It’s strange to write for an audience rather than just yourself. For so long I’ve been waxing poetic about the seasons and months and moments of my life, and now that I promised to do so for everyone, out loud, I’m struggling—wondering if what I’m saying is enough.
I’m in the air as I begin writing this, on my way back home after an East Coast holiday to get my sister married. Each email I get, I’m reminded of how saturated the market is when it comes to end/beginning of year newsletters. Each one I roll my eyes at and close out of is further proof of what I hoped to write about.
You see, while the obsessive compulsive part of my brain wants the structure and order of routine, there’s so much to be said about casting that aside in favor of doing what feels good in the present moment. I don’t necessarily mean abandoning discipline and living hedonistically, but rather, casting off the shackles of what you feel you “should” be doing in favor of what you’re doing now. However, even writing this, I feel like I’m prioritizing what I “should” do rather than what I need to do. I have an obligation to get this newsletter out, and all I want to say is “it’s January. Feel your way through.” And instead I’m nervous about the word count and the content and making sure this isn’t just like every other email you’ve gotten telling you what to do.
“What I want to write is ‘it’s January; feel your way through,” so why can’t that be what I write? Feel your way through, Leyna. That’s what my body tells me. I know that writing what I want to write is the surest way to feel good about it. The way I’ll feel closest to myself. The way I’ll have the greatest chance at making sense of it all and maybe making sense to others. But it’s hard to take all these fragmented thoughts and piece them together into something that feels right, then willingly post it to the internet for the proverbial slaughter.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that, even though none of you reading this have ever given me a reason to believe any of my work isn’t good enough, I want January to be the first of many months that I write what I truly feel, whether it’s good writing or not. Whether it’s for you or not. Whether it makes sense to you or not. Whether it’s grammatically or semantically correct or not.
I want to feel my way through and write what comes out.
So instead of painstakingly deciding how to tell you what January means to me—or June, or September, or March—I’ll convey the feeling as best I can. Instead of reflecting or predicting, I’ll simply be feeling and telling.
And January is for being. For living and moving and feeling through it, not only because that’s what feels good, but because that’s the only way you’ll understand what you need without judgment. It’s about honoring the way you do things, and assessing them later for what works and doesn’t. It shouldn’t be for changing and pushing and powering through. It should be for observing and listening and seeing whether the way you operate currently is the way that feels right for you. It’s not about adhering blindly to every structure and boundary you create for yourself, just like it’s not about abandoning those things altogether. It’s about knowing yourself well enough to take the best next step for you. It’s about aligning the person you are now as closely and realistically as you can with the person you know you can become.
So while this newsletter was later than I’d hoped it would be and now my Weekly Log will be pushed back a bit, the time taken was valuable. It allowed me to write this all from a place of ritual instead of routine. From my body instead of my brain (and if you like this newsletter at all, I feel like you’ll appreciate that more than having a semi-appeasing newsletter hit your inbox on the first of the month anyway). I love you. Thank you for being here.
Bye now!
Leyna