I don’t know what to write today.
I don’t know what to write today.
This has happened before — but usually, once I really lock in, I find something. I unearth inspiration in an event that happened over the past week or two. I discover some way to weave it into a narrative or a lesson. But…not today. Today, I looked through previously unposted installments of before my coffee gets cold, and none of them felt right. When that didn’t work, I turned to my self-help manuscript to see if there was something I could recycle. That would be cheating, I chided myself. (Those chapters took far longer than the duration of a hot coffee.)
So here I am, sitting in my coffee shop, writing to you about the inability to write.
Why is that so uncomfortable?
When I started this newsletter, I promised myself that I’d maintain this practice every week for a year. Myself, not you. And when I made that promise, I didn’t set any limitations on what I could write. I simply had to do it. By that definition, I’m succeeding. I could stop right now, post this, and have fulfilled my commitment.
Yet something sneaky happened along the way, didn’t it? I created additional expectations for myself. I set a standard for what this practice was. This wasn’t just about a continued writing practice; this was about generating something for you. It’s the Hawthorne effect: my behavior changed when it became observed.
I don’t mind not knowing what to write. Really, I don’t. I’ve spent at least three hours every day for the past week crafting new products for my store. Work has been a high-speed revolving door of meetings and documentation. I am, understandably, pretty tapped.
But broadcasting that I’m coming up empty? Taking this truth and owning it as proudly as I own my creative efforts? Allowing that to be part of my brand? That’s…well, that’s different.
It’s a pretty common pattern I’ve noticed — at least in myself. “I accept this truth about myself, but I’d prefer to keep it close to my chest. Instead, I’ll just present something a little more polished: still true, but more curated.” For some things, that makes a lot of sense. Being vulnerable is scary, and sometimes, it’s legitimately not safe.
But last week, I was faced with a jarring fact: my friends have noticed. I was called out. It was kind and loving and full of compassion, but I was straight up called out. “You’re always so thoughtful and careful in what you say,” one of them said. “But I also want to see what it looks like when you’re less polished. When you embrace a little more woo girl energy.”
It’s not the first time I’ve gotten that feedback. It’s left me with a lot to think about.
I write frequently about honesty. About boundaries. About showing up as one’s authentic self. And up until recently, I’ve seen my polish as a genuine part of who I am. I like being seen as thoughtful. I like being mindful of the space I take up and the influence my words and actions have on others. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sometimes feel like a barrier to connection.
I wonder what it would look like to be different. Not entirely different, but… just a little bit.
***
Well, what do you know? Looks like this turned into a writeup after all ☀️
