We’ll make it through winter
Knowing when to let go is not a failing. An ending is not necessarily a time for mourning. I took on a project a couple of months ago with limited resources and experience, trusted with responsibilities far beyond anything I’ve ever known before, and my stepping away from the project ultimately contributed to it ending. I had an active part in deciding its fate. I’ve been grappling with guilt, but I’ve also been revelling in relief.
It feels wrong to even admit, but sometimes, giving up feels good.
I think I feel guilt for not pushing past the point of no return— I brushed up against exhaustion, recognised my limits, and then stood back. I feel simultaneously proud to have not overreached (like I might have in the past) and disappointed that I didn’t reach that state of crazed overworking where, sometimes, great things happen. I think my body told me “you can’t do that”, and to my surprise, I listened.
There’s also a weird, unshift-able guilt in making definitive choices that affect other people. I know that there is strength in recognising when something doesn’t work, knowing when to pull the plug, and making hard calls… but it doesn’t stop the “what if?” voice from chattering on.
I am afraid of feeling too at ease in your hands
I have gotten better at admitting a want to be held Only in moments, though Carefully chosen words Framed as open and excited and free Pragmatic, logical, sober When really I am drunk on the thought of romance I am only good at vulnerability when it is practiced When it feels safe I am trying to lean into it more But an admission of desire Of longing To feel loved in between breaths To feel seen in a shared glance To feel it rise in heat and know that it is safe to settle back down, that it will still be wanted when things cool All feels too raw Let me not be seen for the needing, hungry animal that I am As if yearning is my most embarrassing confession Let me stay carved out of stone A curated vessel for projections of fantasy One you might hold for a night and kiss like your life depends on it Before you return to your reality at daylight It has been been easier to remain an enigma Than to confess of craving for something that lasts How sweet would it be to be loved? Over the years I have felt softened by moments, kisses that felt loving Tenderness that had me believing in more But I fear I am too pliable in the heat Too ready to swallow a bite of lust, and mistake it for love, again and again. I feel myself circling the words Eyes clamped shut I toughen and constrict Too raw Too real Too much of my own honesty makes my skin crawl At least of this kind In this tender way Peeling back a layer that exposes all the live wires Sparks and trips, laid bare for dissecting I’d much rather maintain a vagueness That shifts like fog That can’t be settled That isn’t tied down because it prefers it this way
With winter settling in, I feel my body seizing up, and yes, I’ll confess, I have not been moving enough.
I am finding it hard not to completely come to a halt in the damp and the cold, the weight of the year finally bearing down on me. It’s hard to remember much of it, but I can sense this need to hunker down, to reflect on events, choices, moments, to make big, warm, hearty meals (many soups, many stews) to feed the village, to sit by a fire and hold hands. Continuously, I am learning to let go of resistance. Stop resisting change, stop resisting seasons— I know summer is hot and sexy and makes you feel alive, but winter has its charms too. “November is for lovers!” exclaimed a friend, and I repeated it to myself all that month. I tried it first with winter last year; I chose not to fight it, to accept the cold as it crept in, and I found it to be groundbreaking. It worked well with practicing gratitude.
Thanking the sun for its bitter-cold appearances, letting myself soak face-first in its light. Thanking the early nightfall for encouraging me to rest, and appreciate the daylight as a limited resource. Thanking the icy wind when it swipes at my neck, for it is a reminder that I am alive and feeling. (A friend once said that to me - that they weren’t worried about the cold, that feeling uncomfortable sometimes felt good; it reminded them that they could feel, and that they would be warm again soon. How great is that? I’ve never stopped thinking about it).
This season, for me, feels like returning, in a way that’s long overdue. Dust has collected everywhere, the dishes are piled up high, messages unanswered. I’ve been making do with leftover scraps, letting things get gross, rotting. And similarly to giving up, sometimes, (a little) rotting feels good too. One huge personal hurdle I’ve experienced this year has been letting myself be the unfinished, disgusting, messy thing that I often am. I’m not talking about “letting go of perfectionism”, that’s old news, and barely scratching the surface. I’m talking about actually accepting things as they are, when there is no piecing parts together that are “good enough” or “presentable”. Don’t let me be misunderstood; I don’t say “unfinished, disgusting, messy” in this context with negativity (despite how those words are often used). I want you to remove the judgement out of them when you read them. Letting myself fully return has meant inviting those parts in, instead of rejecting or pretending they don’t exist - because how can I really touch base, build from the ground up, when I am not letting in all of myself? This seems obvious when said out loud, yet it is one of the things I’ve found hardest to allow in myself. It took letting myself rot (I mean like, really rot) to finally get to grips with what’s not been working. Not just shining a light on things, but grabbing them by the scruff of the neck and shaking. It’s hard to sit with some of the things, especially when I can see really clearly how much quiet damage they’ve been doing. But nobody said returning was easy. (And I talk a big game about facing discomfort - so it’s time to face it, babe).
Discomfort! So much discomfort!
