I have reached this interesting place where I’m not willing to share all of myself. That may be because I am working on things that can get ugly, or I’m simply changing.

Whatever the reason, more of my writing ends up in a notebook or a journal these days than online. It’s not that what I’m writing in ink is all that scandalous or unsharable. It’s that I don’t want to share. I would rather tuck my words away for me and any future iterations.

Strange, right? After all this time.

For most of my life, I’ve wanted to share every word. Every thought was explorable. I remember finishing blog posts and posting with urgency in the middle of the night to have things out there.

All my words went to the laundry room or became fodder for some fictional character conversation.

I’ve never kept a journal. I never thought I had a need, but lately, I have a lot to say to myself. There are things I want to remember just as they are now in my life and not through some future me’s memory.

So, after many years of writing as expression, connection, and sometimes to entertain, I am writing for me.

Don’t get me wrong. There are still loads of laundry to be done. My blog and I are going nowhere, but how fun to realize I have so much to offer myself.

My thoughts from the laundry room. Tucked In.

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