My Journey Through The Blogosphere

I first started blogging in 2011 when I was a sophomore in college. At that time, I didn’t know what I was doing. I just wrote whatever came to me. This included life as a college student, music, books, travel, and eventually, my disability. There are days when I miss that blog, lifeintheblueridges. I miss the freedom of it, the peace of mind. I made connections with hundreds of people, some of which I still have today (I’m talking to you, Arianna and Cassie, if you’re reading this). I miss the level of connection and community I felt within the blogosphere. And for those of you who have stuck with me since the beginning, thank you. I am grateful, honored, and no amount of words could convey just how much you mean to me. My first blog felt like home, but over time, as I graduated from college and moved on to graduate school, my blog was no longer at the forefront of my life. At the time, I didn’t give it much thought. But now, thinking back, I regret not making it a priority. I get that life comes first and it’s okay that I put my career first, but writing should have been in the running for first place too. It’s always been my haven, my safe place, and the one place I felt 100% myself, but then I stripped it away without even really thinking about what I was walking away from.

When I graduated from college, I created this blog. I had read somewhere that finding a niche in the blogging community could increase traffic to your blog. So I did that for a while. I no longer wrote daily. It was a tiny accomplishment if I managed to write even one post every few months. I primarily wrote disability-related posts. And while some of the posts were incredibly cathartic, I didn’t feel the same level of community and connection I used to when I first became a part of this community back in 2011. I felt like I was writing for other people, rather than myself. And I know from experience what a tricky path that is to go down. It puts you at risk for losing yourself, and I think that’s what may have happened with me over time.

I don’t know if the blogging community has changed or I have. Honestly, it’s probably been a mixture of both. I know one thing, though. I miss it. I miss coming to an empty page daily and just writing whatever came to me as I did when I first started blogging. Sometimes, that was just a music video or a quote from a book I was reading, but it was me. It was authentic. My writing ebbed and flowed with my moods, the seasons, and life in general. Back then, I didn’t just post when I felt like I had something to say. I posted even on the days where I felt like I was trudging through mud and had no idea where to even start. I wrote anyway.

More than anything, I wrote for me. I wrote what I was feeling and what was in my heart. I didn’t have moments as I do now where I think, “What are other people going to think of this?” and “What kind of lesson or story am I trying to get across with today’s post?” Though there is nothing wrong with posing those questions before sitting down in front of the blank page, in my experience, it’s limiting. It put me in a box. A box that initially was comforting. However, eventually, I just couldn’t do it. I’m realizing now that those limitations kept me closed off from the community I so badly wanted to immerse myself in.

So, today, as my friend Arianna would say, I’m making the choice to show up. I’m pushing away thoughts of “Will others like this?” or “Will this post drive traffic to my blog?” As I’m learning, those questions don’t matter. Writing is what I love. I first started blogging solely for that reason. And I think it’s common to drift away from reasons you may have started on a journey in the first place. It was never about others. It was about me, writing from my heart, and feeling grateful when others connected with my words.

So even though I don’t know where my blog will go from here, I know one thing. It will be 100% authentically me. If we can’t be authentic and 100% ourselves, what’s the point, anyway?

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The Words of My Childhood

A few weeks ago, my mom brought by two boxes of childhood memories that I knew I couldn’t part with, though initially I didn’t even remember what was in the boxes. As I took a nostalgic trip down memory lane one evening, I found diaries starting from when I was really young, stuffed animals I could never part with, and best of all, stories and poems penned by yours truly. Interestingly enough, as I poured through everything I had written (at least those of which I kept), I noticed some distinctions within the words.

Within writing, there is the concept of “finding one’s voice” as a writer. I used to believe I was still searching for mine, not knowing when it would be fully developed or when I’d know I had one worth remembering. However, the authenticity of my “voice” as a writer, especially once I was high school, brought tears to my eyes. For instance, I was looking through Academe, a literary publication my all-girls’ school published during my junior year of high school. I was mindlessly flipping through the pages, stopping at prose or poetry that caught my eye or pulled at my heart. I read a poem called “The Barn,” devouring it, literally hanging on every word, and wondering the whole time who had written the poem. It wasn’t until I reached the bottom of the page…that I realized the author was me.

“The Barn”

I am a lost soul

On the search of self discovery

Looking in every nook

Every cozy log cabin

Finally stumbling upon

An old abandoned barn

 

Its windows are shattered

Showing the whole inside

Much like a heart

Left for the world to tear apart

It is overflowing with hay bales

Resembling each happiness

Each piece of simplicity in life

But leaving gaps

Just big enough for grey skies to surface

 

There are camping lamps in each corner

Shining light upon this life

And guiding the way

But sometimes burning out

To force me to find my way

In complete darkness

Dead silence

And hazy fog.

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As you can likely deduce from this poem, I’m definitely an “old soul.” I wrote “The Barn” 9 years ago, at the age of 16. By that point, due to all the physical and metaphorical obstacles I had to traverse as a result of my disability, I felt like I had enough life experience to last decades. What I didn’t realize until I read this poem as a 25-year old adult is that I have always had a “voice” as a writer. Over the years, I have refined it, strengthened it, and molded it into the essence of who I am today. Even as a child, the foundation of my voice was there, sitting in the dark, patiently waiting on my words to bring it to life. Maybe I never had to “find” it after all. Maybe it was there all along, waiting for me to be ready to come looking for the piece of myself that would allow all the others to fall into place.