I kind of hate what my blog has become. I write from my heart, so my blog reflects the heaviness that's been my life for the past six months. And while I haven't felt ready to share details of what's going on, I've tried to write with openness and authenticity about my journey. I just hate that the result has been a lot of heavy, weighty posts.
I know my ambiguity may be confusing at times. But I assure you I'm not trying to be dramatic. I'm not seeking to create an air of suspense or intrigue. It's not a publicity stunt. My life simply is what it is. And, even void of details, my writing is unavoidably colored by it.
Sometimes I wish I had a poker face.
But most of the time, I'm glad I don't.
My story is mine to tell. I still can't right now, but someday I will. That thought brings both freedom and trepidation. Telling my story means owning my story. And I'm not quite ready to fully accept that it's real. That it's mine. That it is permanently woven into the fabric of my life.
But it is.
Whether I like it or not.
And although I hate what my blog has become during this season, I'm gonna keep writing masklessly. Because the real me is all I've got to offer.
Take it or leave it.
Take me or leave me.