Grandma’s hands,
sweet almond-oiled fingers slender and poised,
extended with rounded ovals dipped in red polish.

A quick snap of the tongue, whether reprimand or compliment.
Yet, her soft buttery tone lingers as it sweeps over my ears like a lullaby.

There our family gathered in royal purple, staged for the queen herself,
staggered in height, in age, in hue. 
Unified in love.

The first staircase portrait of life without her.

My eyes still scan and scour the picture for grandma’s hands.

We always went during carpenter bee season. We would duck and dive through the humming swarms to get to our comfy little spot in the mountains.

On one visit, I rode a branded mustang. Once wild and now the highlight of some little girl’s Spring break. He was the kindest being I’d ever met. I can still smell the warm grass and manure and feel the soft, cool breeze creeping under my sleeves.

But as always, the week would wane, and we’d return home.

Our last Shenandoah vacation ended with my mom sliding off her saddle. Her thighs wrapped around her jumpy horse as she cried out in panic. The pair of them calmed down, and she was able to dismount, but not before developing a new unsettling fear. The fun adventures of a single mother and her daughter soured at a moment’s notice.

Six years later, I watched her return to horseback riding. Trotting on white sands in Mexico, she confronted her fear head-on, and I don’t think I’ve ever given her credit for that.

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We reach these impasses that once felt impossible, and no fireworks go off. Medals are not awarded, and cards are not sent, but little victories compound.

Growth is boring and mundane. There is a joy beyond growth.

Sometimes our forward momentum feels all too invisible and ordinary to us. We think to ourselves, “I’m the same person, it’s just a different day, another year.” But these small, oblivious moments say a lot more about our character and our hearts than we stop to realize.

In a season of life when I feel so behind, I’m reminded of the fortitude and perseverance needed to be typing this story. I’m alive. Which is quite a feat.

My mom is alive. She just turned sixty-nine. We have beautiful and vibrant memories together.

And that’s worth writing about.

Cognitive dissonance is the real reason I keep abandoning my craft.

I don’t think of myself as someone who deserves stability.

Chaos feels comfortable, even if I complain about it incessantly, I love it. Taking in and receiving enough and experiencing a sense of peace often feels out of range.

It’s felt like I’ve been aging backwards, losing context, wavering in my skills and abilities. Like trying to read a book in a language I hadn’t studied. To compensate for this lack of control, I’d spiral into a new obsession and then stall. Read a book. Buy a course. Stay up on the internet until the sun comes back up. Burn it down. Start again. Pivot. Rebrand. Reset.

I’d find myself trying to extrude something from my creative life that pissed the muse off.

Bills trickle, then flow in. Reality and “adulting” kick in, and survival mode is on. My mind returns to maintenance features only. Get through the day, then do it again. Back to the 9-5. Back to only writing in short snippets of mania and leaving them in the drafts.

I want to stop worrying about titles, expectations, money, and just write. Is that a foolish thought? To chase after the one thing you know keeps you alive?

But you can’t build something you don’t believe you’re allowed to have.

This small shift only came from noticing. Painfully, slowly. I had survived enough hard things to stop treating the future like a trap. My free will is still flowing with fervor through my veins, whether I’m accustomed to taking action on it or not.

My mother slid 45 degrees off that saddle in the Valley and swore off danger for the next six years. Then one sunny day in Mexico, she got back in the saddle.

That’s what forward movement looks like. And sometimes it takes over a decade to realize it. That’s the beauty of time. The beauty in staying the course and continuing.

There will be a time when your horse will come back around. To meet you. To greet you. And when it does, you’ll realize the anticipation was always scarier than the ride.

This piece directly follows my last. Read part 1 before or after for more clarity.

Convincing anyone of anything is no longer my goal.

Including myself.

I have no use for persuasion.

The bend and push and pull is too much. Or I’m too fragile—either way.

I can only live to dig beyond the layers of sediment, all those muddy, shame-filled stories that bar me from experiencing peace.

