I’m in Love For the First Time
Jim James is a unicorn werewolf of a human being. With a voice evoking the spirits of the universe, a wild mane of curls, and the genius to write songs like “Steam Engine,” the frontman and primary songwriter for My Morning Jacket has long been one of my favorite musicians. While my fine hair couldn’t hold a curl, no matter the amount of product used, and my prose reads less lyrical than his, we do have a few things in common too. He’s transparent about his lifelong mental health struggles and has stated several times he’s still working through some deep rooted issues from being “ruthlessly bullied” in school.
The latter is something I frequently discuss in my own therapy sessions. “Amy, why am I still so fucked up over these things that happened to me when I was a teenager?” I plead with her to cure me. I’m embarrassed of how hung up I am over words and actions from thirty years ago. Amy always assures me. Jim does too. If a person as beautiful and evolved as he is has similar traumas, I can’t be that inferior, can I? And I can’t deny how powerful these events were. I have chronically low self esteem for many reasons, but the bullying is a primary one.
I imagine everyone is bullied to some degree, even the most attractive, most popular kids (It has to happen, right? I mean, Jim James, JIM JAMES, was relentlessly bullied.) But I’ve had some remarkably shitty things done to me. 10th grade, the year of the cafeteria ambush and ass slapping, the year I would lock myself in the bathroom—my house’s only one—every day after school and cry, the year of my double knee reconstruction, had to have been the worst. I shared homeroom with my primary tormentor. Not a morning passed without me sitting, clenched in my seat, body tight as if to shield me from his words, waiting for what he would say.
“I’ve never met an uglier person.”
“Your nose is so big. Only your ass is even bigger.”
“You’re disgusting.”
You may have read these things before. It comes up in several of my stories. What can I say? The scars on my hips and knees have faded through the decades, but wow, can these memories still sting. Like I ask Amy, why can’t I let them go?
My mother offered me a reprieve from his assault with the gift of a parent sanctioned school skipping in early December during that horrible sophomore year. She, along with my aunt and grandmother, took me and my cousin on a midweek bus trip to New York City to see the Rocketts Radio City Christmas Spectacular. My mother promised me a little extra too, for the show happened to fall on December 8th.
If I don’t count Paula Abdul (though I don’t know why I wouldn’t), The Beatles were my first music obsession. Growing up in a classic rock loving household, I was always captivated by the picture of the man with long hair and glasses (always had a type) on one of my parents’ albums, but it wasn’t until 1995, with the release of The Beatles Anthology, that my ears finally turned on to their music. I was 13, so my obsession blossomed into a fanaticism appropriate for a young teen. I devoured book after book on the Fab Four, covered my room with posters of the band throughout their years, and proudly wore shirts adorned with their images. I would fall asleep with a different Beatles album playing on my Walkman, fantasizing (always prone to the make believe too) that I had time traveled to the 1960s and I was John’s girlfriend.
So having the our girls’ trip coincidentally fall on December 8th was a big fucking deal to me. Mom and I split up from our family and headed to Central Park, to John’s memorial. Strawberry Fields on the 17th anniversary of his death was packed with fans paying tribute, singing songs, laying flowers on the Imagine plaque. I had nothing to offer, but I kneeled among the crowd and, with the rituals of my Catholic upbringing then still a part of my life, blessed myself and said a silent prayer. Here, among these strangers, I felt unabashed in showing what John and his music meant to me. Dare I say, I felt like I belonged. As I type this, I realize this may have been my introduction to what a music community can do.
Returning to school the next morning, to my daily homeroom harassment, my memory from the day before, of that brief but wonderful visit to Strawberry Fields, deflected the worst of his words. Unfortunately, those recollections of being surrounded by a community of people as moved by the music as I was, acted as the most fleeting of shields. My muscles clenching, my shame, my confidence’s insidious murder, reappeared the next day.
When I first became obsessed with The Beatles, I would hang out in the corner of the living room, next to the cabinet that held my parents’ albums and sort through the records, admiring the cover art. The brightly colored Some Girls, boldly adorned with headshots of wig wearing and lipsticked Rolling Stones. The illustrated band members of the Talking Heads hiding behind mounds and churches and holding up the world on the front of Little Creatures. The black and white simplicity of Double Fantasy, John and Yokoi sharing a closed mouth smooch. My eyes always lingered on this one, on the photo of the middle aged man taken just weeks before he was shot. At least he lived to be 40. I would think. He lived a long life.
