with grace.

Unable to write.

Sometimes I am physically unable to write, like my creative pipe is frozen. I wish it didn’t feel so taxing to do things I enjoy, like writing a quick blog, scrapbooking, or art. I think there’s not enough time in the day, like my entire day is consumed by responsibilities and adult tasks, and I have no control over the spare free time I find. I feel as though my energy levels are simply insufficient to balance both adulthood and the carefree life I desire. It’s like I don’t have enough energy to maintain my desired lifestyle, and I also can't change the demands of said lifestyle right now. 

To be clear: I love my life; I am so grateful for where I am. I am grateful to be the woman I’ve grown into. I have a community, a job, a new home, and a car. My daughter and I are healthy; our home is full of love. I find myself questioning if I can keep up with the blessings I’ve been given. 

They say

God gives his hardest battles to His strongest soldiers. 

But He also gives His biggest blessings to His hardest sufferers. Perhaps the life I have, and the mental evolution I’ve achieved because of it, are just spiritual reciprocity. I went through a whole lot of hurt; now it’s time to get a whole lot of love. My car is the other side of endless bus rides with an infant. My home is on the other side of unstable housing and homelessness. My health journey is the other side of developing a food disorder due to food insecurity. My maturity and peace are the other side of a debilitating, undiagnosed mental illness and lack of resources. I put in the work, and I get a reward back. Ebbs and flows. Ins and outs. Ups and downs. 

I may be stuck in a loop of circumstance trauma, where I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop. And though there’s been no evidence of a shoe suspended above my head, there’s a permanent pit of anxiety in my gut–it tells me to stay ready, because anything can happen at anytime. The survivor in me thinks it’s pivotal to be realistic. I’ve had the rug pulled from under me before. I’ve been betrayed by loved ones. I’ve passed through some scary shit. But nothing compares to the feeling of lacking control. More recently, life has taught me I cannot control every outcome in my life. I can’t control the people in my life. I can’t control the shifts in my life. In presence and patience, I must focus on my reactions and processing rather than the shifts themselves. 

I’ve learned to keep moving forward, and sometimes it feels like I have a blindfold on. And yes, my blindfold is made of quality fabric–soft and silky. My name is embroidered on it, and there are gem embellishments. Some people would love the chance to release the wheel, blindfold themselves, and trust the process. For me, it is a struggle. I’m grateful for it, but gratitude is not mutually exclusive from fear of new territory. 

I feel I have limited options: I can cower in fear of this newfound altitude, limiting my potential because I cannot control the trajectory, or I can adjust to the bigger plate I have in front of me. I can learn to carry what I’ve been given. I think it starts with asking myself who I want to be, and how that woman reacts in times of blissful overwhelm like these. It starts with showing up in that space… even if I am not actually there yet. 

It looks like patience: being able to wait for things to align and make sense. It looks like grace: allowing myself space to adjust and fall short sometimes. It looks like gratitude: honoring my journey both behind me and ahead. It looks like presence: existing in each moment at a time. 

Dear reader, I implore you to ask yourself the following:

Who am I today, and who do I want to be? 

Ask yourself how you can become that person, and how you can show up as them starting today.

Yes, today.

For me, today (and this blog, actually) reveals itself as another reminder to pause and take a step back to breathe. Things have felt admittedly shaky because I am still adjusting to a new normal. The blessings I’ve been receiving are new to me, so I am learning how to hold and care for them. I’m teaching myself that it’s okay to minorly mishandle blessings as I adjust.

There is no manual for elevation. ‘They’ don’t tell you what it comes with–the second-guessing, the self-doubt, the loneliness, and temporary loss of purpose.

Like any adjustment and general shift to life, I welcome it with grace—one foot in the door, one toe at a time.

-Z