It’s taken longer than I care to admit to realize how narrow my focus has been. Pinpointing the pain and fixating on everything I don’t understand.
How obsessed I’ve been with being understood.

There’s much more to do with my presence than use it to contemplate the past and the broken, to wage war with the present because there is something to prove.

It’s within my power to open portals to new worlds in which I am not a melancholic, damp-aired woman. It’s within your power to enter some new world, too.

How hypocritical it feels to be a writer. Laying claims down with my words, the very words you are reading now. The portal inches open as soon as I write, but how often do I step through? Getting started is the hardest step.

I’m facing the dilemma of communicating something first sensed in my body. It's something more of an echo, shadow, or silhouette than any tangible form. The structure of language urges me to break its rules to forge a trustworthy expression.

When inviting a spectator to witness these silhouettes, a flashlight is shone on our once-condemned interior. It’s a vulnerable and courageous act. The clarity of the silhouettes may flicker in and out. But a gift it is to share that.

Being fully present is the most undomesticated act you can take in a world that constantly begs fragments of you.

We have the chance to create new languages for what we're all attempting to communicate... 'This is reality.'

Most settle for regurgitating hand-me-down stories, but living requires seeing with the eyes you have now, while considering the past and the future.

The things we love and hate combine bits and pieces of all that we know to be true. As the world constructs its own meaning before our eyes, we yield to interpreting it all for ourselves. We make meaning. That power is untapped.

We look at the void around us and fail to see all the unexpressed possibilities. What can you create that doesn’t currently exist in your world?

If sharing our reality is the only thing to do, then we must find as many ways as possible to express it. Joyfully, truthfully, mercifully.

Allow life to be a celebration that resilient, curious, embodied consciousness is alive and well.

What I first saw as the elephant in the room, I now recognize as the collection of all the truths I've been avoiding—including my own insecurity.

Because I am insecure.

Deficiency is showcased on full display.

Boo-hoo.

But this insecurity thrives on bridging the gap between the unknown and the truth. What’s known to be the truth evolves, and that can make one seem unsteady; stuck on an endless loop of forgetting and remembering, morphing and appearing the same.

But how I appear doesn't have to be my first concern.

This is a journey that requires you to come back to yourself, with no dam in the river.

I am resilient and focused.

I find clarity in the chaos without needing to change it

and

I am hopelessly insecure.

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The inauthenticity, the forcing, and the deep-seated fear all clouded my memory. I forgot I didn’t have to morph into anyone else’s vision of me, especially if I loved them and they loved me. This gave me the inner permission to write again. I forgot that I didn’t have to feel guilty about being human.

The security and the stability I yearn for (and wail and bitch and moan for) only exist within the simple fact that I am. No more explaining, or justifying, or sheepishly taking up space. I am here. And I have been here.

No one can gift the right to belong, no matter how loud the voices are that claim it's a privilege. Some people strengthen your sense of worth, protect your peace, and support your vision, while others either seek to sneakily undermine it or remain indifferent if someone else does.

But it’s a fact that you were wonderfully made (somehow) because it is already done. My existential safety and yours existed before anyone ever wrote a single sentence.
A place reserved at the river’s edge just for us.

The goal is to observe, organize, and share all without disrupting the flow.
Without feeling guilty for taking time off and not feeling guilty for putting time in.
To be of service in all the regenerative ways the vessel will allow.

Here’s your invitation,

What do you hold the key to that someone else is stumbling to find?

That thing that seems to be your Achilles’ heel or your kryptonite but you keep coming back.

I’ve found it to be true that teachers most need to teach what they themselves most need to learn. We’re all teachers of sorts. To one, or some, or many.

A pathway to someone’s first steps.
Their music career with a guitar in hand.
The reason they could survive out in the woods.

Is there some dormant idea lurking in your shadows or stuck in your throat? Something you feel wholly unqualified to do? Do exactly that. Do it despite everything. Bring it into the light and liberate us all, for God’s sake.

