Writing to Remember

There's so much I want to do. 

Like writing in a journal with my pen to the page, letting the words roll straight from my heart, and landing right here permanently with ink. 

I want to write because I haven't found the space to do so for a while. I want to remember how sometimes, most times, I write for you, the reader. I write to remember the moments that made me, me. I write to remember those who have gone both from this world and some from just my heart. 

Sometimes, I write to remember the pain so that I can make decisions that move me forward in life. I also write to remember the missteps and the times I spent going backward. The times I've felt lost, and the times I've actually been lost. I write to remember all of it because that is my life. 

I write to remember the person I was at 16, writing in a journal similar to this one, spiral bound with two golden retriever puppies on the hard front cover. Now I prefer a Moleskine. The place where I wrote then was not to remember but to merely understand. 

It's where I processed emotions, understood what I could of life, and dreamed of my future, and imagined what it could look like. I poured my heart onto those pages, and before I knew it, they were written.

I wrote about life, then I experienced it, and I wouldn't say I liked it. I made some good decisions and even more bad ones. I lacked the outlet to process my feelings and talk to people who understood me. I felt like no one understood me. I shut off my feelings, buried my writing, and closed down my emotions. 

It was easier to be logical, rational, methodical; it was easier not to be me. I became a new version of me, the cactus, instead. I surrounded myself with people that supported me but didn't challenge me. They would hear what I said but not feel the meaning behind my words. It was all surface level, and that was okay. It was safe, and that's what I thought needed. 

And then, nearly 15 years later, I picked the pen back up. I sat in my own pain and let the words come out. I felt something again, for the first time in a long time. There was scary freedom that came from feeling, and there was a lingering fear that I knew I needed to face. 

It wasn't until I picked the pen back up again that I realized that part of me was buried, and when I finally found the courage to dig it up, I saw that that part was broken.

When I committed to writing my first book, Fix This Next for Healthcare Providers, in 2020, and prepared for its release, I also committed to fixing the broken and neglected parts of myself as well. My greatest failures, which I was most ashamed of, had to be confronted, and I would start with a pen. 

I've committed to authorship for now and hopefully for a long time to come. I've committed to being open, unafraid, and vulnerable. I've finally convinced myself that there are enough nice people in the world with enough nice things to say, but I want to be real, and sometimes that's not always nice. 

I want to be as transparent as I feel like being; as transparent as I need to be for the people who read my work. I want to be proud of myself, both when I fail AND when I succeed, and I want to do more than just get through each day without pissing anyone off. 

I want to do more, and my more starts with remembering. And for now, I write to remember.