Hello there!

Welcome to my little corner of the ether. This is where you will find information about my books and musings on life and love in New York City. To stay in the loop about all things ADR...

JOIN THE LIST

melancholy 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.

My melancholy.

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?

Time or Space?

Before & After