Moving forward, I will tend to the wounds resisting the creative flow has caused. (It’s kind of a mess!) Rather than dwelling on the destruction, I'll remind myself what a beautiful chance it is do something different.

In this desperate search for the perfect words, the perfect essay, the perfect plan, I’ve overlooked so much of myself in the process. I’ve found escapes and backdoors to evade the elephant in the room. The cringy fragments that would be easier to ignore and judge in others. The good, juicy stuff we've all been dreaming and praying and scrolling for lies in those uncomfortable spaces where feelings remain unnamed and untamed.

When I finally let go of the urge to immediately turn my experience into something presentable, I gain a breath to discover that the chaos that seemed so scary holds the clarity and reassurance I’ve been seeking all along.

So, what dormant idea is lurking in my shadows?

A deep yearning to reconnect with the land in ways that require a modern sacrifice. To slow down and tend to the whims of the creative body. To foster and maintain working relationships with real humans, I’m grateful to know against all odds. To enact a simple rebellion against the narrative constantly being shoved down our throats.
To build a humble empire where me and mine prosper.

I want the work I do daily to contribute to a bigger picture, the one that’s been in my head since I was a little girl.

There is an elephant in the room, but it’s not the polite silence everyone swallows. It’s a living presence—massive and breathing. The elephant in the room is honesty, and that's too big for our words to erase. This elephant watches us with ancient, knowing eyes while we frantically dance around it. We will come up with any excuse to avoid brushing up against its leathery hide.

What if the task is not to make the elephant in the room disappear? Instead, we have to accept the enormous truths that make us uncomfortable.

Regardless of being a rabbit hole researcher, writer, and lover of the arts, if you asked who my favorite author was, I'd likely blank out on everything I’ve ever read. My vessel emptied. I didn’t know that your favorite actor even existed. Or know anything about that art movement you love. It's possible they only exist for you. I don’t know all the people and all the places and all the things that you do. You know, the ones you find so special you can’t imagine that someone else doesn’t carry them in their mental pockets, too?

I scavenge for glimmers in the chaos to call my own as if my life depended on it. One by one, I am buried beneath my strange collection of facts and tiny details. I am an elephant plastered in necessary mud, a layer of protection from all the other strange facts.

I want to learn the things that we wouldn’t dare forget.

But which details are important? And how can I live with the insecurity that I will not focus on all the right things at the perfect moments? I’ll forever be ignorant of the things you think I should know.

Once revealed, some truths reshape everything around them. Those are the facts I want to collect. I want to collect the stories that hold us all together. Because in the end, what will be true has always been true. We twist history to make ourselves feel special, but truly seeing yourself as one of a kind only leaves you immensely alone.

We isolate. We romanticize and demonize parts of ourselves to make the old stories fit.

If we lay our egos down, we will find that we can blend the familiar with future possibilities. I cannot ignore the idea that futuristic nostalgia is our only path forward, a way to infuse comfort and tradition into our innovations. It's a both/and approach, not an either/or one. We can learn to step off script and enter the present. A place where we can pursue the unthinkable: complete honesty in this moment.

There's an opportunity to listen to uncomfortable truths we've been dodging. A chance to reclaim the elephant in the room as a gift instead of a nuisance.

It wasn't until I read and reread these words by Rilke that I began to understand the gravity of what I was truly avoiding.

“All That Has Never Yet Been Spoken”

By Rainer Maria Rilke from Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God

Translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.
I want to free what waits within me
so that what no one has dared to wish for
may for once spring clear
without my contriving.
If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,
but this is what I need to say.
May what I do flow from me like a river,
no forcing and no holding back,
the way it is with children.
Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,
these deepening tides moving out, returning,
I will sing you as no one ever has,
streaming through widening channels
into the open sea.

Rilke's river flowing 'into the open sea' opposes my white-knuckling approach to reality.

