Let’s pretend this is how the Blogging always begins.

I have this notion of what a blogger looks like.  Basically, they look like not me.

They are WRITERS, hello.  Super cool. Insightful.  Witty.  Polished.  When they write, it’s because they want to share themselves, they love to write, they write really well or they try to at least, and they’ve always known that deep down, they are a WRITER.

Checking those qualifications…  Nope, I’m  not so much a writer.  I do love writing, sorta.  Ok, I love to write, but I don’t love giving a shit if it makes sense.  So that’s a problem.  I think that’s fairly important, if you are writing for something like a blog.  I heard that somewhere.

Blogger.  Writer.  Intimidating have their shit together type individuals.

Writers probably sit on the back deck of some sort of house with a cup of coffee, a dog, maybe a cat, a laptop, and a peaceful serene mind all set to write something profound.  Or funny.  Or just, I don’t know, scribble coherent thoughts perhaps?  Maybe they jot shit down, outline.  There may be drafts.  I think they wear comfortable yet put together clothing, and might have a sweater.  They are thinkers, planners, and know it gets chilly on the back deck.

Again, not seeing much writer behavior here.

As we speak I’m on the bathroom floor listening to my dog drinking her 5th bowl of water.  Kid started puking. Now he’s sleeping on the bath mat. Here we are. It’s fine.

I had no intention of starting my first blog post on a bathroom floor.  I mean, I may not have a deck and a sweater, but I was going to attempt to do more of a writer thing.  I tried, serious.  Had a writer snack, my laptop, a pencil.  On point.  Even had a great first blogger type post in the works!  I think it was, it was a “why I’m writing” deal.  It’s downstairs, honestly can’t remember where I was going with it.  Definitely wasn’t going here.

Maybe we will start over tomorrow.

I’m thinking good blog writers shouldn’t  start with a post about not a damn thing.  Proof positive, we shouldn’t really expect much writing, sooooo let’s go ahead and agree this will be a fun place to not really give a shit about format or content.  There are real writers for that.

Afterall, we are pretending that this is how THIS one is supposed to start, it’s up there ^^ in the title.  It’s all good.

Welp.  I just had a moment.

Check it:

Dog ate my potato. That was my writer snack.  A bowl of disappointment doesn’t seem like the best writer’s snack.  

But here I am, no snack.  I feel it’s not easy trying to be a writer with no peaceful back deck and no idea what I am doing.  It’s late.  My phone also died.  Laugh, we really need to. It’s ridiculous.  I really thought this whole post would be gone.  Small miracles, yo,

But I’m back in my writing mode.  Blake is in his bed. It’s some ungodly hour.  

Guess what??  I re-read my supposed to be official first post.  This on the fly one, it’s staying, it makes more sense.  Well no, I bet it’s a mess, it is more “supposed to BE the first post” type makes more sense.  

Go with me.

See, it’s all just supposed to be.  This whole situation is some bang up irony telling me, as imperfect as my style it, it actually might just work.  The blogging.  Writing.  

Guys, it’s sort of perfect.  

I read through my coming out of the gate “I am a blogger” post, it was about why I’m finally writing.  I am finally getting good at being absolutely unapologetically me.

This has taken roughly 44 years, but I feel like I’m enough, and it’s ok to not be perfect before I feel safe taking risks.  Oh I’ve taken risks.  I have always been open, honest, I own my shit.  But feeling safe, to genuinely feel proud of failure or fuck ups, worthy of success or approval, that has been a process. It’s a new thing that I don’t feel bold on the outside but chicken shit on the inside.  I wasn’t afraid to start a blog because of failing me, I was afraid of failing you. High expectations paralyze me.  My greatest fear was ALWAYS disappointing someone who decided to love me.  Know the big concept that changed that?  

Unconditional love.

How do you learn it?  You give it.  You allow people to give it to you.  Over time it gets easier, and suddenly it really takes hold.  I see people who have always known it and people who might never understand it.  Bravery begins when you know no matter what, you are fine just being you.  Your people ain’t going anywhere.  

Not easy for the perpetually unworthy feeling, but the best people to teach it are kids and dogs and lifelong friends.  A stint in rehab and coming home to everyone loving you even more.  Oh, therapy, that helps too.  I’m a lifer in therapy, kids might not have a college education but mom is staying out of the liquor.  

When can you take a risk?  When it matters not one shit.  Guarantee not one person who loves me now will love me one single bit more or less if I’m good at this.  Or suck at this.  I am free to just be average, or better yet, just be me.

The puker and my writer snack eater, they were both major players in me being ready.    If you are reading this, hey hey love, you were too.  Thanks for being a part of the process.

I don’t HAVE to be a good writer to write.  I even said that an hour before the whole bathroom floor scene.  I was ON that floor starting this blog because I finally learned, through being at my very worst and my very best, I don’t have to be anything but who I am and I am enough.  Thursday I decided to start this process, no more dicking around I’m doing it.  Why?

Sounds like no big deal, it all started when I did a 3rd row handstand and damn near took out the second row in a packed studio of people I love.

I fell in that epic way where people feel bad for you.  Caught the eye one of my best friends Jill as I laid on the floor.  Sort of looked nothing.  Not disappointed.  Not embarrassed at my shit show.  She was like, see you are fine.  Fine?  I’m on the floor.  My ass is hanging out.  

Hit me.  She said fine.  Didn’t say get up asshole, stick to the wall next time, you embarrassement.  She probably forgot about it by the end of class.  However, that little moment meant something to me.  

I felt ready to fail right in front of God and all his followers, smack dab in a studio full of people who I really admire.  It was like unintentionally testing being an embarrassment to my people.  On the floor with my legs and arms sprawled, probably with a full on ass cheek hanging out I was failing, loudly out in the open.  I knew I didn’t have a chance, that fall was probably happening and I did it anyway.  Been going for 5 years guys, 5 fucking years.  First not up on a wall chicken shit really scary handstand.  First time I was ready to fall.  Nailed it.

That was growth bitches.  

I’ve been a long time screw up but never felt safe, always felt the need to make my screw ups better, to make someone proud, to wait until I knew I would succeed before I would ever try.  Not sure why my knee jerk was to start feeling inadequate the minute shit went wrong last night.  Glad I have therapy Friday.  Poor Ryan.

Bathroom floor writing. Hell yes writers write in bathrooms on the floor if their kid is sick.  They do now.  Plus, being a good blogger seems exhausting.  I have puking kids and all, I can’t take on polishing every word.  Sort of like that handstand, you might want to expect it will be a little while until it’s easy to look at, and there’s a good chance my ass will be hanging out.  I’ll get the hang of it.

Namaste, it’s fine.  You are fine, I’m fine, and so is my blog.  

To my kids.  My husband.  My sweet dog.  My friends.  You all inspired me to start this blog.  You stuck with me through some major me sucking at life times.  You are still here.  That’s a gift I do not take for granted.  Your unconditional love was being given, but just like that, it all got delivered, I full on got it.  I have it.  

I’m here because you still here are too.  

Love,

Rebecca

The real first post was not meant to be.  It’s fine 😊   I’ll post that bitch next anyway.  I will even edit it, hell yes I will. I’m a writer now, so I guess we will call it a draft.

Sonofabitch, I got this.

❤️