The feeling is so familiar.
The gripping, churning feeling. The promise of repercussion. The flinch before the fallout.
The moment when my bright and shiny light sprung from my carefully folded hands, trespassing against my best attempts to keep it under wraps.
For many years I skirted the dance of my ambition and my fear of shining too brightly.
I stood back against the wall, awkwardly shifting from one foot to another, as I ached with the yearning for vibrancy. As I ached to be the one in the center of the circle.
Even now I feel the cool of the brick against my back as beads of sweat gather at the remembering.
You are going to be in trouble. You’ve been found out. You’ve been bad.
But I haven’t been bad. I’ve just been myself.
And, the thing is, I don’t remember ever being told that I was bad.
I don’t remember ever being told that there was a right way or a wrong way to do things.
It’s as if these beliefs seeped through my permeable skin, prancing through my open gates and taking up residence in my heart.
And I was wide open for the taking.
I wanted desperately to be good. I wanted to do all of the right things. I wanted to be pleasant and lovable. I wanted to have a nice life.
I wanted to shave off my sharp edges and mold myself into something relatively inoffensive.
But, inside, I am sharp and brazen. Inside, I am chandeliers of mega watt bulbs and sparkling golden intention. Inside, I am unapologetically self-assured.
Bide your time. Do it the right way. Channel your brightness into safe channels and projects that don’t call attention.
The thing is, I am breaking free despite myself. A little bit more each day.
I find myself spilling over my carefully defined edges and showing up in spite of my most carefully laid plans.
I used to believe that if I showed the world who I really was, I would be alone forever. But, now I know that if I don’t allow myself to be who I really am, I will belong to no one – not even myself. Now I know that there is no greater loneliness than not belonging to yourself.
Our spirits will not be denied.
I laid the bricks myself. I am the imprisoned and the guard. I mitigated my own shine.
My spirit will not be denied.
She breaks through in crashing waves and fits and starts. She is my oxygen tank when I am pressed with my face against the glass ceiling of my upper limit. She is a living, wild thing vibrating in my limbs, and no amount of distraction with dissuade her.
I am allowed to have my own life. I am allowed to create it in whatever way I see fit. I am allowed to nurture and nourish this life as it if were my sacred responsibility – because it is. I am allowed to do things that are threatening or make other people uncomfortable. I am allowed to make choices that don’t make sense to anyone but me. I am allowed to curate my own happy ending.
She will not be denied.
And I am left with the shell of that former good girl, that piece of myself that wishes she would just be quiet already and stop causing so much trouble. She was so sweet. She took such good care of me.
And I mourn her, because when she was me safety was clearly outlined in the dos and don’ts of Miss Manners. When she was me, she was easily satiated by the piecemeal life that I had handed her. When she was me, I knew the rules of the game.
But there is healing in the union of these two parts.
The healing is in knowing that there is room here for the two of us.
The healing is in knowing, in truth… I am an adult and there is no one left to get in trouble with.
The healing is in the balancing of becoming who I really am.
The healing is in knowing that I have a responsibility to tend to this life as if it were my best thing, because it is.
The healing is common ground between in the chandelier and the sweaty, feverish fear of being too much.
The healing is in carving out space like a snow angel, expanding my edges and allowing true self to shine through.
The healing is in speaking to the good girl in the sweet tones that we use with someone that we love. Thank you. Thank you for keeping me safe. You did not disappoint me. I do not need to rebel against you. Can we coexist here, peacefully?
The healing is in knowing that I have permission to be who I am in this moment. Permission to change my mind. Permission to change the rules. Permission to rewrite the ending of my story.
Permission to take up space in my own life.
I am seriously adoring these woodland creatures felt masks.
A New Moon creation story.
Wondering what to wear to your first yoga class? Curvy Yoga’s got you covered.
Your desire matters. Truly.
My sweet friends Sas Petherick and Meghan Genge have put together a deliciously free offering called Heart & Hearth for the month of November that will blow your socks off.
This metric for determining what you get is pure gold.
Lately, I have been in a nesting, DIY frenzy over here. Want to join in on the crafting adventure? This Pinterest board has the goods.
Questions to ask ourselves for improving self-care.
Dramatically improve the communication in your relationship. Hell. Yes.
Crucial :: DIY natural dry shampoo.
