I don’t know the last time I wrote or posted, to be honest. It’s been a hot minute. I’ve just been so busy with school and travel that writing has been put on the back burner for almost a month. I haven’t even really gone to the gym since my marathon, and it’s been a little over a month now. I did go on a little run—a whole 1.5 miles—a couple of weeks ago, but that’s about it.
I think I just spent the whole first half of the year on overdrive, and now I don’t have it in me to keep going. It’s like burnout—not as severe as it once was—but enough that I just want to do…nothing.
And by nothing, I mean spending the entire day reading or working on a 1,000-piece puzzle, which is exactly what I did yesterday. Surprisingly, I feel like the only time I can be productive is when I’m on FaceTime with someone and my phone isn’t really of any use. It’s like parallel play in a way. I don’t need to talk. I just need someone there to mirror.
Anyways, earlier in my journal I wrote the line, “I had so much to say when I started this blog.” I knew I wanted to come back and elaborate on it.
It’s true. When I started writing, it felt like I had so much trapped inside my brain and so many experiences I had yet to express—like one of those cans with the spring-loaded snakes that jump out when you open it. I never really knew how to talk about my feelings, and writing became one of the only places where I felt free in my emotions. Over the past two years, I’ve written about my life or how I felt in that moment at least twice a week.
Now writing feels…mundane.
All the pent-up anger and sorrow I carried about my past—the things I was never able to say out loud—have finally been written down. Most days, I feel like I don’t have anything left to say.
And while that brings me a lot of peace because my life has gone quiet, it also brings me a little sadness. It makes me wonder if maybe I should put the writing down too, since I don’t have anything left to say.
I used to think I’d always have these grand things to write about, as if my past was so unique that I’d have a voice for ages, telling stories about my life. I never really thought the pen would stop.
But somewhere along the way, it did.
I stopped having random boys drifting in and out of my life. I healed so much of the trauma I carried from my mother. And while I still have days where I wonder if I’ll ever be loved the way I’ve always wanted to be, for some reason…I feel okay.
Maybe I’ve grown up more than I realized.
Or maybe, all along, I never really had that much to say.
Maybe I just needed a place where the parts of me that had never been heard could finally speak.
So it makes me incredibly sad to think that I may stop writing—as I cry onto my laptop while typing this—but maybe I’ve gotten everything I needed from it.
As we all know, all things must come to an end.
Or maybe…I just need to put the pen down for a little while until I feel inspired again.