I attempted to sign onto my account to write and an alert stopped me – it had been so long since I had logged into this platform that the digital world thought I was a trespasser. I felt somewhat like a trespasser. The last time I took the time to really sit down with my thoughts and share them was in January 2020 – about three months before the entire world shut down and I should have had all of the time in the world to write, but I suppose everyone deals with things in different ways and writing wasn’t how I travelled through the pandemic. I mainly dealt with that chapter by drinking, playing dominoes, buying a dog and trying all of the Pinterest recipes I had ignored for a decade.

I always thought I would come back – this is how I process things to save on a therapy bill (joking but also somewhat serious). And then I looked up and three years had passed.

What is so weird is that writing, for all of my life, is who I have been. Of all of the things that I have loved, this has been what I was good at. It has been the only true skill that I’ve had a passion for. But in 2020 I lost it – I may have lost part of me in general for a little while. Not in a bad way, just a different one. So much transpired in the years that passed between the last post I made and where I am today and I plan to get into all of it (well most of it) as I head back down this road.

I can feel myself getting lighter as I write these words down, like they have been jammed up in a dam. So this is my long-winded way of saying that if you have something like what writing is to me, that you have shoved into the closet because you were uninspired or it distracted from the things that made you money or you just didn’t think three years would pass as quickly as they did – you can always pick back up the pen.

So I stopped writing and on 3.23.23, I started again.