I know the sweet taste of the flow state. I am also all too familiar with the bitterness of stuffing words back down my throat. The sludgy mess I find myself sitting in, while my unuttered words become intolerable.

Every sentence I mowed down before it even began cut short those little parts of me that needed to grow.

I had forgotten that suppressing myself also suppressed others.

Each time I placed a dam in God’s stream, this river flowing of all that is, I starved myself and others of water. The questions. The insights. The emotions of the moment. We can offer each other our simplest, authentic gifts, what we have right now.

My genuine voice would emerge if I stopped restraining it. I bet I'd even like the sound of it.

Pause to notice where the river is barely trickling in your life and trace it back up to your manmade dam.

But what would make building this dam so enticing in the first place?

It’s a frantic attempt to find control in an activity that demands no force. Being.

Life must spring forth without our contriving, without forcing, and without holding back, the way it is with children.

The constant and failed art of force has opened many doors for me. The door that stays wide open: disappointment. This feeling became one of my most feared and loyal enemies. It isn't fun to admit, but there is something special about its stick-to-it-iveness.

I’ve romanticized disappointment in a way that stripped me bare of my agency. I left myself vulnerable to the obliteration of my self-worth—a wounded martyr fighting for all the wrong causes.

Disappointment for a self-sacrificing, people-pleaser is a bottomless fall.

It’s a sensation that washes over your entire body, leaving you no safe place to land.

Yet, people-pleasing itself is an immature attempt to find love. It's a path we cling to when we fail to see a clearer one. Our survival asks for community, connection, and belonging. Must our sense of belonging come at our own demise? Imagine how much better off we all could be if we learned that authentically seeing ourselves first helps everyone else, too. Displaying your well-being is the best form of permission for others to do the same, yet instead, we waste time mirroring each other's masks.

This course settles into one of the usual traps.

It's a trap that lures us into manipulating others through our convincing performances. In return, we receive only a small, false sense of security—a temporary lifeline. We bargain: "If I predict your needs and meet them before you ask, will you approve of me? Will this keep me safe from harm?" The exchange is transactional—it always has been.

No matter how out of control it feels, bending to the expectations of others, I am in control the whole time. By yielding to someone else, I don't have to put my true self on display. At least I won't crush the "real" me if this goes south. My stories, needs, and desires can stay hidden out of sight if we only entertain yours.

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It pains me to say it, but it's quite a new acknowledgment. I am the architect of my loneliness. It's something I've heard, overheard, and rejected, "No, that's not me, though. I'm not manipulating for love. I wouldn't choose to feel this way!"

Chameleon-like qualities are useful in the modern world, but this adaptability simply reveals an ancient part of ourselves desperately struggling to survive. I am so focused on survival that I will abandon anything and everything—mostly myself—to achieve it.

Yet, maladaptation is a change… nonetheless. And I've always been pretty good at changing.

Hair. Accents. States. Futures. Industries. Forming and reforming into the best shape that would keep me (feeling) the safest at the time. Without this illusion of safety, everything feels fleeting.

Safety can be difficult to find when everything seems to bombard you, hurled straight at you without any reason or concern.

Enough times or strong enough once, being me as I was wasn’t safe. I could no longer trust in the world that made me. I'd seen the pain, the confusion, and the anger on my loved ones’ faces plenty of times and decided that was enough. My desires and my fears were not okay for anyone else to see. I dedicated my social self to meeting others’ demands. Bam! A huge dam has now been placed smack dab in the middle of our rushing river. My dopamine-loaded brain had camouflaged the inevitable suffering of a letdown. Porous sensitivities made me especially susceptible to the world-crushing emotion of disappointment.

But with so many pores open and receptive to the world, I often struggle to determine where my attention should rest.

In the strong current of this sensory overload, an even deeper question emerges: Which feelings belong to me?

