Tag Archives: healing

The Writers Block

Mousey & Young

My favorite picture of me and my sister is of us sitting close, faces together, in our matchy-matchy Christmas dresses by the beautifully decorated tree, credit to my mother’s impeccable eye for gaudy yet girly design.

I love my sister’s gap and the milky brown tone of her face. I chuckle when I see that picture; she looks so much like the older sibling, and I so mousy, a bright smile, but quiet just the same.

I have a complex view of quietness. I enjoy it, but sometimes it’s pulled from me by well-meaning strangers. It’s often viewed as weak or slow, but it’s my favorite sound after a long day.

Quiet. Often used as a slur for a person unsettlingly at peace with their own company or just socially awkward. Or…?

Quiet,

floods over me more recently. I used to think it was when I plugged in my earbuds and floated into my own world. But it muted my mind, just my loud escape.

Quiet,

and well-behaved, often celebrated by some elders for being so well-trained, respectful, unproblematic, crushed into a figure so small and barely noticeable. Like fine cutlery, only to be fully admired when its owner deems it fitting.

Quiet,

to some people who’ve yet to defrost, I appear to be nothing more than my quiet nature. But how loud and boisterous I am with the ones who melt me. Though, global warming is inescapable, and I find myself less cold but still cautious.

Quiet, be quiet.

I usually am, but today I’m really in pain. Can you listen this time? I know I’m often silent—

silenced, by my own discomfort with overwhelming you. It might just be a one-off thing, a bad day?

Quiet, be a good girl, be nice. Behave. A woman shouldn’t be so angry. Forgive and get back in your trap.

Quiet, don’t act like you don’t have your own issues.

Quiet, ashamed of my mistakes.

Nuanced as it is, I will say the quiet part aloud too.

I see my flaws, but I won’t bury them with yours,
silently suffocating under the weight of the rug I was swept under.

Quiet and gracious, not to ignore the trampling of the elephant in the room,
but because I won’t carry on like a martyr from the ring of mockery.

I don’t often speak unless I’m really in pain. Please don’t make me…
Hushhh. How do you expect to be married if you don’t allow some mistreatment?

I do not want to be fine cutlery, only allowed to speak when given permission. You praise me for being so good at listening, but when I ask for the same, you stay… quiet.

Silence is a beautiful thing, it allows for moments of reflection, but sometimes it’s forced, when voices are trampled over in pride.

Still, there’s this pressure, a pressure to appease others’ discomfort with a nature that is not inherently wrong, not inherently sinful. Shrinking yourself to fit their expectations, to be more palatable, seems less like an act of grace and more like a painful death. Sure, there are conditions, complexities, and nuances, but ultimately it kills slowly.

So, though I love my ability to be silent, I will no longer be

mousy
but quiet, yes.

Epilogue

There’s beauty in not needing a reason, a trauma story, a diagnosis.

But sometimes, there is. And there is beauty in knowing that too.

More than conquers, but Jesus wept.

It’s not black and white, or gray—maybe much worse than that, a muddled brown.

Not everything needs to be pathologized (as some point out), but it’s okay to get the help you need to understand yourself.

I hope you get to enjoy some quiet today.

I wrote quiet as an ode to the complexities of quietness, sometimes as it is seen in women. I share it with you with no subtext; it is not related to one instance but reflecting over a lifetime from my adolescence up to today.

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From the heart

Young Yet Older

The change in weather signals that the start of spring is soon to come, and it’s evidence, alongside the sound of groans as I get up from bed, that time waits for none.

I’m reminded of my father, a living time machine. When I visit home, I love to rub my fingers over the grey spikes that now litter his scalp. I feel the weight of nostalgia when I embrace him, remembering moments from my childhood: dancing on his toes, the look of disappointment on his face when I was distracted by everything but what mattered, the one time I saw him cry, and now, the strange WhatsApp messages we share. He’s always been an old man who yells too much, but now he’s fragile and forgetful, so much older than I remember.

