Start crying.

I haven’t written in a while.

I’ve avoided my pen and paper.

On purpose? I don’t think so. I think in sitting in the inspiration of other writers, I’m left to try to live up to people I’m not—people who have already found a footing in the world; a spot on earth that only has room for one foot—and that has made me hesitate to keep writing.

I’m realizing I’m most comfortable in “closed mode,” in editing and refining and reworking, but the gestalt, ambiguous stage I find the most arresting. I can easily see what will make something better and what needs to happen in order for it to become greater than it is, but the beginning is so hard.

Beginnings are all so odd, having to adjust and take the time to get the lay of a new land, but I find I’m also ironically irritated by the lack of change in routine. I get stuck between walls of apprehension and boredom. 

I think I need to start writing again without the thought in the back of my mind of: “what will the reader think of this?” or “is this really saying something worth saying?” or “will this make sense to anyone but me?” because it’s blocking the flow.

I want to begin to make the decision of: it’s better released into the universe than suppressed inside.

God forbid I let things rot inside when the only real risk is some possible radio silence.   

Learning how to let emotions pass through is currently the greatest reflection of this principle for me. It’s work I’ve only in recent years begun to practice. I’ve learned that emotions have a beginning, a middle, and an end and if the entire cycle is not completed, your body will physically store that tension somewhere in your body—be it a stiff neck or an achy back or whatever.

Perhaps my discomfort with beginnings—in writing and emotion—is where the process is similarly halted.

My childhood cat passed away this week—an animal that had been a sweet constant in my life since I was eleven-years-old; the first living thing I was really trusted to care for. Embracing that grief, acknowledging all the elements of home I’d never again experience because he’s gone was important for me to embrace on an emotional level.

Like many, the response to my tears as a child were: “You’re fine. Stop crying.” This created a well-worn path of emotional suppression for me. The adult version of this for me this week was: “You’re fine. He was only a cat.”

Growing up, embracing emotion took too much time and too much energy and made you appear untrustworthy—you’re clouded by your emotions and they hurt more than help.

However, I’m learning healthier ways.

Neuroscientist, Dr. Caroline Leaf says, “We need to normalize crying […] because crying is one of the best, and quickest ways to release stress and tension, and restore balance of chemicals in the brain according to neuroscience…one of the most damaging sentences a parent can say to a child: ‘stop crying.’”

Now that I’m older, I’m working to live my life with the understanding that tears honor what’s important and the benefits of staying emotionally soft far outweigh the costs.

Brene Brown talks about how you can’t selectively numb emotion—that if you numb the sadness, the grief, the pain you’re consequently numbing the joy, the excitement, the wonder.

This choice to acknowledge that the life in me was connected to the little life in my childhood pet was a significant step of growth for me and an important thing for me to practice—a small personal victory prompted by an unfortunate event, but something I believe will yield a greater receptiveness to all the sweet things ahead.

My first instinct will probably always be to suppress and to shelf emotion, but I’m simultaneously learning to not judge myself on my first response, but on my second one—my learned, evolved, and matured response.

I’ll throw out another doctor piece of wisdom because it fits—Dr. Laura Shlessinger says often to her callers: “From now until dead, how do you want to live your life?”

From now until dead, I’d like to practice softness.