Think of a pumice stone, porous by nature yet never condemned for it. You’d use it to buff away calloused skin without a second thought to its open, absorbent structure. I am permeable; life seeps into me, filling all the spaces I don’t always realize are there. But if we soak a pumice stone, burn it, pack its pores with mud, or whistle through its holes, is it now something entirely different?

I will not resist. Absorption happens whether I wish it to or not. My freedom does not lie within what seeps in. No. It’s what follows, what I transform within my secret chambers.

Despite our efforts, discernment lives beyond the bounds of what enters us. Everything enters in some form or another. The real choice begins with what we allow to take root. Which stories do we feed and allow to fester? I want to trust my wisdom as an instinct, not overthink my way through a mental exercise. I’ve already declared that thinking will not heal me; I shouldn’t abandon that declaration now.

There is a chance to alchemize everything that has already made its way in. Being human, I've discovered, is like becoming a museum filled with contradictions. I make space for my defenselessness right beside my exhibit of sovereignty. I can choose to accept this polarity rather than buck against it. The devastating truth is that being crushed in some way is inevitable, but what you find amongst the rubble is yours to claim.

I emerge now with only one thing clear: the need to surrender.

It makes sense not to take things personally. Not to clog my pores with mud and think that now I must be mud itself. At the very least, I can recognize the mud for what it is: a story. And it’s a story I have the power to believe in or not.

The idea that heartbreak, longing, and defeat flowed only downstream to me while everyone else stood untouched is absurd. Yet, for me, life has only been personal. It sprays and splashes and drowns me without discernment; anyone could get it. If what belongs to me also belongs to our collective, I must abandon my self-centered belief.

I must step away from the viewpoint of my little dam into the universal river itself.

Explore many interests without the burden of mastery.

In a 1958 letter1, a young Hunter S. Thompson, an American journalist, responds to a request for life advice: Life is not about achieving fixed, static goals but about accepting the continuous evolution of our experiences. This idea celebrates those who explore multiple interests, the broad generalists. So many creative people find strength in their ability to learn and grow across different (sometimes seemingly unrelated) areas.

Our true power lies in our ability to expand and nurture great ideas, like a water bearer whose jug overflows with potential. We can be passionate about our ideas while being wonderfully detached, allowing life's creative currents to flow through us unrestrained and without contriving.

Thompson viewed people as constantly evolving, and constraining ourselves to predetermined outcomes can lead to profound dissatisfaction. Instead, he suggested focusing on actions that align with our innate abilities and desires—emphasizing that the process itself, rather than a final achievement, brings genuine fulfillment.

"A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in." - Greek Proverb

Many have recycled and claimed this proverb. It’s not just a testament to legacy and selflessness but a profound metaphor for creative contribution. It's about planting seeds for future growth rather than demanding an immediate harvest.

I think of Da Vinci: a procrastinating, dabbling artist who followed sparkling ideas just far enough to plant seeds and document their existence. Because he was bold enough in his explorations, he left us multitudes of source material for new creations and theories. He often missed deadlines, dropped projects, and abandoned goals; however, that’s often not what first comes to mind. Whether we admire or despise what someone else has planted in the garden, we can steward and shape a new landscape with its raw material.

This approach honors the journey of exploration and the pull of desire over the rigid pursuit of mastery. It’s an invitation to trust the beautiful incompleteness of creative whims, to see worth not in perfectly finished projects but in the courage to keep exploring, learning, and growing.

A mind overflowing with ideas often starts and abandons projects, stumbling into frustration. That frustration can sour the next exploration. Instead, recognize the immense value in documenting even your so-called ‘abandoned’ skills. Treat your ideas like an inventor’s sketches—some may never materialize, but each one is part of the larger blueprint of your creative evolution.

The wind knocked over the flimsy raised planter again. Dumping soil onto the grass below.

The last frost date here is approximately April 20th. I sighed learning this, now resenting the seed packs in my hand. “Not today, I guess.”

I pruned and opened up the structure of the dogwood near the fallen planter.