It is uncomfortable to face all the different ways you might be neglecting yourself. It is uncomfortable because ultimately there is only one person to hold accountable - you. Notice how I didn’t say “there is only one person to blame” - because that isn’t helpful. Blaming implies shame, and you can’t shame yourself into healing. I’ve started listing different ways I can be uncomfortable, big or small, to build up a tolerance and remind myself of the things I can do;
I can sit through awkward interactions with strangers, no matter how weird. When they’re over, I walk away and cringe, maybe shake my shoulders a little. I will probably never see that person again.
I can stand on a crowded tube at rush hour wearing too many layers. I might crash out but the journey will end eventually.
I can crash out!! The world will not end. I will feel embarrassed and then I’ll get over it.
I can get a blood test done (and pass out afterwards).
I can be upset, distressed, or angry. The feeling won’t last forever.
I can have tough conversations.
I can uphold a boundary, even when it feels awful.
I can watch someone make a mistake and not try to fix it for them. I know it is not my job to fix things.
I can say no, even when I know it will upset someone.
I can be cold for a while. I will be warm again soon.
Crucially, recognising (and exercising) my ability to be uncomfortable like this is necessary so that I can differentiate between mental/emotional/nervous system discomfort, and literal, physical discomfort in my body, because I have become accustomed to the latter as an accepted part of my life— which has translated to living with a significant amount of physical pain. It’s taken me a really long time (read: 28 years) to realise how much daily pain I am in, and I’ve been having a really hard time saying it out loud. Something about admitting physical pain feels triggering! I think, in part, because it points directly at my self-neglect! Yikes! In other parts, questions like “how do you know if something is chronic pain?” crop up, and I don’t know where to even begin answering. In the middle, another part labelled “TRAUMA” sits quietly, staring directly at me, waiting for me to look at it. When I zoom out, the parts all sort of merge into one.
Upon stumbling onto things that desperately need changing, my natural instinct is to become somewhat panicked. These things need fixing immediately!! Yet what I am trying to embody, with returning, is that fixing can only really happen slowly. Returning means slowing into the natural rhythm of winter. Shedding all the last broken bits, making sure the branches are naked and bare. Watching everything brown and wither, the ground freeze over, the grass become trodden and muddy. Not everything can be “beautiful” all the time (and what even is “beauty” anyway? I would argue there is beauty in everything). Returning means coming home, back into your body, after many months (maybe years?) of running. Returning means doing so without judgement, without self-critical thoughts like “why is this so hard?”, or “why were you running for so long?”. Returning means starting small, with the tiniest habits, micro-adjustments, starting over again and again, every time you slip up. Returning means burrowing into the soil, deep underground, building a den. Returning means gentle housekeeping, picking up the things that fell down the back of the sofa. It’s not the big, deep clean, but it is preparing for it. It’s not the immediate growth, but it is planting the seeds, tending to the earth. Hunkering down for the cold months, bracing for the year ahead, recharging, restarting, rebuilding.
It took skimming over the surface of rock-bottom for me to finally look myself in the eye and say, “I deserve to look after myself”. What a hard thing to say out loud! To admit that it is a relatively new notion! Every time I think I have understood what “loving myself” looks or feels like, I turn a corner and discover something new. It is a little embarrassing, but I am trying to not be afraid of new things, of not knowing, of learning.
To continually show up for myself all feels really hard, but I’ve been enjoying the thought of hard work. It’s always been so easy for me to focus on the bigger picture, to obsess over doing, running, creating, producing, to distract myself with being busy - ultimately, to avoid facing the hard work of showing up for myself, daily. The prospect of returning; finally coming back to myself, peeling back all the layers, focusing on the minutiae of being alive— feels like the project I am most in need of working on. And it feels like a fire being lit within me. I want to be present, I want to be here with myself, I want to do the hard work. I want to do the hard work.
Imagine me bouncing around my room as I say it; dancing to this one song on this playlist that makes me feel really alive right now, that makes me feel like all of the hard things I have faced have shaped me, and how tragic and beautiful and painful and amazing that is. That makes me feel like everything is meaningless in the most freeing way, and yet everything has meaning at the same time, because I infuse meaning into all of my actions, because I care so deeply about everything and it is all so hard to hold, and I would rather feel everything all the time in all its depth than not feel at all. It is all so hard to hold! And I will hold it! I will always hold it!
