Weaving My Story—My Messy Beautiful

It’s a beautiful spring day, and I float through my neighborhood with a lightness in each step. I feel a tinge of guilt as I snap photos of fluorescent tulips and pastel blossom trees that have littered the sidewalks with pink confetti, knowing full-well that loved ones back east still lie begrudgingly buried under mounds of blankets. I pick a cafe table drenched in delicious Seattle sun, ready to dig into this post on our “messy, beautiful” lives, a topic I’ve been mulling since Glennon doled out the “assignment” a couple weeks back.

I cozy into my patio seat, ready to pop in ear buds and find a cheery soundtrack to complement the bright day. Quickly, though, I realize the mom-daughter duo lunching mere feet from me are discussing something heavy: the passing of a son/brother who recently (very recently, it seems) lost his battle with addiction. Their conversation is oddly light and superficial at times, and then, it takes a dip into something so raw that I cringe, feeling like an intruder on scared space.

The 20-something daughter so desperately wants to steer the conversation toward talk of what they could have done, why none of them tried harder, why they didn’t care more. The mother continually diverts with small talk of her salad, the weather, that darn morning traffic. The roles seem flipped; in this moment (or perhaps always?), the child carries the torch of adulthood. She wants answers.

I feel like a voyeur witnessing a most unusual vignette unfold. I absorb the palpable pain of these strangers grappling their way through a sunlit Monday conversation I’m sure they never thought they’d have to have. I am captivated. I realize that fewer scenes could be more appropriately linked to this assignment for Momastery. Something about the contrast of the day feels somewhat beautiful. And brutal. In Glennon speak: simply brutiful.
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I’ve gotten side-tracked. This post is meant to be about my own beautiful, messy journey. Truth be told, when I first learned the task at hand, I immediately thought of that brilliant “Notting Hill” dinner party scene in which the guests, megastar Julia Roberts character included, circle the table trying to one-up each other on sob stories. Each attendee attempts to prove him/herself more pathetic and, consequently, more worthy of pity—and the one remaining brownie. There is something so endearingly human about this bittersweet scene.

But I quickly realized this project has nothing to do with “one-upping” and everything to do with simply speaking one’s truth. By trade, I am a storyteller, and I truly believe that everyone’s narrative matters. No two can be compared. (In fact, this is my dream job: to be the voice for those whose tale needs to be told. There is often such healing that comes with the release of one’s story.)

As for my story, I am very grateful to lead a fortunate, blessed life (touching wood as I type), marked by overall good health, wonderful and supportive family and friends who forever have my back plus privileges many only glimpse in far-off dreams.

I’ve traveled to 34 countries (and counting!). I’ve watched the sun set into sky-splitting fireworks over the Greek Isles and Argentinean pampas, Australian red rocks and Cambodian temples. When I sensed in my gut two-and-a-half years ago that it was time for some serious change, I had the resources and support system to help me make a life-changing leap to the opposite coast. For all of this, I am so lucky.

And yet, there are many times when I stumble, stutter-step, fall apart—convinced that my sensitive soul cannot take the weight of the world’s bad and sad. I get caught up in worries and fears and past hurts and future what-ifs. Some days I’m convinced I’m on the entirely wrong path and not going the direction I “should.” (I’ve never been one to take the traditional, “easy route”; I am a perpetual seeker, and I move at my own pace.)

While many friends have long ago ticked the boxes of weddings, childbirth and home purchases, I find myself, at 35: single, renting a one-bedroom apartment and still having months when bill-paying causes legitimate stomach knots and tumbleweed nights of minimal sleep. (I am a freelance writer/editor, and yes, this is a lifestyle I’ve chosen…There are major pluses, and there are major minuses.) Have these decisions been short-sighted and naive? Or am I brave for listening to my inner callings? Really, who is to say. I don’t know.

No doubt, the life I currently lead is full of independence and flexibility. The world is my oyster. (Is there such a thing as too many choices?) In any case, I do feel truly blessed to be really living life, and I get to see, do, eat, hear and experience really cool things on a regular basis. I am cognizant of this. I know that many would kill for my freedom. I love that, if I feel like it, I can stay out at an amazing concert or a quirky play or a rousing dinner party until the wee hours on a Saturday, and then the next morning, I can simply wander—from farmers market to café to canal—running into friends along the way, flowing with the uncharted rhythm of the day.

Photo by Corinne Whiting

But life is ironic. And that pesky grass over there (of my neighbor or my friend or my social media acquaintance) can sometimes look more verdant. Do I also sometimes wish I had more responsibility and more accountability? Do I sometimes envy those with a steady job, a grown-up house, a someone (or someones) waiting for them at home with whom to swap petty tales at the end of each day? Of course I do. It is easy to focus on the lacks. But I’ve learned–or I’m gradually learning—it is crucial (and worlds more helpful) to stay grounded in the already-haves. To notice the riches and abundance that’s already there. That is my daily goal.

Some days, it is raining (again), and I’m alone in a café (again), feeling a million miles from my parents and others loved ones back east. I spend hours nudging editors who sneakily skirt my pitches, trying to validate myself for the umpteenth time as a writer—and a human. One day I feel so on the cusp of finally, truly “making it” and “having it all figured out,” the next, the kinks and roadblocks arrive, as the Universe chuckles at me for having felt so sure.

And yet, there are evenings when I find myself sitting on the silky sand of a moon-tinged beach, 3,000 miles from where I was born, and my senses almost cannot process the magic of it all—the flickering of bonfire flames, the hushed lapping of waves, the silhouette of distant peaks, the hypnotic riffs of the acoustic guitar. In these moments, I exhale with ease, and it all makes sense. The millions of questions—that monkey mind chatter—fades away, and I am exactly where I need to be. I darn well may not understand how I came to land here, or where I’ll venture next. But in the depth of my being, for an instant anyway, I know this much: to trust the “beautiful, messy” journey along the way.

{Photos above + below by Corinne Whiting}

“I can tell you that what you’re looking for is already inside you.”
~Anne Lamott

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*This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, click here. And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, click here.