Envisioning chickadees and robins bouncing between the branches and rustling amongst the small blooms yet to come.

Audrey Hepburn once said, "To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow." So here I am, showing up three weeks early, mustering up the same passion I'd bring to the first day of the growing season. Wishing and huffing and puffing about the future is mild torture at best, but actively participating in its unfolding can be blissful.

It may not be the time for that one idea to come to life. That may not be its purpose for you. I ask myself, and now I ask you: Can you trust yourself enough to show up and pursue it anyway?

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Inspired by creators like Octavia E. Butler, Virginia Woolf, and Kafka, I'm learning to embrace my incomplete or redirected works as necessary contributions. Their notebooks and diaries reveal that creativity has never been about perfection but persistent curiosity. The thought of showcasing my incomplete experiences terrifies me sometimes. What will others think? What will I think?

When I view someone else's unperfected work, I see inspiration and potential—yet when I look at my own, I see my insecurities glaring back.

The challenge isn't mastery or wrestling perfection; instead, it’s having the discipline to nurture yourself like an expansive, unpredictable garden. Trial and error and failed harvests are expected in the forecast. Extend yourself some grace and revel in the shade of the existing heirlooms as you prepare the soil for your own.

I recognize (once again) my need to release perfectionism and control. To give up the endless chase of picture-perfect expertise. I realize this isn’t a solo mission; I'm planting creative seeds with faith in future generations. My efforts ensure that someone, someday, might find shelter and sustenance in the landscapes I'm cultivating now.

This is an invitation to accept your inner jack (or jill or jimothy) of all trades—to explore, document, and trust in the beautiful incompleteness of your new sparkling idea. Someone needs it and likely won’t feel nearly as incomplete to them.

I see you,

Love always,

The switch to the porch light 

got stuck in the 

on position. I really 

couldn’t be bothered.

Then I got bothered and went out

side to just loosen the bulb for

a moment. 

The whole fixture is all 

loosey-goosey, 

yet the bulb 

won’t 

budge.

Figures, 

because I never 

leave the light on.

But I’ll start 

now.

I think.

Yeah.

I’ll start now.

I’ll carry myself to bed

at a reasonable time, 

like you said.

I’ll eat my greens, 

and I’ll try not to roll

my eyes too far 

back in my 

head

when people ask, 

“Hey, where you been?” 

Like the answer hasn’t 

always been. 

At home. 

With the light off. 

Well. 

Til now. 

-rj

I would have loved to have shared more and exposed myself completely.

The truth is, I’m not even sure what life others expect me to live, but I've found a way to measure up short regardless.

For far too long, I’ve been window shopping through life—noting what feels good and what doesn’t, but making sure never to really know pleasure. Something about being on the brink of a good feeling terrifies me. My therapist and I have strategy meetings on this, but so far, most of them could have been emails.

Living with no satisfaction. What would people think?

This past year and a half on Substack has become a swelling catalyst—something that has thrown me far beyond my old crippling fears and into new ones. If I don’t give up the fear, I will crumble. I won’t argue with timing, spacing, or the world of “shoulds,” but I no longer want to be the people-pleaser complaining about conforming to the onslaught of external expectations.

Blah, blah, blah.

I need to reclaim my personal power by being messier and showing up well… wilder. Oh to channel the brash, indignant teenager I once was—finally crushing this now ever-present urge to optimize every moment of existence.

All this time sharing online has brought me joy and lesson after lesson; however, my tendency to comment on some quest for self-improvement, followed by my quick redactions, is getting…old.

The end of the year is ripe for reflection and while recapping it all… it feels very meta.

I’ve been nervously showing up, subconsciously driven to prove my worth. Thinking that a distinctive series of morning events or a specific number of posts or daily notes would make it all click.

Posting has become an anxiety-riddled mission I’ve chosen to place on hold.

In the background, my brain and body have been glued to a project for online creators. It has re-oriented my mind to focus on the ins and outs of email marketing, navigating e-commerce platform fees, and implementing the ultimate UX design.

