When I started this blog a while ago, I wanted to document the personal changes I was going through that seemed prevalent; not only to me but for so many women of my age I knew. As I reflect now, that enthusiasm and candour that defined those first posts eventually wavered, and I just couldn’t figure out why.

One thing I was very much aware of though, while struggling to keep the blog going – was a fear of being judged for what I’ve written, a fear of leaving a visible trail of thoughts and ideas that I would not call my own sometime in the future. Something that may evoke a sense of shame, or guilt that would bring me regret, even humiliation… As a result the words started fading away, they stopped flowing while my fingers kept hanging above the keyboard waiting for instructions. Eventually, they had to come down and surrender to the fact that fear and procrastination determined the destiny of my blog and many of my days that followed. I wondered where all the words went, I hoped that they moved to someone else who loved and appreciated them more and was eager to use them without, or maybe despite, doubt and fear.

What was the difference between me and them? (I mean the people with courage to fill the whiteness of the screen) without – or again despite – questioning their eligibility to have their say. I asked myself that often in my dark, sometimes self-pity indulged moments. The answer didn’t come, I just had to face the silence. And then some many, many moons later (early this week to be correct), I remembered, or I was reminded, that I used to be one of them. I used to be a journalist, I used to be a writer a few decades ago (another country, another language, but that’s besides the point) and I was not afraid. In my young mind I was excited about the possibility, the opportunity to share my views on life’s happenings with the world; my truth, which was going to make a humble, but never-the-less important impact on the world. What changed: who or what took my magic tool away? Lack of support, disappointment in people, life in general? Did my truth started stretching? Did the boundaries around it start to fade away? Did it become something difficult to define? All valid reasons, but in all honesty, I don’t know exactly how it happened, all I can remember is a feeling of trying hard – trying to find a way to compromise and please too many people for way too long – trying to sail using a compass with a demagnetised needle with no Northern star in the sky.

But I know who did it. Nothing happens without our consent – conscious or automatic, it makes no difference.

Yet, here I am writing this at midnight with tingles in my fingertips and butterflies in my stomach, and it can mean only one thing. I found my truth, my centre, my star again. Not necessarily the same one, this one feels like it can’t be so easily lost and compromised. It comes from the knowing that it can not be wrong to express and share your own deepest, most authentic feelings, questions, ponderings, ideas and desires. They are your truth, they are you, denying them would be equal to denying your own existence. Genuine, authentic, good intentioned ideas and personal struggles should leave their trail in time. They plant the seeds of the well-being of tomorrow. And they all adapt as we learn and grow and change.

Judging and blaming others for what is going on in our lives would be the same as going back and judging myself for whatever mistakes I made. I decided to forgive myself for a lot of things, allowing my words to leave me, amongst the rest of them. Maybe that’s why they found their way back to me.

This is just a warm up – if you behave, they said..

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