I set out to write something poetic on youth and aging, but lately, something else has been weighing on me. I’ll write, assuming that if it’s meant to, the right people will read and understand to whom I’m speaking.

I think of dim sum, craft nights, and the sting of betrayal.

It’s hard to ignore the contrast between the people who once filled my days with joy and those who have become the source of my pain. There’s a heaviness in seeing people I once looked up to turn away from me, distorting the truth or using my flaws as weapons. Some probably didn’t intend to hurt me, but others seemed to take pleasure in pointing out every fault. It’s a bitter realization that those who were once so close can now feel like strangers.

Despite all this, I remind myself that guilt, though painful, is not our enemy, it’s an invitation to grow. I’ve learned that our mistakes, no matter how big or small, can’t erase us, but they reveal parts of us we often try to hide. Our insecurities, fears, and weaknesses come to light when we face the truth of our human nature.

I know that many of you are good-hearted, though like all of us, flawed and in need of growth. Still, I hold onto the hope that we can all do better. I want to offer grace, and in return, I ask for the same. I’ll do my best not to harbor bitterness or remember the passive-aggressive comments, and I ask that we try to meet each other with kindness, even when it’s hard.

In all of this, I will always cherish the good memories:

Talks about babies growing from a pear to a watermelon, weekend trips to the beach, nights watching Single’s Inferno, YA game nights with confusing prompts, prayer circles, stories of stealing boats with friends.

They are etched into my heart, and I will carry them with me. But I also recognize that some relationships might not evolve in the same way they once did. You’re always in my prayers. I am just not sure if we should make any more memories together. Maybe we will, or someday awkwardly greet each other and talk about how time flies.

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From the heart, The Writers Block

On Being An Young Woman

A note on my current love life October 9, 2023:

This morning I was rejected by someone I thought was really cool. I liked his laugh, his voice, and always had this overwhelming desire to hold his hand. I share this not because it feels awesome but because for the first time, in relation to my heart, I didn’t lie to myself. I needed to hear a “no” to let go and I didn’t beg to know why or try to prove I was worth his affection. While it hurts, I feel like a woman who is determined to protect her heart even if it means I have to be vulnerable. I think with the next man I’ll even be brave enough to say how I feel from the jump.

A short one today but with much love,

V

My favorite memory from my rejector; The way he seemed to look at me like I was the only girl in the room (or maybe not).

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The Writers Block

Young & Troublesome

When I was younger, I would climb the ten-foot-tall trees outside our ranch-style home in Interlachen, FL. Interlachen is a small town filled with kind people. Memories of friends who always smelled like carrots, bus rides with the entire town’s youths after school, and church events held outdoors on the rustic plains surrounding the only church for miles still paint my mind. I remember in particular when our neighbor dug a large hole in their backyard, covered it in plastic, and filled it with water. We spent most of that hot evening in their makeshift pool. I loved it, like I’ve always loved the feeling of being free, playing in the sun all day, and enjoying life.

Currently, my feet are decorated with cuts and blisters, trinkets from days I hung from those towering birch skyscrapers. Reflecting on my moments of childlikeness, the person I used to be is hard to picture. I vaguely remember the joy of creativity and adventure. In the strange journey of adolescence, I lost my naivety and ushered in pessimism. Ironically, I used to take immense pride in my strength, seeing myself as resilient and pain resistant. Yet today, a growing reflection of myself is in the midst of learning to embrace me and extend parts of my brokenness to others. In an allegoric way the cracks in my heels have reached my heart, were I struggle to understand the emotions that flow from it.

In believing my vulnerabilities exist, even when they escape my understanding, I can share in true bravery the unpolished parts of me. I hope to comfort those who, like tiny puzzle pieces feel too difficult to solve, through accepting God’s love. Since entrusting God and embracing my brokenness has become less confusing and more nourishing. Not in the sense that I don’t feel lost but more that I know there is a hand for me to hold, who will love me even when I feel too complicated to be cared for.

Romans 5:3-4

1 Tim 1: 15-16

15 Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst. 16 But for that very reason I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display his immense patience as an example for those who would believe in him and receive eternal life.

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