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Right now I’m sitting in my bedroom listening to the sounds of my neighbors, who live two doors down, as they finish packing up their moving van. Occasionally another neighbor will stop by and wish them good luck on their journey.

I don’t know these particular neighbors, because we’ve only lived here 15 months, but I remember that particular combination of exhaustion and anticipation on the day we moved. That feeling of one chapter closing and another opening, the sadness of leaving behind our home of twenty years and the pure excitement of finally having achieved our goal of moving to a bigger home, in a neighborhood with trees and big backyards and good schools.

I’ve done hard work before. I’ve set goals and I’ve achieved them. Publishing my book shouldn’t be any different, right?

I’m a person with anxiety, and it’s so easy to let fear take the wheel (or more accurately, let fear take the keys so we just sit in the driveway, listening to the radio but not going anywhere.) I have specific goals and dreams, but they are so scary and the work to achieve them is overwhelming.

I thought writing my book was the hard part. Then I thought revising was the hard part. But no — those are my strengths. As long as I make the time to do these things, they are honestly as easy as breathing.

This morning I’m reading articles about establishing an author platform, social media content planning, building an author “brand”… and, well, my stomach hurts and my heart is pounding and I kind of want to just go back to bed.

My book and I have had a good run. So what if I’m the only one who ever gets to read it?

“Do it scared” is great in theory, but my question is HOW? How do you do something that gives you stomach pains and heart palpitations? How do you go from “I’m going to be sick” to “I can do this”?

It all feels so big and scary and icky and awful. I’m an artist, not a business person. I don’t want to sell me as a brand.

It’s March 20, 2020 and the world has gone bonkers and me right along with it. I’m trying to keep it together for my kids, but honestly, this whole isolation thing SUCKS. Even for us introverts who would rather be home than anywhere else. So in the interest of focusing on ANYTHING besides the global pandemic and the resulting mental health fallout, I found a 20-day blogging challenge from Writer’s Write and I’m going to attempt to participate. It may seem stupid, but right now I’m hoping it will help keep me sane.

For Day 1, I’m supposed to post a photo of my workspace. For me, most of the time, I write on my laptop while sitting on my bed, in stolen quiet moments when the kids are occupied. Not ideal working conditions, but we do what we can, right? Sometimes I have more structured writing time, when the kiddos are in school, and I will move my laptop to my desk or my dining room table. At those times, I tend to be much more productive because there are fewer interruptions. But my bedroom is comfy and peaceful, so it lends itself to creativity and flow. I keep some favorite books nearby for inspiration/encouragement.

On re-reading my last post (why do I do this?), I worried that it sounded like I had given up on connecting with people entirely, which, of course, I haven’t. I have my family and a few close friends that I love and have authentic, organic connection with. I just no longer feel the need to try and fit myself within a group.

This morning, I was writing out an Instagram post for the podcast I’m part of, and I wrote about how being part of a platform where women can share their difficult stories has helped me to become less judgmental of others and less fearful of being judged for my choices. As I wrote, I began to see the connection between my fierce need to belong and my fear of judgment.

If I’m part of a group, then I must be “okay,” because I’ve been accepted. I belong. Even if I maybe have to conform a little to fit within the group dynamic. If I’m just floating out here by myself, I’m much more vulnerable. If I follow my own path, I give up the safety of association with others, and I open myself up much more to criticism. But it also forces me to get comfortable with who I am, as an individual, because I have to be my own friend. I can’t just adapt to the behaviors and patterns of the group. There’s freedom to step out and decide who I want to be, what’s important to me, and how I want to spend my time.

Last night I was talking with my 9 year old on her way to dance class. She has struggled this year with some of the girls in her class, because she doesn’t quite fit in with them. These girls are all slightly older than her, and interested in things that my daughter isn’t familiar with (mainly social media apps), and when she asks about them, in her own words, “they look at me like I’m a freak.” Every week, I have to give her a pep talk on the way to dance class and encourage her to stay true to herself and not worry about what these girls think. I tell her that she is an individual who doesn’t follow the crowd, that she doesn’t have to like or do things just because everyone else does, and that these other girls don’t understand that it’s okay to be your own person. Even if it means some people won’t like you.

There is a mindset in our society that tells us that only certain choices are appropriate, that you have to follow the crowd, that you have to belong. You have to look a certain way, act a certain way, have a good-paying job, get married, have children, go to church, buy a house in the suburbs, drive a nice car. And if you don’t go along, if you don’t follow the formula, if your priorities are somehow different, then you’re a freak. And honestly, fuck that. Because the things that make people different are the things that make them who they are. And when people truly step into who they are as unique individuals, when they put aside the fear of judgment and decide to embrace themselves just as they are, it’s incredible to see.

