breaking all of my own rules
Wednesday, 7/8/26 @ 8:56pm
I told myself I would read my book and wind down once I had finished my tea, but it’s now an hour later and my tea is cold and the room is dark and the glow of the computer screen hurts my eyes as I squint at it, determined to begin again — you see, I’m trying to find more ways to trick myself into writing because it doesn’t seem to be something that comes easily right now.
Create a ‘journal’ section on your website, I told myself, wouldn’t that be fun!? You could write about daily things, like how you sold your beloved car today and wanted to cry as you watched someone else drive away in it and how you wanting to cry wasn’t really about the car, it was the reminder of everything all at once.
I do often wonder about how I can be both heartbroken and wanting to spend hours each night editing my website or in A Home for Creating, planning out a mini series on how I use Notion.
I actually do know what it is, or at least I highly suspect...
It’s me wanting to escape into another world.
It’s a longing to find somewhere and something to retreat into.
Somewhere where things like cancer and war and genocide don’t exist.
Just me picking a background color for some text that probably no one else will notice changed from purple to green.
It’s somewhere comfortable, soft, gentle, kind.
It’s me wanting to control something, anything, no matter how small.
It’s me wanting to build something I think is beautiful just because I can.
To conclude this thought so I may close my computer and go read my book and fall asleep and (hopefully) dream of nothing at all: writing is hard and important because writing asks me to feel everything at once, to be right up close with my hurt and my joy.
Also: creativity, in all of it’s shapes, is it’s own form of medicine.
Thursday, 7/9/26 @ 11:06am
Once again, my tea is cold, but this time it’s because I was in an earlier-than-usual therapy session where I apparently had so much to say I forgot to take a single sip.
I had told A, my therapist, that I am a gremlin in the morning. She laughed and told me that she was too, and maybe that was all I needed to hear: that I was safe to be my gremlin self. That my gremlin self was welcome to join in on the conversation.
Also: Wearing my favorite outfit today was a good call.
Selling my car was a good practice in letting go.
In not holding on too tightly. In releasing control over things I have little to no control over.
Writing on my website again has been a good practice in not overthinking every decision, in allowing myself to get things wrong, to not try and fix something that doesn’t need to be fixed, that can just be as it is: imperfect and real and joy-giving.
Thursday, 7/9/26 @ 6:30pm
These days, when I document or share online, it’s inside of A Home for Creating, and while that works really well for me right now, I’ve been curious to find a more candid way of interacting with my writing practice.
To have seasons where long-form essays feel exciting and supportive and challenging in all of the best ways, and to have seasons where I’m fascinated by the profoundness of an imperfect journal entry.
To have seasons where I want to bounce between documenting and researching and crafting essays, and to have seasons where the only writing you’ll find of mine is inside of my private membership, A Home for Creating.
Allowing myself to integrate these different approaches to these varying avenues of self-expression, has been terrifying and thrilling — it feels like I’m breaking all of my own rules (rules that I don’t remember making, rules that have no business being here in the first place).
Honestly though, does writing really need to be this complicated?
And how can I trulyyyy be ok with an inconsistent writing practice?
How can I make me ghosting my long-form newsletter (for whatever reason!) feel safe and normal and ok?
That’s all for now,
Chloe