I’ve traveled to New York dozens of times since that Strawberry Fields visit in 1997, but I haven’t been back to the Imagine plaque until this past weekend, three days shy of my 43rd birthday. Though my obsession for the Beatles (who I will always regard as my favorite) has long subsided, I thought about John on my 40th birthday. How I had reached the age he had died at. How I used to think of 40 as old. Present day 2025, and I’m three years over that hill.
Peter Pan syndrome for life, turning middle age has thrown me for a loop. I am struggling with aging. My knees that require cortisone shots every three months so I can continue to hike and dance and walk my dog. The wrinkles on my forehead and neck (WTF!). My loved ones dealing with illness. Dying. All these things suck, though, as my mother always reminds me, it is better than the alternative. And it does come with a plethora of positives, my favorite being the reflective wisdom that accompanies getting older. We evolve, not physically of course, but in how we view the world, other people, and ourselves. Troubled, flawed, and tragic genius that John was, I’d like to think how much he would have evolved, only he never got the chance.
Fortunately, for now, I get to.
I had a profound awakening just a few months ago. My Morning Jacket had just released Is and the band was in heavy promotion of their new album. Out for a long walk with Huey, I entertained myself by listening to a podcast Jim James had recently guested on. Impossible to discuss his music and lyrics without their connections to his mental health, James told the host that he, at the age of 46, finally and fully loves himself. His simple words stopped me in my tracks. I think poor Huey felt the recoil on his leash.
I had disliked myself, or at least parts of myself, for so long (since I was a teenager), that I never really considered what it would feel like to love myself. Even with my years of therapy, there was always something I desperately wanted to change. The size of my ass (of course). And my thighs. My clothes (way too bright and bold for the popular “preppie” style of my high school). I’d been called annoying by several peers. A crybaby. Too happy go lucky. Loud, outspoken, and impulsive, I tried to tame myself. Be a little more demure. Only speak when spoken to. This never worked, obviously. It’s not who I am.
Thankfully, as I’ve gotten older, lived in various places, and have met and befriended people from diverse cultures, my self image has matured. My body? I’m short and muscular. I can dance at a Phish show for hours, my thunder thighs get me up and down mountains, and I’m a natural when it comes to surfing (which I hope to pick up once I live on the beach). As for my nose, would I even be me without this gorgeous aquiline profile. I never want to change it.
I’m not annoying. I’m a firecracker: fierce, independent, and passionate. And being a crybaby should be a compliment. I have a lot of big emotions, love deeply, and am highly empathetic. Isn’t that sign of a high EQ? Too happy go lucky? No, I try to be as positive as possible, believing that such an attitude helps me derive the most joy I can out of this brief life. And those that bullied me? It’s pretty obvious to me now that we have completely different values (yeah, I see your social media posts).
In recent years (and this gets little off topic but stays on theme and would be remissive of me not to mention it) much of my self loathing is rooted in the shame for my own actions. You may have read Second Set Chances. I am definitely not proud of my conduct, both past, present, and future of what’s in those pages. Why did I say those awful things? Behave despicably? But we’re human. We all do shitty things, and are are constant works in progress; it’s what we learn from our actions and how we change as a result of them that matters most. I’d like to think my bullies, even that homeroom asshole, no longer get their kicks from tearing others down. Maybe, they even have remorse for their teenage antics.
So, as Jim James declared his love for himself, I, processing his words, had the same revelation wash through me. I finally, with no exception, love myself for all that I am and have been. This is such a new feeling that I don’t have the words to describe it yet, lengthy processor that I am. The day after my Strawberry Fields stopover, I seized the opportunity to write a letter to my younger self while in Washington Square Park. Without hesitation, I grabbed the clipboard from the display, sat on a nearby bench, and…nothing but a blank space where my mind should have been. I knew exactly what I wanted to say, but couldn’t execute my articulation. I wrote words; I can’t say it was the version I’d submit to an editor. Maybe it’s because I fucked up and addressed it to sixteen-year-old Rachael instead of my fifteen-year-old version, though I don’t think either would recognize herself and how far she has come. I wonder if Jim shares these sentiments regarding a young James Olliges?
And there lies the beauty in aging.
I Like to Be Here When I Can
I adore Denver. Its access to seemingly endless choices for outdoor adventure, the amount of “hippie approved” bands that make sure to play here, the 300+ days of annual sunshine. What’s not to love, especially in comparison to the other addresses that have graced my driver’s license.