While my dust-collecting marketing degree might finally serve a purpose, pardon my growing lack of excitement.

I don’t think the kind of revelation I’m looking for comes from optimizing a workflow for writers. Distractions are tantalizing.

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This time-sucking assignment has centered my awareness on scarcity, fear, and financial instability; a series of stressors that I must shake off to see clearly.

Like any wild animal, I must shake to reset my nervous system. *Shake* *Shake*

Serendipitously, like way too on the nose if you ask me, a YouTube video playing in the background offers up a timely quote,

“The truth is you don’t need a reset button; you need to stop settling for a life that isn’t really yours. You're playing roles you didn't sign up for. Trying to convince yourself this is the life you choose. But really, you're just going through the motions; filling in the blanks of someone else's blueprint."

Those words are now a living prayer—a subtle intention to rewrite my life's narrative.

But where did it all go wrong? Well, I've mastered the art of keeping my mouth shut. My silence is only people-pleasing to my enemies and distasteful to those I love.

Somewhere in the depths of mini-me's mind, she believes that speaking her thoughts would cost her her life. Some combination of words come tumbling out, and it would leave only one option: permanent exile.

This primal fear of abandonment chases my tail and I reluctantly entertain the pursuit. When an opportunity arises to unload a truth, I ask myself: Do I want to open this can of worms? The answer is most usually a protective "No"—because being understood has become much less important than staying safe.

So, there’s this lingering fear around... will it ever be okay to birth myself back into the world? To be known, to be exposed, to be seen? Or will I live in my head forever?

On a group coaching call last year, I shared my fears surrounding my ability to monetize and share creative projects. I remember exclaiming at the end of my confession… “I didn’t spontaneously burst into flames like I thought I would!”

It was mind-blowing. But clearly, that Eureka moment didn’t stick.

That grand anti-climatic moment was mine, yet not mine alone. It needed witnesses to be powerful, just not their fucking validation.

Ware's research reveals just how irrelevant external validation is as we face our mortality. It is not a privilege but a necessity to define success and happiness on our own terms.

As we move through this modern yet ancient world, we inherit the oppressive patterns laid before us, but we can evolve and emerge differently.

The Oxford Dictionary defines emergence as "the process of coming into view after being concealed." But it's more than a definition—it's a violent act of self-preservation. Like a stadium wave, true emergence requires collective energy.

A synergy, sympoiesis, an integral connection.

No single person creates the wave. Instead, it’s the awareness and spontaneity of the crowd that orchestrates this grand gesture.

If only I considered risky conversations as stadium waves—an effort carried by many. The aftermath would be liberation, not condemnation. But unlearning takes time.

I'm dedicating the next few months to unlearning silence. Not as a futile function of self-improvement but as a deliberate act of revolution.

Healing begins when we replace a self-improvement diagnosis with action. Audre Lorde teaches us that silence is not a tool of survival but a form of self-annihilation.

a kind of life by shook me awake recently and left me with Lorde’s questionnaire—an invitation that demands vulnerability:

1. What are the words you do not have yet? [Or, "For what do you not have words, yet?”]

2. What do you need to say? [List as many things as necessary]

3. “What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence?” [List as many as necessary today. Then write a new list tomorrow. And the day after.]

4. If we have been “socialized to respect fear more than our own needs for language and definition,” ask yourself: “What’s the worst that could happen to me if I tell this truth?” [So, answer this today. And every day.]

I accept this invitation—not alone, but with my fear, my breath, my pen, and my stories. They will fight it out on the page, and I will emerge.

My beef with mainstream "self-improvement" methods is that they aim to label a wound without healing it. We comment on our perceived lacks as if merely naming them counts as progress. But this is not transformation—this is pure performance. And while, yes, all the world’s a stage - I’d like to cast my role myself.

By confronting these questions, I am not performing a play of self-improvement. I am acting in my revolution.

