I am in my fourth month of this writing experiment. It’s hard to tell exactly what date I started because I don’t think I made a big announcement anywhere, and I don’t in this moment feel like scrolling through months’ worth of blog posts to figure it out.

So lets’ call it four months.

Which is approximately four months longer than any other consistent writing practice I have incorporated into my life has ever lasted. Sure, I have been writing all of my life. My professional life is based on writing, too. But this writing — with no expectation (even on those days when I wonder where all the comments went or if anyone is reading) — is different. It is not for a paycheck or payday, not for something that will come to completion and be done with, not for someone else. It is for me, I am certainly not getting paid for it (though I’d be open to negotiation on that one) and I don’t know when (or if) it will end and what (if anything) will come of it.

It just is.

Which is both freeing and annoying. And scary, too. I like to do things with purpose and things that can easily, once complete, be crossed off a list and moved on from. This project or experiment or thing is none of those things. I don’t know what it is, and I have tried to not define it beyond what it actually is. 

So despite or perhaps because of the absence of expectation, amazing things have already come up over these past months. New projects I am now working on, older projects I was scared to continue with have been revitalized, still others have been tossed and let go forever. Amazing new clients have come into my life. New branches of my core business offerings have come to light, and I see the potential for long-term projects that are incredibly rewarding on multiple levels. Projects that I care about and that enable me to pay my bills. 

My internal healing has reached a new level. I see so much more. About myself. So much to be acknowledged and healed. These days, I look at where my time and energy and attention go — what people, what relationships, what thoughts, what activities — and I am really fucking pleased with myself. I like to see so much progress.

I see space where there once was none.  I see possibility.  I see opportunities for more healing, more love. I find myself walking away from people looking to fight, looking to spread their anger. I find myself with more compassion and less anger back at them. I find that the more I practice this, the more they simply don’t come around and bother me anymore. I find that hanging up the phone on someone who is yelling at me is a perfectly acceptable response. I find that verbal abuse doesn’t have to be my problem.I find that I now have the strength and courage to resolve issues that I tried to ignore in the past. And to seek help where I can’t do it all by myself.

I find that the more I write, the more I love myself, and the more I love myself, the more amazing things happen. Period. 

Don’t get me wrong: I am still as much of a mess as the next girl (or guy). But these days, I like myself a whole lot better and am OK with all of it. Not in every moment, but in more moments than not.

Call it woo-woo or too Secret-y. Call it whatever you want. All I know is that since I started my writing experiment, my life has changed.


What about YOU? What is the equivalent of writing for you? Are you doing it regularly?

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