Before moving to Colorado, I uprooted my life about every two years in an attempt to find home for the adult version of me, bouncing between my hometown in Northeast PA and Seoul, South Korea for six years and experimenting with a brief sojourn in Las Vegas. In each place, something just wasn’t working. At least not enough for me to be satisfied with sticking around permanently.
If you’ve read Second Set Chances (and if you haven’t, what are you waiting for (I kid)), you know that, to me, “home” is more “I’m surrounded by my loved ones and absolutely and unconditionally love myself (FINALLY),” than “look at this big, gorgeous house I live in.” Ten years of living in Colorado, there’s no doubt I’ve found that here. I have the most beautiful community of friends, met and cultivated through mutual appreciations of music or animals or the outdoors or food or…you get the picture. I doubt I’ll ever have a community as connected as my Denver phamily.
And yet, despite all of this, by summer’s end, we’ll be bidding Colorado farewell. Mesh, Huey Lewis, and I are moving to Abu Dhabi.
But why would we leave home?
Like so much of life, our reason is layered. The biggest one, for me, is middle age complacency. Teaching hasn’t ignited much passion for me in recent years and my almost six year pursuit in becoming a published author has been achieved (YAY goals!). My goalposts have shifted; I want to keep evolving. So, what’s next? My plan is to keep writing and hopefully, publishing more books, this time with an agent and a big 5 publishing contract. But, I’d love to pursue this within the pressure of a new challenge. Gotta love the growth that happens within some discomfort.
Post-college, Mesh also moved repeatedly, though his frequent shuffling is work related. Being anchored in one place for a decade (!) has both of us itchy for a new adventure. And with his career in oil and gas, the chance of a Texas or Oklahoma relocation has served as an annual threat. When I moved cross country in 2013, the desolate flat lands of Oklahoma filled me with a depressing foreboding. No thank you! And neither of us are strangers to expat life, so when the Abu Dhabi opportunity presented itself, there was no need for a lengthy discussion. Mesh seized it!
The constant contradiction in the human condition, I am simultaneously stoked and devastated for this move. Obsessed with Indiana Jones as a young child, I always wanted a life filled with excitement and adventure. Combine that with my lifelong bookworm ways, reading about far away lands (I laugh as I think of how exotic California seemed when I read The Babysitters Club) and unfamiliar cultures, and my love and admiration for Anthony Bourdain, opened me up all the possibilities that come with travel. I want to go to all the places and see all the things. Moving to Abu Dhabi is the next fitting piece in my puzzle. But oh, the big feelings that come with leaving my current life behind. While the Emirates is one of the most progressive Muslim countries, I am a loud and strong independent woman, unabashedly pleased with my decision to remain child free. The patriarchal culture of South Korea drove me crazy. How will I manage it in Abu Dhabi? And I love being outside. Will I adapt to 120 degree days? Feel okay with being trapped inside during Middle East summers? To be without my Denver and Phish phamily, and the flight time to see my family just quadrupled. The intense loneliness I experienced while living in Las Vegas worries me that I’ll struggle in Abu Dhabi, but I’m assured by the recent leaning in to my introverted side AND the absolute fact that my situation is completely different.
So yeah, I am a giant mixed bag of emotions, which I think can never be mutually exclusive.
Because I’m a writer, I plan on capturing all the tangibles and intangibles in settling across the world. It would be foolish not to. Follow my blog and social media (Facebook, Instagram, and now, Tik Tok) and stay tuned for what’s sure to be a roller coaster of events and emotions. There’s plenty of short stories to come from this and perhaps, even though I said I’m through writing full length nonfiction, another memoir. However, don’t hold me to that. I’m enjoying the process of writing my first full length fiction manuscript and hopefully, with me writing full time in Abu Dhabi, that will be coming your way a lot sooner than it took to get Second Set Chances out there.
I Can Silver Line a Turd
I am a person who struggles with body fluids. It’s a good thing I’m neither a mother or a medical professional. If I had to choose one to deal with, I guess I would have to pick vomit. Excessive amounts of blood make me lightheaded, and snot—running down a nose or caked to the face, in any of its forms, it doesn’t matter—forces me to avert my gaze. But poop. Poop is the absolute worst.
It smells. The consistency, while varied, is more unpleasant than pumpkin guts, which I also shudder at. And its implications are something I’ve found, at times, to be embarrassing.
