I’ve Been Lying to Myself

The slipping felt sudden, but I’ve been slowly holding myself back for weeks.

Not long ago, I shared a piece about Replacing Silence with Storytelling, about how reclaiming my voice felt like an act of survival, and how writing was one of the ways I crawled back to myself after trauma.

I meant every word.

I also wrote it a little while back, which is ironic, because in the time since then, I’ve hardly written at all.

Lately, I’ve noticed the silence creeping back in.

Not the kind I chose, but the kind that wrapped around me quietly, as I avoided what I wasn’t quite ready to face.

My keyboard has been quiet lately.

Too quiet.

Not because I haven’t had anything to say…

But because I’ve been avoiding what I need to say.

And the truth is, writing has always been the way I access my own voice.

So when I stop? When I distract, delay, or numb instead?

It’s usually because I’m keeping something from myself.

I’ve felt it creeping in over the last few weeks - the heaviness in my chest. The fog in my mind. The ache I can’t quite place.

And instead of meeting it with curiosity or compassion, I’ve done what I once learned to do far too well:

I’ve looked away.

I’ve filled the silence with noise.

Scrolled too long. Cleaned obsessively. Built a dozen Lego sets. Stayed too busy. Waited to get into bed until I was too tired to think, to feel, to release.

I’ve done everything but sit down and write.

Because writing would mean honesty.

It would mean surrendering to whatever truth is waiting behind the ache.

And sometimes, that feels like too much.

But here’s what I remembered today:

When I avoid writing, I’m not just avoiding hard feelings.

I’m unplugging myself from my power.

I’m choosing silence when what I really need is to hear myself again.

To speak. To name. To let the words be the bridge back to me.

Writing has never just been content for me.

It’s been oxygen.

It’s been the mirror I hold up when I’ve forgotten what I look like inside.

It’s how I survive, and process, and heal.

And I’ve been lying to myself when I say “I just haven’t felt like writing.”

It’s not that I haven’t felt like it.

It’s that I haven’t felt ready to face what writing might reveal.

But readiness isn’t a prerequisite for truth.

The words still wait. The page is still here.

And so am I.

So, I’m here now. Here at my keyboard and here with my journal open in front of me.

Maybe not to write something polished or profound, but to begin the process of returning. Of reconnecting with myself. Of feeling my feelings in real time, rather than burying them.

Things I worked so hard to learn to do this year

To peel back the silence and remind myself:

My voice is still mine.

My truth is still sacred.

And I don’t need to have it all figured out to come home to myself.

If you’re feeling heavy too, or if you’ve been avoiding the thing that helps you feel whole -

I see you.

I’m with you.

And maybe today, we can both pick up the proverbial pen again.