Risking a breakthrough

Hi friends,

I’m coming at you live this evening…

It’s been a minute since I’ve sat here to write you, so hello. How are you? Really, how are you?

I just finished a meditation that invited me to take a risk. I’m not a risk-taker by nature, but I’m doing a breakthrough course, and breakthrough pretty much always requires some risk-taking. When I saw that was today’s task, pre-meditation, I put it off. But then I read a friend’s substack about her author-anniversary, and my soul stirred–ah, that’s it. That’s the risk: Write.

You might be thinking–wait, Katie, you’re a writer, how’s that a risk for you?

Well, there’s a couple of reasons I can think of:

1. It takes vulnerability. I am a vulnerable person by nature, but somewhere along the way the past couple of years, vulnerability has begun to feel unsafe. And so, by extension, writing has become like a ship stuck in harbor, and fear is building up like barnacles all over it. Perhaps because working on my book is a very vulnerable experience, then spilling more words and stories out into the world becomes harder.
2. It takes time and energy. I do not have a lot of that to spare. I’m struggling with feeling like I live at my desk these days, all day, except Wednesday afternoons, when I can go work on my book in my favorite chair. Some days, my stomach decides I can’t handle eating (today is one of those), and so I lose steam more easily. Ginger ale can only take you so far, unfortunately! So leaning into opening Mailchimp is difficult. It feels risky. How much energy will doing this cost me later this evening? Who’s to say.
3. It takes the opposite of brain fog. What do we call that? Lucidity? This is really where I feel most inept. I can’t remember words, or events, or dates, let alone recall entire stories that I want to tell. Or read books I want to read. Again, as other chronic illness creators say, this is a risk of spoons–the currency of chronic illness. If I use several spoons to write, does that cut into the spoons I have to do client work so that I can earn money to help pay the bills?!

Today, after the meditation, I furiously scribbled down a list of “summer anniversaries,” stories I’d love to tell this summer. Perhaps over on Substack, if you’ll join me?

You might be wondering–why the risk? What’s the breakthrough the risk is taking a step towards?

Well, it’s me. My self is the breakthrough. I want to be more like myself. And, as I wrote today, writing is a part of my DNA. It’s a vital part to who I am.

It’s also vital for feeling connected–to God, to myself, to others. I write to connect. I tell stories to (hopefully) reach across the internet, into your favorite chair, and find connection with you. To help both of us feel less alone.

So, perhaps this breakthrough is also for you, if you’ll allow me to connect those dots? One of the anniversaries on my list is when an email + blog post about the SBC became a support group for a few weeks in the Summer of 2022. That is peak ME energy, to be honest with you. I felt so like myself when that happened, when writing intersected with connection. I’ve also had that happen on Instagram, back when I posted regularly and had the #deconstructingfaith hashtag on everything.

I feel like a shadow of the person who led that group, who posted twice a week, who started writing her book in the middle of all that. My body is absolutely not the same body (another anniversary coming up this summer).

But at the same time: I am still her. The core of me, how I connect and love and write, is untouched by all the anniversaries and trauma and diagnoses. So I’m on a journey to find her again. And to write the stories she’s ready to tell. And to connect with each of you as I do.

So. Let’s breakthrough?!