Several years ago, I went downstairs to pop a load of laundry in the washer before heading to work and discovered Reba had ventured here in the night and shat everywhere. The concrete floor was smothered in doggie diarrhea. Knowing what a struggle it would be to clean it up, I covered the lower half my face within my shirt. A pathetically futile move, the instant my hand encased in a thin poop bag touched the ice cold soft serve turd, I vomited. Inside my shirt. Bright side: you already know this is a body fluid I could manage.
I flung the soiled shirt directly into a pile of dirty clothes and ran upstairs, laving my arsenal of cleaning supplies behind. Already running late for work, I texted Mesh. “Reba shit all over the laundry room floor and I threw up trying to clean it up. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to be the one to clean it up when you get home later.”
“Know your strengths” is one of my many mottos. I should have just left it for Mesh without trying.
If you are familiar with me in any capacity, you may remember that we lost our beloved Reba in August 2023, but joyfully welcomed Huey Lewis into our little family the following January. Because Labradors are the white men of dog medicine it’s known that delaying his neutering would best mitigate the chance of future cancers and arthritis. So, this past Friday, at 18 months, Huey finally lost his balls. With Mesh working in Abu Dhabi the past two weeks, I, the anxious one, am left in charge of his care and recovery.
But I am okay. More importantly, Huey is. He’s acting himself, just a little sluggish due to the many sedatives necessary to temporarily tame his wild nature. We did hit a rough patch Saturday night. As the evening turned to night, Huey took to pacing and panting. Hours of it. And as the witching hour approached, a third “P” was added. Pooping. Massive amounts, and not in an easy-to-clean place like a concrete basement floor.
My poor buddy, encased in the double shame of both the cone and his couldn’t-be-avoided Moroccan rug squatting, cowered nearby while I, exhausted, still awake at 2:30 in the morning, tried to stoke myself up for the cleaning.
I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.
No Mesh to come to the rescue, there was no think. I had to do.
Supplied with poop bags, a roll of PT, rags, a bucket of bubbles, and a scrub brush, I attacked the mess. Without vomiting, no gagging, not even once, I cleaned all the poop. I credit my success to one thing. The poop was fresh. Warm. Albeit terribly pungent, in the case of fecal matter, my sense of touch proves most sensitive. This explains my absolute revulsion to the cold “cha cha cha” in the laundry room.
Hey, it’s all about the little things. I do hate, no I LOATHE, toxic positivity, BUT if I can silver line a negative, I do. And on Sunday morning, my gratitude was found in a pile of steaming shit. When did you last find yours in the unexpected?
Crying to Launch
Throughout my Second Set Chances writing ventures, authors with far more publishing experience “warned” me how emotional a first book launch is. “Wait until you hold your book in your hands for the first time.” “Wait until you get asked to sign it.” “Wait until you give your first reading.” I noted each one and tucked them away in my brain to revisit later (if and when I would be published).
The problem is, publishing Second Set Chances, a contemporary women’s (non)fiction book (okay, it’s a memoir) about life transitions, love triangles, and Phish was a beast of a feat. It took me almost six years to write, edit, rewrite, edit, query, rewrite, edit, be offered a book deal with Vine Leaves Press, edit, edit, and edit, meaning I completely forgot about what I’d been told to expect when birthing my book baby.
With less than three months from book launch and the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, I’ve stepped into heavy marketing and promotion. If you follow me on social media, you may be absolutely sick of hearing about Second Set Chances. Or maybe not, because the response from family, friends, acquaintances, and strangers has completely knocked me out of my boogie shoes. I’ve received hundreds of well wishes and congratulations in person, via text message, and on social media. Many of my social media posts related to Second Set Chances or other writing projects have been reshared on Facebook and Instagram. All this support has caused my heart to soar in love and gratitude.
But I’ve also been crying too. I can’t help it. When two fellow writers/Phish fans shared writing posts of mine on Facebook Phish groups, I was so overcome with gratitude, bowled over in their support and thoughtfulness, that the tears were immediate and involuntary, as tears are known to be. I now have to brace myself when logging onto Good Reads; last week I discovered someone had given Second Set Chances a 4.5 (out of 5) star review. The reader, a woman located in India, a complete stranger to me, wrote a lengthy review and called it “unputdownable.” I sobbed.
So, as you have probably surmised, I am emotionally underprepared for any of it.
I had therapy yesterday. Though there were so many things my brain needed to unpack, this was what I brought up first. I presented Amy (not her real name) with an ARC of Second Set Chances as I walked in, so it made for the most organic of segues. “Here’s my book. Everything makes me cry. How can I better prepare myself for my upcoming launch.”
She smiled at me, her eyes lighting up as she asked. “Well, what kind if tears are they.”
