Beginning Again

This is a scary moment.

Not jumping-off-a-cliff scary. More the quiet, inner kind of fear creatives meet again and again -- beginning after a long silence. Beginning again after seasons of not knowing. Beginning before you feel ready.

I can feel it physically — my heart quaking a little, a strange burning sensation moving through my chest.

And immediately, the self-talk begins.

Where do I even start? Carolyn, you haven’t written a blog — or written consistently for publication — in a while. What could you possibly say now? How does one cross the distance of months or years?

Then I notice myself looking out the window at a squirrel. Despite the fat belly, I wonder if she wants a treat? Maybe she’s hungry? Where have I stashed those pecans?...

Ah. There it is.

The mind, trying to steer me away from discomfort and toward something manageable. Something fixable.

So I come back. To my breath. To this chair. To the not knowing.

And suddenly I hear the very thing I tell others all the time: stay present. My past-oriented mind wants to explain the silence, shape it into a tidy story I can hand over neatly. But maybe I don’t need to do that. My future-oriented mind imagines you reading this. Will this matter to anyone? Will it resonate? Will I be understood?

I can’t know that either.

Right now, there is only this moment: me sitting here with fear, trust, and desire. Desire to write something true. Something alive.

My mind wants to make it impressive.
My heart wants to make it honest.

And maybe that’s all this really is. A woman sitting in her bathrobe, trying to stay with herself long enough for something real to emerge.

Maybe I’m also saying: I see you. I see you sitting down to write while the inner voices circle:
Can I do this? Will it be good enough? What if the words don’t come? What if they do?

I see you approaching creativity after a flat season, standing at the edge of the page like it’s a landscape you no longer know how to navigate.

I see you wondering why you should sit with this discomfort when there are so many easier, more productive things you could be doing instead. Honestly? That’s a fair question. I do have a lot on my plate. I could walk away from this right now. I could leave this experiment unfinished and go accomplish something measurable and possibly easier.

But what would be lost?

Maybe this: The chance to meet myself honestly. The chance to stay instead of escape. The chance to listen deeply enough for something unexpected to appear.

I keep wanting to wrap this piece up with something polished and soaring. Some beautiful conclusion that ties everything together. But instead, I just see myself here — bathrobe, squirrels outside the window, fingers on the keyboard.

And strangely, that feels enough.

Because maybe you’re there too.

Maybe you’re journaling in bed. Maybe you’re staring at a blank page. Maybe you’re avoiding your own creative longing by reorganizing a drawer or reflecting on last weekend’s upset.

And suddenly I feel the warmth of that shared humanity. All of us trying, in our own ways, to stay close to ourselves. All of us standing at the edge of mystery again and again.

Even now, at this stage of my life, I still feel like I’m only touching the tip of the iceberg. There are whole inner worlds waiting to be seen if I pause long enough to notice them.

That’s what writing gives me.

Not certainty. Not performance. But discovery.

I sit down thinking I know what’s here, and then some hidden door opens. Something softens. Inner landscapes shift. A truth I couldn’t see five minutes earlier suddenly breathes at the surface.

And in those moments, I feel connected again — to myself, to life, to you.

For now, that feels like more than enough.