Silence Is Anything But Golden

”There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” — Maya Angelou

10 months. That’s how much time has passed since I last wrote and shared anything here, really wrote and shared anything anywhere, if I’m being honest. Before ghosting you (and me) last fall, I had reestablished a regular-ish writing practice over the summer after a two-plus-year hiatus. It was both generative and regenerative to write again, and reflected a reciprocal reengagement with my never-ending-but-oft-foresaken journey of soul work. I felt energized and excited. The clouds began to lift from my inner landscape, and eudaemonia crept back in. I was certain that this time would be different, that I would be able to keep the momentum and live into my intention of making creative self-expression and inner exploration a daily or at least weekly habit. Truth is, though I talk about Contagious Vulnerability being a lifetime, life-giving, mental wellness practice, in reality, my personal track record with it has been inconsistent at best since I launched the series in 2018.

The very same shadowy forces that preceded and prompted last summer’s creative revival crept back in before autumn’s leaves began to fall, weighing on my consciousness and slowly eroding my joyful aliveness. Momentum lost, I watched helplessly as the connection to my soul’s purpose began to fray, eudaemonia replaced by apathy and indifference, yet another attempt at a fresh start withering and dying on the vine. Now, here I am again, reflecting on long, dark months of the soul, returning to the keyboard to metabolize and make meaning of my latest journey through shadowland in hopes of regaining motivation and reclaiming my light and vitality once more.

My intention last fall was not to stop writing altogether, only to stop writing and sharing on Medium. I planned to redirect my energy toward writing my first book, a somewhat elusive goal I’ve been playing hide-and-seek with — really chasing like Ahab his whale — for the last ten years. “So how’s that going?” you ask. Well, I wrote a powerful opening chapter — one that vividly and viscerally chronicles the events of Mother’s Day, May 11, 2008, the day my mother, Wendy, chose to take her own life and simultaneously rebirthed mine. I am proud of what I’ve written, and honored by enthusiastic reviews from the trusted familiars with whom I’ve shared it. I am also ashamed to say that I’ve found myself stymied ever since, my keyboard silent, my life-sustaining, soul-inspiring practices abandoned, my inner landscape once again shrouded in darkness.

With 60 years of life in my rearview mirror, I’m realizing that these two practices — writing and curious introspection — are deeply and inextricably linked and core to my mental wellness. If one stops, the other simultaneously grinds to a halt. When I quit writing, my mental wellness stagnates, and things start to fall apart. When this happens, a period of darkness and existential angst inevitably ensues. The longer my keyboard stays quiet, the more profound my descent and the more challenging it is to claw my way out. Imposter syndrome sets in, and I find myself uncharacteristically mute, dreading social interactions because I feel I have nothing of substance to offer, so disconnected I am from my inner knowing and the wisdom of my experience. When I disengage from myself, I become unable to engage meaningfully with those around me, my systemic disease of disconnection quickly spreading to become epidemic.

The pattern I see emerging as I reflect on my life’s natural rhythms is more than a little unsettling, and I find myself plagued by big, existential questions: Am I really a writer? Can I actually write a book? Is mine really a story worth sharing? How can I write something that helps and inspires others when I’m feeling so disconnected and uninspired? And the far scarier ones: Has my journey of inner work all been for naught if I keep cycling back to a melancholic state of apathy and indifference? Am I depressed? Am I just like her?

It would be so easy to dismiss these big questions with my signature “I’m fine! I’ve got this!” optimism. And believe me, I have. Last fall, when a month or so had passed, and it became clear that I hadn’t written anything else, my partner, Brandy, started initiating loving check-ins, which I brushed off, reassuring her that I’d start writing again soon. Then, before I knew it, the holidays were upon us, and my life felt too full, and I too distracted to write. The year turned anew, and tax season replaced holiday fullness as my excuse for not writing. Her concern grew as more time passed with no progress, and my mood began to darken. One night, as we were soaking in the hot tub together, she said, “Do you think you should talk to someone?” This question, though it came from a deeply caring place, landed like a punch to the stomach. I have such resistance to the idea of “getting help,” of “talking to someone,” or of going into therapy, and myriad reasons why it’s just not for me. My opposition is rooted in fear. Fear that I’m actually more like my mother than I want to admit. Fear that my eudaemonic, transformation-rockstar self-concept, and the 18+ year, self-guided healing journey I embarked on in the wake of her suicide, might be insufficient to keep me from following in her tragic footsteps.

