I quit my job three months ago to pursue my creative interests more actively. I told everyone that I’d be documenting my journey “every step of the way”. But as one of my followers recently reminded me, “damn girl, I thought you moved to India to work. All I’m seeing is content about restaurants and food.”
This DM hit me like a dagger.
Not only was I bothered that this random person in my life decided to judge me (and voice his judgment), but I was also bothered because he was right.
I haven’t been delivering on the promise I made to myself to share my unfiltered life. When I set out on this journey, I thought I’d be able to comfortably post about the discomfort. After all, I consider myself to be an open, vulnerable person.
But openness and vulnerability have been more difficult to access lately. As a result, so has creativity. I’m judging myself for it (and apparently, so are others 👀).
Where did my vulnerability go?
After leaving my job in August, I didn’t really “take a break”. I basically just jumped into a new career by immediately starting to shoot for my documentary, beginning my acting classes, etc.
And no matter how much I’ve been writing about the trap of productivity, it turns out I haven’t gained immunity from it. I’m just as human as the next person — shit.
It’s like I quit one job on Monday and started a new role on Tuesday. Except instead of this new job being in a comparable field or calling for related skills, it’s asking me to be a whole new person in a whole new country speaking a whole new language.
It’s jarring.
Typically, when someone tries something new in one part of their life, they maintain stability in other areas to have pillars that hold up the rest of their life structure.
I, on the other hand, have removed all my pillars simultaneously, watching my life structure crumble right before my eyes. Removing these pillars all at once isn’t a terrible strategy, but it requires processing time and a willingness to sit in the discomfort. Rather than giving myself the space to really feel that discomfort, I immediately started building a new structure with rush, frenzy, and a scarcity mindset.
If I don’t build, and build now, I will never build again. I will have no self-worth. I’ve got to get going. In fact, I’m already probably behind.
Mourning
With this internal dialogue, I’ve ignored something I know to be true: part of building something new (and hopefully better) is processing. And part of processing a new stage of life is mourning the old one.
The reason I feel less open, vulnerable, and creative, is because I’m in an all-consuming state of mourning.
I’m mourning the life I've known for so long. The comfort of living a grown up life in the place I grew up. Between my massive extended family, my brother and parents, and the same best friends I’ve had since I was a child, nothing ever felt so out of control. But that’s not the case anymore.
Out of Control
A few days ago, I had an accident that forced me to confront the emotions I’d been suppressing.
I was on my way out the door to go up to the roof of my apartment building. Right as I was stepping out, a strong gust of wind from the balcony slammed the solid wood front door on my finger and hacked off the top portion of it. It felt like I was attacked by a deranged animal.
It was gory. I was scared.
After the countless medical horror stories I’ve heard from friends and family, taking a trip to an emergency room in India wasn’t exactly on my bucket list.
Anyway, it’s important to note that this happened to my left hand. The one I write with.
Is This a Sign?
In the complete disarray of this situation, where I was in so much pain I felt that I might either faint from the loss of blood or vomit from the sight of it — or worse, both — the thought that came to mind was “is this a sign?”.
I didn’t think of anything practical or helpful, instead I literally thought, “is this a sign?”
A sign to stop writing. A sign to stop creating. A sign to move back to the US where things are easier and cleaner and where I definitely wouldn’t have had part of my finger chopped off had I just stayed put.
When I stepped back from the drama of the accident, I realized that it was not, in fact, a sign.
But ruminating in this way made me confront the fact that I missed my old life, and I am mourning it. Maybe this is something I already knew, but just didn’t want to admit out of fear for what that might mean.
I’m not cut out for this. I’ve made a mistake by betting on myself in this way.
In reality, all of this internal dialogue is just a desperate desire to make meaning of the situation. This is only natural. As humans, we constantly tell ourselves stories to explain life’s inexplicable.
As Maria Popova from The Marginalian notes:
“There is, of course, nothing singular or surprising about this — Earth carves canyons into rock with nothing more than a steadfast stream. Somehow we keep forgetting that human nature is but a fractal of nature itself.”
I’ve felt this way before — the sense of discomfort and loss that comes with any transition. But this transition is unique.
In building the story of my life, I’ve been thinking of this move to India and pursuit of creativity as a chapter, similar to many others. But I’m starting to believe that it could be its own book rather than a single section within one.
Drifting into Drafting
I’m living in the first draft of that book.
In Stephen King’s On Writing he tells us that the job of the writer is to observe and record. He suggests that the story is already there, like a fossil meant to be excavated. (Yet again, I’ve found that writing advice applies to life.)
He advises excavating delicately. Cautiously. He advises using small tools and gently brushing away debris to learn more day by day, rather than using a jackhammer in an attempt to discover everything all at once.
This is the best strategy. At least, for the first draft.
In the second draft — the revision — the writer can start leveraging the bigger tools. At this stage, she can consider patterns that may have emerged during the initial excavation. Patterns like theme and symbolism. But they should only be studied in the second draft and only if they already exist. These patterns should not be contrived, but instead given space to naturally emerge.
Without marking this distinction between a first draft and a second draft, we run the risk of forcing the dots to connect. We can get so lost in making sense of it all that we might even believe an injured writing hand is a sign to stop writing entirely.
Life Lately
In this era of exploration in my life, questions seem to monstrously multiply like the heads of the Hydra.
It’s hard not to seek answers that will slay these demons questions. But in doing that, I draw inaccurate conclusions because I’m trying to do second draft work even though I’m obviously in the first draft stage.
In my period of mourning, I’ve been blurring the lines between these phases. It’s made me feel lost and disconnected, like I was doing too much and not enough at the same time.
By admitting that I’m living squarely in the first draft — one that’s unlike any I’ve experienced before — I can start to process these heavy emotions that I’ve been denying. In this draft, I have nothing and no one to hide behind. Nothing to distract me. It’s raw, I’m unshielded. I’m here to work. To build a beautiful story.
Even if it feels like I’m writing blindfolded and in the dark, that’s ok because I am confident that the path toward my second draft will reveal itself, little by little, if I keep going just like Stephen King promises:
“Once your basic story is on paper, you [can then] think about what it means to enrich your following drafts with your conclusions. [This is] the vision that makes each tale you write uniquely your own.”
For now I’m focusing on excavation and slow, steady discovery. I’m not going to put the pressure on myself to have all the answers and fall prey to the expectations of how things should go or how I should be.
On the path to finding my vulnerability again,
Shiv
If this post resonated and you’d like to chat, I’d love to hear from you. You can find me on Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok.
We all need some type of structure in life... and you were seeking it in other things. But at least you realized it instead of being in complete denial. I love you and your writing and always rooting for you. I especially loved the graphics.
Also I'm sorry for how hard it is. Again - all the best to you, you've got this. I don't even know you and I love your writing and I'm rooting for you!