“Oh, happy tears, no doubt.”
“Of course they are. You’ve accomplished something major. Something you’ve been working on for a long time. You’re going to have happy tears. That’s just your limbic system doing its job.
“But how do I control it.”
“Why would you want to control it. Celebrate. Feel good. Cry.”
For most of my life, I’d been embarrassed of how emotionally sensitive I am, but through Amy’s help, it’s something I can now proudly admit. She’s right about this too (of course she is). I need to feel my feelings. Allow them to wash over me and let them loose. I have accomplished a lifelong dream; there should be plenty of happy tears through all phases of this book launch. So, no more hiding them. Instead, I shall revel. And make sure I carry tissues on me at all times.
I’ll Take That Gift of Time!
Second Set Chances has officially entered its production stage. On Tuesday, June 18, I woke up and immediately checked my email. (This phone reaching in the AM is such a bad habit, I know, but the blue light wakes me up, I swear!) There it was, an email from my publishing director sent to me and my development editor, right on time according to my production schedule.
I’d been anticipating this step since I signed with Vine Leaves Press almost a year ago, the first in a long checklist of things to complete before Second Set Chance’s pub date in April. I’ve been worried (about everything my entire life) about balancing my teaching job with my writing job, especially since the latter now comes with deadlines, but was relieved to learn edits would begin during my summer break. I figured if I wrote full time during my teacher’s summer, I could begin the new school year with most of them complete. That goal eased my stress.
And then I read the email. The exciting, long anticipated email that moved the surreal into the real.
For months, I’ve been planning for my editor’s feedback, comments, and suggestions on June 18th, thinking I’d be able to get to rewriting right away. I thought wrong. The initial email merely connected all of us, and I was directed to send my manuscript to the editor so she could read it and work her feedback magic. Her follow up directed me to enjoy the easiest part of the process (for me) while she read through the manuscript, and to expect her feedback in about a month. My “real” work, it seems, will begin just as I’m reporting back at work.
WHOMP WHOMP.
I’ve never published a book before and should have zero expectations, as I was reminded by my husband when STRESSING to him, but an anxiety sufferer can’t help but have some façade of control in a plan. Unfortunately, my plan wasn’t going to be, and I had zero control over it.
But while I’ve been failing my therapist’s instructions to avoid morning phone media, I have been making gains in dealing with my anxiety. So, after a day of worrying about the real editing timeline, I started to silverline it. I love my summer vacation; it is a tease at what retirement will be. I mooch on the front porch in the morning with my coffee and a book. Hike. Paddleboard. Concerts at Red Rocks. Visit my family in PA. Travel. And write. Had my publishing expectations lived up to reality, I would have had little time to do all the things I love best, save for the writing.
But I’ve been given the gift of time to relish in all of it, everything (!), without the constant worry or guilt that I shouldn’t be doing anything but working on Second Set Chances edits. And though I’ve been writing a lot these last few weeks, it’s all on my own timeline and on projects I feel like working on, not those I have to be. Between all the words is plenty of outdoor adventure, music, and family time. The feedback is coming soon, and I guarantee the stress will be high, but until then, I am going to enjoy myself.
How about you? What is an unexpected but welcome gift you recently received?
Chalkboard Torture
I am intentional. I am consciously creating a life I love.
This is what my affirmation card read at yoga class on Sunday. My hand hovered over the circle of shiny gold cards spread facedown before I plucked this one. I placed it at the front of my mat, dedicating my yoga practice to these words. Oh, how they resonated with me, their timeliness and truth.
I recently returned from a trip to Miami, a Wesley reunion of sorts, to meet my niece. My brother couldn’t wait to be a father. He and my sister-in-law are so stoked. My parents, too. I’m thrilled for them all, especially Mom and Dad, first-time grandparents.
The new parents are also about to close on a house, their second one. They recently relocated to South Florida from Los Angeles and were bummed to leave their renovated bungalow. My brother loves being a homeowner. Putzing around in the yard, Painting. Shopping for décor.
We have two completely different versions of our American dream, I said to the two of them as I cradled their newborn. My brother rolled his eyes. He doesn’t get why I am chosen child-free. Why I complain about being a homeowner. (If not for my logical husband, I’d still be throwing money away on rent for the additional freedom it provides.)
But I do love my life. I’m obsessed with it (when my shitty mental health isn’t raging a wildfire in my headspace), this American Dream of mine that skews from a traditional one and includes dogs over children, travel and concerts instead of home renovations, and a career fit for a bookworm.