Here’s the other thing. On the surface, I don’t look or act depressed, nor do I resemble my mother, as she faced unrelenting mental wellness challenges during her last 20 years on this plane. My life has been beyond full these past 10 months, and I’ve been super productive and accomplished, just not on my book. I channeled all my energy into being a goddess of the domestic realm, engaged in a devotional practice of caring for everyone and everything around me — my girlfriend, our cats, and the continuous flow of guests on the land—and tending, from a distance, to my aging father in Connecticut. I made learning Spanish a daily habit and have a 578-day-and-counting, unbroken streak on Duolingo to show for it. I prepared four people’s taxes, though I'm not a CPA. I healed our sweet kitten, Monk, from a formerly fatal feline illness called FIP, which required committing to an intense, 84-day regimen of daily medication. I turned 60 in early March surrounded by beloveds who journeyed to California from across the country to celebrate me and join in a week of fabulous celebrations planned by my amazing partner. Over the following two weeks, I had cataract surgeries to return my vision to better than 20–20, so that I no longer have to wear glasses to see for the first time in decades, and can now clearly read even the finest print on tiny medicine and cosmetic bottles. Brandy and I then spent three amazing weeks exploring Costa Rica to continue the celebration of 60. When we got back, I told myself I’d pick up the writing where I left off and write that book. Instead, I worked with Brandy to reorganize our home and clear out our storage shed.

For most of this year, my domestic dervishing has kept me feeling productive and accomplished and has, for the most part, staved off the darkness, but eventually, like any drug, the productivity high starts to falter, requiring more and more activity for the same effect. The longer my impersonation of a 50s housewife continues, the less gratification I feel from it and the more obvious it is that, despite my being super frigging good at it, this is not my soul’s purpose, or the reason my soul chose to incarnate in this particular moment. It is also now crystal clear to me that it is a procrastination and avoidance strategy I learned from the master, one that did not work out at all well for her, the woman who was my greatest teacher and who, through her tragic death, birthed me twice.

I finally admitted this to my partner unprompted, acknowledging that, underneath my Herculean laboring, my mental wellness was flagging and something needed to change. “I am not a 50s housewife, but I’m also not a writer, nor will I ever become one if I don’t write. If I can make Duolingo a daily habit and sustain it for over a year, I can do the same with writing,” I heard myself say out loud to Brandy. She smiled, responding, “I’m so happy to hear you say that and proud of you for coming to this realization on your own. I was wondering how long it would take you to get there.”

As it always does, having the courage to say out loud what I have been feeling inside for months shifted things for me. The next morning, after finishing my Spanish studies, I opened my laptop and started writing this piece. I’ve maintained this daily writing practice for seven days now. Something feels different this time. Instead of focusing on producing or publishing — a Medium piece, a chapter, a book — I’m just concentrating on building the habit as I did when I started to learn a new language. With each day that passes, my ease and confidence grow, and my relationship to myself strengthens. I no longer feel cut off from the world around me and show up with more insight, wisdom, and aliveness in the relational spaces I am blessed to share.

Maya Angelou writes that, ”There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” For me, the agony is less the untold story than the unprocessed, unexplored life that underlies and gives rise to it. Though my soul’s purpose remains rooted in service, and I continue to hope that writing and sharing stories of my life experience will help others on their own journeys of becoming, my focus is on continuing to do the work to heal myself by firmly establishing the life-giving practices of curious self-examination and authentic expression through writing. Tending to the inner me before concerning myself with anything related to the collective we. Time will tell whether a book will come out of this new habit, but one thing is for sure: I am living into my intention of being a writer through this committed, daily practice, and it feels so good!