Come back to life
I didn’t mean to disappear.
I’ve been in survival mode so long I forgot what thriving looks like.
Once again I’m ragged and rising, crawling my way out of ash and lifting my weary face to the light.
Peeking inside my current art journal
I haven’t posted here in a year.
A YEAR.
My anxious/tired brain scrambles for explanation, validation, expectation. But you know what 2020 was. You lived it, too.
Though our circumstances are unique, who among us isn’t changed in some way—in many ways—after all we’ve been through?
Amanda Fall
This morning, at 4:30 a.m., my mind leapt awake for unknown reasons—though I stayed in bed for over three more hours, trying to fall back asleep. At first, I overflowed with creative inspiration: deep-water thoughts to share with you here, ways to bridge my absence with grace and purpose.
As the hours dragged on, inspiration waned. Panic and frustration rose.
Once again, sleep challenges make me a shadow of myself.
If you’ve journeyed with me in any of my more intimate spaces—like Patreon—you know that sleep (and lack thereof) has been one of my main struggles the past four+ years, as I’ve become a parent.
Being a highly sensitive parent of a sensitive child . . . it’s intense and all-consuming. I’m cracked open with love and ache every day, sometimes every moment. I’m made raw with weariness. I’m working to show up imperfectly, bringing my broken/whole, weeping/raging, joyful/grieving self to each moment as best as I can.
Peeking in my current art journal
Unfortunately, despite my best intentions, showing up imperfectly in my daily life—including full-time stay-at-home parenting—hasn’t left much of me behind. In the midst of 2020’s amped-up anxiety and depression, panic attacks, and more, I lost any ability to keep up with this dear blog and all my grand plans for it.
I still showed up wherever I could online, creating for my beloved Patrons, poking my head into Instagram and Facebook and even TikTok recently. I’ve managed to create what I think is a gorgeous, encouraging art lesson for Effy Wild’s Book of Days 2021 (more on that soon; my lesson goes live in August). I’ve even managed to dip my toes back into print on demand creation of colorful goods to brighten daily life. But this space . . . once my pride and joy . . . has been languishing.
I couldn’t find my way back.
This morning, as 4 a.m. turned to 5, and 5 turned to 6, I asked myself—why haven’t I been here?
I realized . . . I’ve still been trying to achieve everything all at once. After pausing publication of the magazine indefinitely (a long story for another time, but suffice it to say I had to do whatever I could to survive early-days parenting, when for a long time I wasn’t sure I would make it back to myself, let alone to my beloved business) . . . I dreamed beautiful dreams of building this collaborative blog into a vibrant, pulsing, REAL place full of real stories and art and inspiration. That dream still lives, but I’ve had no energy left to tend it.
(Pssst: YES, I will still be seeking submissions! I’ll do my best to update and refresh all pages here, as I have the “spoons” available.)
Love notes for my patrons, typed on my grandma’s antique Royal typewriter
Somehow, in the midst of my ache and mess, I forgot what I’ve always reminded you:
you are more than enough, as you are.
You are beloved, in both your struggle and your victory, your howling and your healing, your wandering and wondering.
You are radiant, even/especially when you feel like you’ve been shattered to pieces.
Your worth is intrinsic; you don’t have to earn it, or strive for it.
Your phoenix rising can happen every day, every moment, as often as needed.
One of my flowers, unfurling in all her awkward glory
So here I am, friend, showing up the only way I know how.
Mess and all.
Not knowing what tomorrow will look like, or the day after that.
But here, now, I’m stepping back into the circle with you, and so grateful you are here. I’m sending you love and love and love.
How are you … really? You’re welcome to be real in the comments, whatever that looks like for you. I’m cheering you on in your ache and celebrating every damn minute you choose this life, over and over.
We’re coming back to life, breath by breath.
I’ll see you again soon.
