For so much of my life, I was chasing an unrealistic lifestyle simply because everyone around me seemed to have it all figured out. I made terrible decisions in my personal life which resulted in me being brokenhearted time and time again. It was chaos. I was constantly waiting for the next milestone, the next phase of life, the next “big thing” and I missed out on truly living. I wrote at length about hearty declarations of “love” only to retract in painful confessions months later. Up and down and up and down — the cycle was intoxicating and I was addicted to the poisonous thoughts in my head.
Writing has always been my escape. A powerful weapon for when my mind wanders. Over the years, I have been heavily influenced by this passion for the emotional highs and lows of life to fuel my musings. I can’t say that it’s healthy in the long run but it has helped me grow into the storyteller that I am today. It was so natural for me to write about the deepest sorrows and the exhilarating highs. For me, writing was second nature, like breathing.
But I think I’ve hit a plateau. Because over the course of the last two and a half years, my life stabilised. My mindset and thought process matured. I no longer live for the crazy roller coaster rides that plagued my teens and early to mid-twenties. My faith deepened into this, mostly, steady rhythm. I’m not affected by the lack in my life, and I certainly am not mourning my status of being single. There is so much more to life because there is so much fulfilment to be found in the little things.
If I’m honest, I’m thriving.
And never in a million years, would I have ever thought that I’d be here.
So allow me to take this opportunity to grow into a new era and take on a fresh challenge. The last year has been a struggle for me to find the right words since I’m no longer going through the volatility of my youth. Inspiration has taken on a new definition for me and I’m still discovering how to navigate my way around this. In the last few months, I was telling a couple of friends that my writing is no longer what it was and it made me wonder if my time as a writer was ending. But the more thought I have about it, the more I’m convinced that my gift is simply changing with the seasons of life. It’s taken on the maturity and the wisdom that I’ve acquired with the experiences that I’ve had. My writing, once fueled by the pain of my past, is more than able to blossom with me.
Maybe I’ll find inspiration in the mundane.
Because if God has placed me here, there must be a reason.
I’m reminded once again to bloom where I am planted.
And if you’ve been here all this time, thank you.
It means more to me than you know.