I don’t know how to not be my most honest self I am a terrible liar, I am the last to know what it is I am feeling I can’t hold something without naming its full weight I can’t half engage I am obligated to romanticise the mundane, it is my duty My camera roll filled with sunlight, ticket stubs, friends Anything I might need later Anything I might need to return to myself I will always stop to gasp at a sunset I will always let out a guttural laugh I have fought so hard to be here, I will scream it until my throat is hoarse I have an aversion to those who refuse to engage With self With others With life I find apathy insulting I feel most like myself when I shave my head Stripped back to the skin Nowhere to hide Like being myself is a continuous act of exposure therapy Embodying extremes was never an intentional choice But an accidental philosophy that I can’t seem to let go of I am alive for but a brief moment, and I refuse to be ungrateful for any of it Let me write love letters to myself Confessions of all I don’t know, of all I’ve failed, of all I am afraid of To be an open book with dog-eared pages Hand written notes torn out for strangers Scribbles in the margins, stapled-in receipts Memories of every conversation, not the context but the feeling Let me jot down the sound of everyone’s laughter Every compliment I’ve ever received, ever given, ever heard Every silly anecdote to a never ending story Every tangent I take myself on Every deviation from the point I want to know what each thought is connected to and How it all links back to the start Let me find whimsy in every moment And a reason to be alive Let me rewrite the ending Again and again
As the holiday season surrounds us, it becomes easy to get lost in the haze of festive inebriation, gravitating towards substances to dull or numb the sharp edges of an often difficult couple of weeks. I am not a big drinker, yet most years I find myself tipsy every day of the “gooch” (the dead time between Christmas Day and NYE) - it’s not something I intentionally do, but something that just happens. In those few days it feels easier to nurse another charming, seasonal cocktail than to sit with the realities of all this period unearths. Making hard choices around who you do and don’t want to spend time with. Distance, dissonance, discomfort. Not being known, not being seen, not being respected. It’s no wonder this minefield of disregulation brings out the worst and leaves us wanting to escape. I realised recently that my genuine love for festive baking, cheesy Christmas music, decorations and lights etc, had secretly served as a way for me to distract myself from the hard parts of December - a system that has worked every year (for the most part) right up until the 25th, where I’m forced to sit with the “regular weird Christmas feelings” and try not to start a drunken argument with whoever’s irritating me most.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel the pull of distraction especially strongly this year. The desire to self-soothe with substances bubbles up in my chest when I am still. I am trying to remind myself that discomfort comes in many shapes and forms, and again, learning to live through it is a skill I must practice. I go on walks around my neighbourhood to remind myself that plenty of people aren’t even celebrating a holiday, it’s just another Thursday. I spend long hours cooking big batches of food to deliver to loved ones and share around the table, blasting my favourite music and enjoying every dice and chop. I hand-make a secret Santa gift to slow down and focus on the mundanity of repetitive motion, imagining the ways this scarf might be worn by its recipient. I embrace the opportunity of small-talk with strangers and new acquaintances, in the street, in-line at the self check-out, at a festive party, relishing every shared laughter and unexpected moment of connection. I show up to the Christmas Day gathering where I know barely anyone with a smile and an open heart, a shaky courage to introduce myself, despite my nervous stomach. I hold the tenderness of all that the day represents, and breathe. I swallow each breath tentatively, and close my eyes with the exhale, as if bracing myself for inevitable impact.
I go through a checklist in my mind. I remind myself (and anyone who might need to hear it)— I am allowed to spend time alone, away from festivities, away from noise, to self-regulate. I am allowed to choose exactly how I spend my time. I am allowed to make choices where I prioritise myself, and my mental health. I am not obligated to spend Christmas in any particular way, with any particular people. I am not broken for experiencing a complex cocktail of difficult and contradictory feelings. I am not weird or off-putting if I express those feelings. I can change my surroundings whenever I want. I can talk to only the people I want to talk to. I can create my own traditions. I can withstand a strange day with strange feelings. It’s just another Thursday.
There is beauty in everything, if only you look hard enough.
Once you start, it’s hard to stop. It sounds absurd to romanticise life whilst the world is burning, yet I must— because how else will I rise to face another day if I am consumed by all of the grief, all of the time? In fact, I think there is no other way to face it. I must feel the grief and choose to see the good at the same time, again and again. Even when it feels impossible. I have to just keep looking. To remain hopeful is an act of resistance. I am too easily swallowed by despair (with good reason; look at everything around us), but I refuse to actually let it take me, or my hope. I remain hopeful by doing hard things, and leaning into discomfort, and proving to myself yet again that I can face another day. And to top it all off? I thank each hard thing as I meet it. I thank the discomfort when I’m with it. Just like I thank the sun when it’s here, I know that thanking the difficult parts of life for showing me my strength, and letting me practice in real-time, is what helps give me perspective. Thanking the ugliness, finding joy in the mundane, seeing beauty in everything; I am sure it is one of my greatest skills. I find myself thanking December for its strangeness and transience. With it comes the end of the year, and an unavoidable urge to reflect. New Year’s resolutions don’t sit right in my stomach, I’ve never liked the pressure of expectation. But I do like to make vows; I will keep working to understand myself. I will keep finding joy and whimsy in everything. I will try my best to move with compassion. I will try my best to communicate better. I will keep learning, no matter what. I will treat myself with kindness.
As long as I keep returning to myself, I can keep going.
We are standing at the edge of a vast open field, the frost glittering across the crunchy grass. The morning mist showing no sign of lifting yet, as a soft-hallowed sun glows in the distance.
I hold my hand out to you— “come on, we’ll make it through.”
