I was 24 when I moved back from San Francisco.
Two years out of college, fresh off a breakup from my first “grown-up” relationship — I was living at home again, “working for myself” (I was unemployed), and distracting myself with the attention of unavailable men and too-available drinks.
It was a lot. So I signed up for a writing class.
I just wanted to do something creative; to tap back into this form of self-expression I’d loved so much as a kid. I wanted something to do besides feel all the time — and, if I’m honest, I think I hoped to channel my heartbreak and embarrassment and resentment and confusion into something other than the pummeling torrent of my own painful thoughts.
The joke was on me though because I found out pretty quickly all that pain was just looking for a place to go; just waiting to be expressed so that it could pass.
Writing was my way through.
I first wrote a story about my most recent ex, then a story about my hookup with a handsome man down in San Diego who wasn’t interested in much more. There was more to come from me though — eventually, I wrote about my high school boyfriend and my college boyfriend and seeing my dad’s face for the first time when I found him on Facebook.
(Yes, I wrote/write a lot about the men who, for better or for worse, shaped my earliest self-concept.)
Some of these stories I shared with others, some were simply for me to see; to finally “say” out loud. When I wrote, I found there was so much more that I was able to sit with; I had so much more clarity when everything was clear on the page than when I’d try to parse what I was experiencing through the nebulous recesses of my own mind.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was writing my way through — through that in-between moment in my life. I was learning to understand myself more deeply by paying attention to my personal experiences and seeing the narrative through-line of my stories.
I was putting words to what I was feeling, and by doing so, I was figuring out what I needed to do next.
I read a post on Instagram recently that likened having your own business to being the biggest catalyst of your personal growth.
I remember hearing something like that during my first foray into working for myself too, and not really understanding it at the time. Perhaps because the transformation I was going through then felt so specific to my personal life, perhaps because I was barely doing anything then to keep my “business” afloat — I wasn’t able to make the connection between the work I did for myself and the work I did on myself at that time.
But it’s so much clearer this time around.
Recently, I’ve felt scared. I’ve felt embarrassed. I’ve felt like my life and work should look different than the way they do at nearly 37 years old.
For the first time in a long time — perhaps ever? — I feel like I’ve finally hit on the service I can offer that represents me and how I’m here to help other people. And that’s been unexpectedly confronting. Vulnerable. Scary.
Because what if it doesn’t work? What if people don’t want it? What if I’m not actually helping? What if I go all in on the thing I believe I’m here to do and it fails? What if I’ve finally gotten here, it doesn’t work, and I’ve got to start all over again?
I’m feeling all of this, I think, because I find myself in a place of transition once again.
Creating and offering this new program — what feels like an amalgamation of my life’s work, personally and professionally — is new, it’s terrifying, it’s pushing me to my edges. And so, of course, it’s requiring me to come back to myself — and to the page — every single day.
We teach what we need to learn.
Writing has always been the thing that’s gotten me through — through rocky relationships and breakups, through losing jobs and losing people, through moving away from home (and back and away again) and through these early days of entrepreneurship.
Through every single transition of my life (and the many moments in between), writing has been the tool that helped me understand myself better; that helped me walk my path to the other side.
And so, of course, as I’m in the in-between process of introducing this work to the world — as I’m in the transition of moving away from working for other people, of following other people’s models of success, of hiding who I am and what I have to offer, of actually showing up and selling it — of course I’m being called back to it.
Of course I’m being asked to practice what I preach; not to figure it out by going over and over it in my mind, not to worry about a social media strategy that will get this service in front of all the “right” people, not to have it validated by someone further along than me . . . but to guide others by guiding myself first; put simply, to again write my way through.
Last Thursday, a fellow writer tagged me in a lovely post listing her favorite newsletters, and I went down the rabbit hole of her recommendations — indulging in my fill of other people’s essays of their experiences.
It reminded me so much of why I started writing this newsletter, of why I start writing anything about my life ever — because by seeing my own experiences (and others’) on the page, I’m better able to understand where I am and where I go from here.
I’ve turned to writing so many times to orient myself and figure out my next steps; to understand what I’m going through, remember what I’ve been through, and figure out my next move from there.
And it’s in that remembering — of why I write, of what it’s gotten me through — that I’m reminded I can get through anything.
I know there are some in my life who feel that I “overthink” it. I used to believe them. I used to feel embarrassed that I was so “sensitive” and felt the need to pick apart every part of my life; to write down what was happening and keep asking “why” until I understood what it was all for.
But that is exactly why I write — to get the swirl of thoughts and feelings (and other people’s opinions) out of my head, out of my body, and on to the page; to walk myself through to the other side of whatever it is that I’m stuck in. Wherever it is that I feel lost.
That’s why I pick up my journal when I’m overwhelmed.
That’s why I wrote 100 mini essays about my everyday life.
That’s why I write this newsletter and send it out every Sunday.
I do it to make sense and make meaning of the experiences of my life, in connection and in community with everyone who’s trying to make sense of it all too.
And here’s what I think now: all of us, all the time, are “overthinking”. Whether consciously or not, we’re always turning over the events of our lives — the things that we’ve done (or haven’t) and the things that have happened to us — and we’re wondering “why?”, “what is it all for?”, “where do I go from here?”
For me — and, I suspect, for you too — writing it all down is how I start to find those answers.
When I thought recently about what I had to offer — about all that I’ve learned and all that has helped me and all that I continue to use to bring me clarity and build connection and give me space to creatively self-express — I knew I wanted to show other people how to write their way through those in-between moments too; to show them that the way forward is often just by writing their way back to themselves.
That’s why I created Writing Your Way Through. You don’t have to want to write a newsletter (though you could), you might never publish a personal essay (or you might!) — really, what I’m guiding you through is writing to understand who you are, where you are, and where you’re going from here. It’s to give you the practices I’ve personally used to gain clarity and understanding and empathy for my own experiences through creative expression.
If that’s where you find yourself, I’d love to show you how to find your way through too. The program starts in just a little over a week, and I’d love to have you join us.
With you, Jenna... Writing has done the same for me as has done for you. Hasn't always been consistent, but man if it doesn't help in getting all those feelings and thoughts out to make sense of them. As always, love reading your words and stories. <3