My post yesterday was raw. It was sad. I teared up as I wrote it. I teared up as I read it again later. Certain readers and friends got in touch after reading my words. To see if I was okay. To tell me that they cried too. Because of the palpable emotion in my sentences or because something I said triggered a personal memory for them.
I wrote that post very quickly. So quickly I wasn't really conscious of the contours of my own thoughts. I wasn't perfectly aware of what I was trying to do, or say, or accomplish. I just felt an overwhelming urge to honor in some small way what it was I was feeling. And so I pried open my laptop in a public space. And I spilled bits of myself. My mind.
After, I raced to Preschool and collected a certain smiley girl from the Koala Room. Once on the sidewalk, I gave her a big hug, bigger than usual, and whispered in her ear that I loved her. And that I was proud. And then I took her for a hot dog and fries. Sitting there with her, watching her take tiny bites of fry, listening to sweet stories from her day, I felt so much better. I felt good.
I felt alive.
But it wasn't just spending time with my big girl that turned the tide. I knew this. It was the writing. The purging of emotion. The unwrapping of self. The confession of confusion, of cracks. In writing my blog post, I acknowledged something. Something that was shaking me. I acknowledged that, in that moment, I was not exactly okay. I acknowledged that I missed my father, that even years later, it cripples me to know he won't know my girls.
I told the truth.
But. After doing this, I felt a flurry of regret. I felt that maybe I should have kept my sneaky sadness to myself. That I should have kept things buttoned up. That I should have spared you all my slipperiness.
In this world of ours, I think there is pressure. Pressure to camouflage weakness. Pressure to obscure sadness. Pressure to mask melancholy.
I have felt this pressure. I have caved under its force. I have pretended - so many times - that I am okay, that I am happy, when I am not. And this is fine because this is life. We cannot wear our emotions on our proverbial sleeves at all times.
But sometimes we can. Sometimes, we should.
Today? Today, I feel good. Today, I have a day with my girls. Today, I am smiling. But yesterday? It was rough in spots. And I'm glad I was honest about that. Because being honest about it helped a bit. More than a bit.
So. This is just another morning, another day, where I am grateful for this space. For this opportunity to revere the less-than-sparkly moments of my life.
Because as hard as they are, these moments matter too.
- Do you think there is pressure in this world of ours to mask our melancholy? Do you think this pressure is a good thing? A practical thing?
- Do you agree that sometimes acknowledging sadness, and honoring its arrival, helps happiness return?
- Do you blog sometimes to wade through existential murkiness?
- How do you handle your less-than-sparkly life moments?