My song came on the radio yesterday as I was driving my youngest to preschool. You know, MY song, the one that I will always turn to top volume and sing all the words to, the one that even my kids know is “mommy’s song”, the one whose lyrics I have written on my social media profiles because I relate to it so hard. Do you have a song like that? Mine is No Rain by Blind Melon. (All I can say is that my life is pretty plain/I like watching the puddles gather rain.)

This particular tune was released when I was 19, way back in the olden days when videos on MTV were still a thing. I loved the lyrics, and even more, I adored the video. A weird little girl, freckled and chubby, is dressed up in a bee costume, complete with antennae and tutu. She tap-dances on a stage and instead of applause, she is met with laughter. She gets upset and runs off the stage. Sad and dejected, she roams the streets, performing her dance for random strangers, but they mostly just stare at her. They don’t get it. They don’t get her. She dances by herself for a little while, but you can tell her heart isn’t in it. Then, she approaches a gate. As she peers through the gate, her jaw drops open. On the other side is a field of people, all dressed in some variation of bee costume, frolicking and dancing happily. She runs to join them, and they immediately accept her as one of their own.

As I drove along yesterday, listening to the song, it occurred to me how much of my life I spent as that awkward girl, looking for my field of bee people. I felt like nobody “got” me, and I desperately wanted to belong. In my 20’s, I found belonging in my religious community and in groups for new moms. But when my beliefs shifted, and I was no longer a “new” mom, I didn’t belong anymore. In my early 30’s, it was my theater group and my workout buddies. But then I got pregnant with my daughter and had to put those things on hold, and those people slowly drifted away. Later, it was school, but then I graduated and everyone went their separate ways. Each time, I finally felt as though I had found my bee people, and each time my life took a different turn, I realized that I didn’t belong after all. It was always a lonely, broken feeling, even if the circumstances around it were positive.

I realized yesterday that now, at 45, I no longer look for the field of bee people. Part of this is circumstantial — who has time to look for bee people when you’re a busy mom of three, who also writes and podcasts and does advocacy work? But more than that, I finally feel like I’m okay with just being that awkward little bee girl, dancing for myself, and I don’t care anymore if nobody gets me. I don’t need a field of bee people to find happiness. I’m content with who I am.

All I can say is that my life is pretty plain. I like watching the puddles gather rain.

Once again, I have gotten into the habit of starting to write blog posts and then deciding a few paragraphs in that nobody wants to read what I have to say. Fiction is easier, in that respect. Telling a made-up story feels a lot less vulnerable than putting my real-life thoughts and insights out into internetland for anyone to see.

I started to write about faith/religion, how I was raised a certain way, walked away in the extreme opposite direction, and then came to a place somewhere in between that felt good for a little while, and now have stepped off the grid almost entirely. But does anyone really care? When it comes to religion, almost everyone I know seems secure in their beliefs and traditions, while I’m floating out here in outer space looking for a safe place to land (and realizing more and more that I belong out here in outer space.) Nobody in my real life wants to listen to me talk about it, so why would anyone read about it? Same thing when it comes to my journey with weight/body image stuff, or pretty much anything.

I’m a born questioner, a skeptic, an enthusiastic observer with insatiable curiosity about the things that interest me. And I want to write about these things, but every time I try, I get overwhelmed with self-doubt and this fear that what I say really doesn’t matter, to anyone. I mean, I can’t even get people to click “Like” on my Facebook posts.

Do other writers feel this way? Why do some seem so confident that others want to read their commentary? And what makes people read it? How do you get over yourself and just write?

Screaming into the void this morning…

Another change that happened in 2019 was that I began to use my voice as an advocate for women with PCOS. PCOS, also known as polycystic ovary syndrome, is a complex endocrine and metabolic disorder that I and many other women I know live with. It is common (affecting 10% or more of women and girls), misunderstood, and critically underfunded, and can lead to life-threatening complications such as heart disease, type 2 diabetes, and endometrial cancer. It also comes with a higher rate of depression, anxiety, and eating disorders. And despite all of this, there is no approved medical treatment for PCOS.

In March of 2019, I joined a group of doctors, researchers, nutritionists, and patient advocates on Capitol Hill in Washington, DC. We attended meetings with our representatives and senators and asked them to co-sponsor legislation that funds PCOS research and recognizes PCOS as a public health priority.

In July of 2019, I co-chaired a 5K event in Philadelphia to raise funds for PCOS research, awareness, and education programs. Our event raised over $10,000.

In September of 2019, I traveled to Orlando, Florida to attend a PCOS symposium and to participate in and assist with another 5K event.

As an introvert who would rather do just about anything than talk to strangers, all of these things were WAY outside my comfort zone and frankly, more than a little terrifying. But the experience of advocating for myself and other with PCOS was life-changing. To be able to walk into a room, identify myself as a nurse and patient advocate, and talk to congressional staffers about my experience with PCOS, and have them agree to sign on to the legislation — it felt incredible, and deeply meaningful. Like I was actually changing the world for people like me.