Blogging is a lot like exercise. You stop for a season and before you know it, it's much easier to just not. You keep telling yourself: I'll do it later today, tomorrow morning, when I get some free time. But it almost feels counterintuitive at this point. Its been so long that it has lost its appeal. It's not refreshing and life-giving like it used to be. You don't feel as excited or energized by it anymore. And there's all this pressure. You tell yourself you just need to be in the right headspace. Days pass. Weeks. Months. And at this point, you're not sure you remember how the routine goes. It feels awkward. You once felt like it was a part of you, the rhythm of it. It came naturally, easily. Not always, of course. There have always been hard days. But you pushed through because you knew the reward was worth it. But now? Now you're believing the lie that there is no reward. The lie that it's not worth it. It's too much trouble to put yourself out there, awkwardly starting again.
I'm sitting here typing this not because it's productive. Not because I think anyone will read it. Not because I even necessarily want to. But because I know writing/sharing/storytelling, it's a part of me. And I don't want to lose that part of me to growing older, to motherhood, busyness. I think my soul needs this. It's one of the things that makes me feel most alive. But I stopped. For many different reasons I think. Mainly, motherhood. It requires much of my emotional and physical energy. But I think I also stopped because of minimalism. When I quit Facebook and all my other social media accounts (except beloved Instagram), I think I lumped blogging into the category of online presence that needed to be cut out. But I wasn't journaling or writing outside of my blog. So I didn't just stop blogging. I stopped writing. I mean I was still writing here there: a few articles for a magazine, and some extremely long Instagram captions. But I stopped writing for myself. And today I realized I can't do that. I can't stop. It would be easy to, of course. With all the demands of life. But I can't. Or maybe I won't. Because there's something in me that knows deep down that storytelling is essential to who God created me to be.
So this is me starting something new. I'm committing myself to writing every day for the next 30 days (I hate commitments by the way. Actually, that's not true. I love making them, hate keeping them. Mostly because I make it a works thing and then I fail at it and allow it to reflect who I am as a person. But I've grown in that area and realized my identity is based in Christ, not failing at commitments. Hence the new commitment making). There's nothing special about today. It's not the first day of the month or even a Monday. It's just the day I decided to start again. Because I have so much I want to share. So many posts written in my head about motherhood, minimalism, freedom. And I'm afraid if I don't share them now, I never will. So for 30 days I'm going to write. No rules. No pressure. Just writing. If you made it this far, thanks for joining me, supporting me, and as always encouraging me just by being here.