of internally about myself had made me waiver, overcome with feelings of anxiety about how I could or might be perceived.
Still now, my writing is not where I would like it to be in that it can sometimes feel filtered. Just like how, in therapy, we discuss the ways I filter myself in front of my therapist and in life. Split second decisions I make that are second nature to me now. Writing should be daring, honest and laid out on the page with blood, sweat, tears, heart and truth. I do it in the ways I know how or feel comfortable with but I am plateauing. By protecting myself from failure and the fallout of rejection, I am going nowhere. Drafting newsletters and the Offcuts plod along but everything else I write remains hidden, or in… drafts!!!! Perhaps I cursed myself by calling my Substack “Drafting” as it seems I’ve taken things a little too literally.
In a few weeks, it’ll be two years since starting this Substack. If I have nothing else to say apart from my writing is the most consistent it has ever been, and that I hope I can become the braver writer I want to be then I’ll gladly accept that, and check back in with myself again at the end of February.
♥️ ♥️ ♥️ Loved this. I have high-tree nest feelings about your writing to come. Happy nearly 2 years of stacking!