I have spent months listing out the reasons why I should delete this website.
It’s not a decision I take lightly. I bought this domain in 2014, one year after my first husband died. I published my first blog a couple months later and have since published 40 blogs and thousands of words working through the grief and exploring what it means to live and love.
But this year, I’ve been stumped.
Haven’t we all?
All the plans we had turned upside down. We’ve been plunged head-first into a confusing global health crisis, rising social unrest in the face of gross injustices, and a polarized political landscape leading up to a pivotal and emotionally charged election.
And where is my voice in the midst of all this?
I admit I barely know how to address any of it with my children, let alone hit the publish button on something sure to fall short in the public sphere.
And then there’s the fact that in each of our own individual worlds, the usual cadence of loss, grief, joy, and life has been exacerbated by isolation and growing anxiety.
What place do I have sharing my loss, my grief in a world so burdened? In a world so at odds with each other?
I consistently battle with the voice that says, I have nothing to add to the conversation. There are far more articulate, intelligent, and empathetic writers out there telling stories that have real impact, that truly inspire.
There’s some merit to this – it’s not an argument for my inadequacy. It’s not an argument for choosing silence. It’s instead a choice to move the conversation from the web to my dinner table. To phone calls and letters and emails that will carry greater consequence.
This blog was not an inconsequential experiment for me. It was an exercise in therapy, in shared empathy, and in human connection through story. I am deeply grateful to those who have read my words, responded, and told me to keep on writing.
And I will – I’m just not sure if it will continue to be here. In all honesty, I feel slightly ridiculous even posting this – this potential farewell, this consideration of the delete button.
This year is real life. No matter how much of it has felt like a pause, a hiatus, a quivering moment of anticipation, waiting for the next thing.
My children tell me this in the way their sleeves no longer reach the length of their skinny arms as they demand more oatmeal, more bananas, more peanut butter. In the way the laundry piles up, the tomatoes ripen, the temperature drops.
And the pen keeps beckoning. The words come unbidden. And as such, I’ll keep writing – for now.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”