It’s time to stop bullying yourself.
This week I’m seeking pleasure by… buying every succulent and air plant that I can get my hands on, mopping on a Friday night, sleeping past nine am, convincing my sweetheart to go on adventures with me, and walking my cup of coffee over to the ocean so that I can start my day with the lush, healing energy that exists all around me.
You are allowed to rest.
You are allowed to go through the effort of going to the store, buying the ingredients, and spending time cooking your favorite meal… even if you’re the only one there to eat it.
You are allowed to prefer the company of people who lift you up to those that drag you down.
You are allowed to cry.
You are allowed to believe in the magic of the moon and tide and seasons.
You are allowed to be wildly sexy… even if you aren’t “skinny” or “hot” or “perfect.”
You are allowed to be unproductive or to delve into something utterly “useless” that delights your spirit.
You are allowed to not have it all figured out.
You are allowed to be selfish, and not just this once.
You are allowed to be imperfect. To show up messy. To feel vulnerable when a perceived flaw is revealed.
You are allowed to want your coffee a certain way. (Brewed dark with dollops of coconut cream, thank you very much.) And, you are allowed to be absurdly weird about the mug that you drink your coffee out of.
You are allowed to buy yourself really nice sheets to sleep in every night.
You are allowed to like succulents and flower crowns, even when they are painfully on trend and you’d really like to pretend you are too cool for them.
You are allowed to be uncool.
You are allowed to curate your life as if it is your greatest masterpiece. It is.
You are allowed to throw away all of the underwear in your drawer that has holes in it.
You are allowed to shine brightly, even it it is intimidating to someone else or makes them jealous.
You are allowed to be unendingly specific as you attend to the details of what is around you.
You are allowed to say no. To change your mind. To realize mid-process that something isn’t right for you.
You are allowed to recalibrate your course at a moment’s notice.
You are allowed to choose what you make things mean.
You are allowed to have a bad day.
You are allowed to be ridiculously happy, even if everyone around you is struggling.
You are allowed to be too much. To be irrational. To be highly sensitive.
You are allowed to ask for what you need.
You are allowed to have needs.
You are allowed to love yourself, bravely, no matter what.
You are allowed to make up your own mind about what you’d like to do – without asking anyone else.
You are allowed to make mistakes.
You are allowed to be deliciously, ridiculously, and messily human.
Damn I loved this: Anti-Hurry Allotment.
Are you missing from the visual story of your life?
A recipe for dreaming… complete with what appears to be a seriously delicious Garlic Soup recipe.
Here’s the thing – we are all just walking each other home.
Going to the source. YES.
Pecan pie in a baked apple?! I agree with all of this.
I really adored reading about how the fabulous Grace Quantock runs her two international businesses while living with a chronic illness.
Unconscious acceptance. Which is to say, what shit are you putting up with?
The pull of the moon.
How to fill your home with cheap, beautiful things from thrift stores (without becoming a hoarder).
This week I’m seeking pleasure by… Oh the nesting, will it ever end?! I hope not. Right now, I am filled to the brim with joy from cleaning my new house, cooking myself my favorite foods, skipping around my home and reveling in the solitude. I’ve also been particularly keen on the book manuscript I’m hacking away at, Pukka Love tea, and begging Cookie to re-pot my wild succulents that are taking over the living room.
And clean sheet, always clean sheets.
I am beauty for beauty’s sake.
I am hexagon tiles and not going to the bar to scrub my bathtub just because.
I am making my home in the statement: Ask for what you need.
I am tightly bound, laced-up, but unraveling.
I am open to receiving.
I am gathering women in truth everywhere that I travel.
I am tulle skirts. Hooded sweatshirts. Gold bangles. Motorcycle boots.
I am nesting.
I am energy grounding deeply, crawling along the earth. An intricate root system taking over the yard.
I am ancient mama love.
I am loud celebrations.
I am striped comforters and hot pink altars.
I am rosebuds beneath your feet and the golden shells that catch your eye.
I am blooming feminine and learning to be unendingly gentle.
I am coddled when I am sad.
I am 50 Shades of Grey for the 30th time.
I am brave love.
I am the liminal expanse where sand meets the coming tide.
I am the aloe plant in my living room that outgrew it’s pot six months ago.
I am bergamot and clary sage.
I am granting myself permission.