the story

“You don’t belong.” The ache. The pain. The truly soul-tarnishing message that has rung throughout my entire existence. No one wants to be a part of the “out-crowd.”

Nobody.

Being content with the whole picture of my life as it stands is something I’ve always struggled with. By this point in my life, I have been both: A beautifully handcrafted outward winner - as well as the opposite - an undesirable isolated lonely person - all because I had been sent such a powerful message.

“You don’t belong.”

Being a writer has made me feel more a part of the “in-crowd” than I ever imagined I would be. Once I shared my writing with teenagers at school, I wasn’t an “out-crowd” outsider anymore. I became the “singer who was pretty.” I wrote my own music, and I wore makeup (thick eyeliner all around my eyes, caked-on Maybelline One-by-One mascara, and New-York-Color frosted pink lipgloss). I bettered myself. I felt okay to express the writer inside me when I became the “bettered-me” on the outside. With a guitar in my hand, a journal in my bag, and my makeup pouch, I believed I could control my own existence in the face of dark days. Those dark days started to clear up because of my writing. Once I started showcasing my original songs to people at school, they started saying “wow!” instead of, “she’s weird.” They started saying “that was really good” instead of, “be quiet!” I started to believe in myself again after having been a bullied, lonely “loser." My “peers” started to believe in me too, instead of giving me the silent treatment, as they had done before. People listened to me without question, or thoughts of the “loser” I was before. I wanted those “loser” thoughts to be erased from peoples’ memories of me, and my writing did just that. What a relief. For once in my life, I had a piece of my identity that fit me comfortably. Finally. Like a pair of nice-fitting jeans. With my newfound outward respect and camaraderie, I felt inside myself that I could actually become someone worthy. Worthy of praise and love from people outside of my family. Because I was a gifted writer. I would not only look in the mirror every day and know that I was “pretty” according to my classmates. I’d also look in the mirror every day and know that I was a good writer.

I would not only look in the mirror every day and know that I was “pretty” according to my classmates. I’d also look in the mirror every day and know that I was a good writer.

Writing has always been in the depths of my soul. I’ve been a writer since I could formulate sounds. As a little girl, I would passionately arrange magnetic letters on the fridge to spell words. When I got quite a bit older, I would write stories on the family computer. And a little older, I was the student who enjoyed writing essays and long papers at school. Writing is a common thread running through the fabric of my life. It has always been there for me to fall back on when I didn’t have anything to keep me afloat. It helped me find belonging in school. It helped me make friends in difficult places. It helped me leave toxic situations. It has helped me create my identity. It helps me articulate complicated things. It helps me find understanding within the sea of myself. It helps me find where I belong in the larger world, as well as the online world. It is my stability. My vocation. My purpose on this planet. I have influence on others when I share my writing. I am no longer at the mere mercy of things they could place upon me. I have a say-so. I have a voice of my own choosing. I own a piece of control in this world and a piece of gold that nobody can steal. When I share my writing, I don't have to rummage through my entire self to pull out a literal mess in front of other people, on the spot, when I'm trying to get close to them. I’m much more comfortable being unreachable and pushing people away, but I also want to be close to people. I wish things weren’t that way. I write to create a safe haven for that dilemma.

I have influence on others when I share my writing. I am no longer at the mere mercy of things they could place upon me.

I also write to create a version of my inner self that doesn’t feel ugly when I look at it. Creating something personal, meaningful, and beautiful all at once can help it become less ugly. I feel a bit of distance from my own tumultuous world when I craft it into pieces that appear elegant and magical to the eye, but can give a real and genuine gift to the heart. It’s okay to romanticize things on pages. The outside world sees it as art. Something personal and amazingly inexplicable happened to me during the pandemic. It gave me framework for my first collection of writing other than my musical past, All The Emotions Under The Sun. For the first time in a long time, I was putting myself out there as a writer. I was scared to release this piece of work, because I knew that I was writing about things people had never heard me talk about in regard to myself. I was concerned about what others would wonder about my personal life, especially those I’m related to. It was also freeing for my soul in many ways. A deepening desire to tell of things that I was honestly and soulfully able to speak about. I couldn’t keep it all inside like I had been. I knew I wanted to share some of its beautiful trinkets. Articulating in my own words what I wanted others to know and experience with me. That’s what the book means to me.

I was scared to release this piece of work, because I knew that I was writing about things people had never heard me talk about in regard to myself.

When I share something I wrote with you, I’m the one choosing what you know about my life. You are the special recipient of my choice. I write so I can let you into my world for little awhile. So you can see my personal life in the way I handcraft it. All the ways in which I choose, and all the ways of which I have influence. You get to see my inner and outer self-expression. That truly means the world to me. Being able to share who I’ve been, who I am, and who I want to become, with the possibility of someone out there seeing pieces of themselves within the fabric. My fears. My mental wanderings. My bad days and my good days. My hope. My crippling shame. My desires. Life is complicated. I share my writing about all the emotions under the sun so you can have a beautiful emotional framework. Even for the pieces of life that are painful. Those can be beautiful, too.

Even for the pieces of life that are painful. Those can be beautiful, too.