Since returning from Miami, I’ve been thinking a lot about the choices I’ve made in life. Some easy, some devastating, and some life-altering mistakes, but each intentional, either to get me on my chosen path or keep me there. And I can’t help but think how fortunate I am to have this option. I didn’t have kids on account of societal norms or enter a profession due to family pressure (100% not the case). But I have friends with different experiences. I don’t think I want kids, but my mom will be disappointed if I don’t.
To quote my favorite band, from one of my not favorite songs, “You got one life, blaze on.” (#IYKYK). Live the life you want, whether that includes six kids or six dogs. Stay in your hometown or live in a van cruising across The Americas. Wear tie-dye or collared Lacoste. Architect your design so that when you pick that affirmation in yoga class, your body buzzes with joy in that affirmation.
I pulled this card when I desperately needed it, (as always, thank you for the timing, Universe) with my self-esteem in the gutter for months. It’s a mantra to be repeated, a recess penance of writing this one hundred times on the chalkboard as a reminder to have gratitude for this.
I am intentional. I am consciously creating a life I love.
Time Travel in the Modern World
For the past few months, I’ve been a metaphysical time traveler, walking around in my middle-aged body with the confidence of my teenage self (with wrinkles AND pimples (WHY AM I STILL BREAKING OUT?)). I’m Stewart Smiley in reverse, feeling as if I’m not enough of any of the things. The only reason I’m not locking myself in the bathroom to cry it out at 3 PM every day is because of experience, maturity, and therapy (years of therapy).
This mighty trifecta has gifted me with a myriad of coping strategies, but even with walks and sunshine, daily exercise, journaling, conversations with loved ones, and an antidepressant, I still feel as if I’m just coasting through life in a torrent of mediocrity. I have enough wisdom now to identify and unpack why my brain has tricked me into believing nothing is coming up Rachael (total lies) and one major contributing factor is social media.
I’m a writer, and my debut memoir, Second Set Chances, releases through Vine Leaves Press next April. (My lifelong dream of becoming a published writer is happening, and yet I’m still riddled with these craters of (faux?) inferiority. Something needs to change.) I’m trying to build my audience and gain readers in anticipation of my pub date, which means amassing a social media empire and getting a few of my short stories published in some big-name magazines and journals. The problem is, I’m baby stepping, no, snail sliding my way to both.
Gaining followers is absolutely soul-sucking. I’ll enjoy the quick dopamine bursts of a like or comment on what I think is an engaging post, but then, when it doesn’t receive as much attention as I anticipated, I doom scroll, obsessing over similar accounts that garner more interest than mine. My story submissions are receiving rejections like a cornered boxer getting punches to the face; I frantically read other writers’ published works (posted on social media), studying their words and trying to figure out what my stories are missing. Both are pummeling my ego. I can’t help but compare myself to others, to the artists with thousands of loyal fans and the writers with the fancy bylines, and it’s thieving me of my own accomplishments and bleeding into all areas of my life.
I’ve decided to add another strategy to my arsenal of “feel good” moves, something I’ve never ever done before: a social media vacation. I’ve tried to set limits on my Facebook and Instagram usage in the past, but my compulsive fingers couldn’t stop reaching for the screen. I’ve learned from that. Out of sight, out of mind, I’ve deleted the apps from my phone. Six days later, I’m holding strong and wondering how long I’ll keep this strike going for. While I don’t have an answer yet, I can guarantee that I’m back on the Gram if you're reading this. How else would you have heard about my website if I didn’t post it on social media?
So, how does one find a balance in a world with such omnipresence? I can’t be a writer and expect to sell books or have people read my stories without it, but utilizing social media crushes my self-esteem. If anyone has found the answer to this modern-day riddle, I’m here for it, all ears and listening.
Update: Monday, May 20: Ok, I’ve peeked on Facebook a tiny bit, but only to see if Renewal, Billy Strings’ annual festival in Buena Vista, CO, has been announced yet. It hasn’t, and, once on FB, I commenced scrolling for about 5 minutes, 3 separate times. High on my priority list for my therapy session tomorrow is to come up with a boundaries plan for social media.
Update: Friday May 24: With a plan in place, I am going to make my way back to social media. I requested book recommendations in a Facebook group and am honored my boundaries since posting that. I am going to monitor my usage and head space for the next few days, and then hopefully, more of you are reading this, as this means I started spreading the word about my website on all the groups. :) If so, thanks for your support and thanks for reading.