Stop waiting for the perfect moment. Come home to yourself now, and often.

xx

RissaJean

P.S. This piece was edited while listening to When Doves Cry on repeat and I hope you can tell.

In the middle of flopping laundry over to the dryer, I found myself shouting, 'Fuck being productive!'—knowing full well I'd be delighted when the linens came out warm and fluffy.

I’ve spent so much of my life measuring myself by lists, tasks, and to-do’s, but I’m done claiming productivity as a state of being that determines my worth.

You text right after your midday slump, ‘This morning was so productive, you should have seen me!’

You earn praise and warm fuzzies for facing the grind. Gold stars, XP, and pats on the back—all currency in a system that trades value for how much you can churn out, not for who you are.

We were taught to show our work because even the right answer wasn’t enough. I’m sorry, I’m not playing that game anymore.

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I want the evidence of my life to taste good on my tongue and sit right above the hips like a perfect pair of Levi’s.

Your lifestyle, your work, your connections—boil it all down and reduce it: who are you?

Would you see me as worthy if you saw my dark circles and the mountain of coffee grounds I grind through each week? Or would I be reduced to my exhaustion and the scramble to keep up, merely drowning in the in-between?

But would you like it better if you only saw the result—the spit-shined product in the tidy box? Does that version of me fit your expectations?

When my mania strikes, I become fully alive. Most of my work comes through this intoxication of ideas. But caught in the lie of productivity, I’ve been trying to water it down and stretch it into something I can chug not sip—and my mind, body, and soul are screaming in protest.

Forced consistency only makes me more inconsistent. I’ve realized I no longer care about how my toils, troubles, or successes are presented to the world. It's not about being productive—it’s about devotion. And that’s enough.

Be devoted, or get lost.

(love you, mean it)

xx

RissaJean

A quick dash right, one narrowly escapes a rubberized death.

Okay, I sigh, it’s going to be that kind of day.

The second one went left.

So far this morning had been terrifyingly satisfying for all three of us. However, the third squirrel stalled out in the middle of the lane. Right, left, center - of fucking course!

As I held my breath and hovered straight over it, it hit my front driver-side tire, crushing both of us.

I looked in the sideview mirror and let out another sigh.

These roadkill mornings always feel like a personal affront to the sanctity of life. Why do these unnatural machines have unbridled access to everything in their path? And why am I driving one?

The squirrel waited until a 3000-pound giant with rolling feet was overhead to decide an escape route, but did it really know what was coming?

The squirrel’s instincts betrayed it, leading it right into a path of destruction. And maybe we’re no different—steered by doubts, fantasies of control, and that strange, persistent belief that we have all the time in the world.

The half-baked illusion of choice keeps us facing what we sincerely dread.

We thought we had time. We thought we had options. But in the end, we thought it all wrong.

Little did we know every possible path led to loss of some kind—loss of certainty, loss of faith, the loss of something we believed we could control.

But looking back, I wonder—were they choices, or were we already in the trap?

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Recently, I've realized how unreliable I am as a narrator of my own story. The tangents alone are enough to drive anyone mad.

And of course, why wouldn’t I be unreliable? My hope extends far further than my self-belief. But my refusal to accept that I’m shifty, impermanent, and morphing as we speak has led to many small deaths along the way. Deaths, that in reality, I should be grateful for.

If we’re like rodents, boxed in by our illusions, are we running toward freedom—or just circling the trap we built ourselves? Impressed by the strength of the locks and the height of the bars; we back ourselves into a corner with a smile on our face.

In our efforts to be good, right, and honorable, we’ve armored ourselves with laws—both external and internal—fearing the truth that would come from breaking them.

What if we’ve placed too much value on being good and right and honorable—as if the shape of our lives depended on the rigidity of these prescriptive ideals alone?

I don’t trust that emotions can live in a vacuum. If I can’t feel it rocking me in the face at that very moment, then yeah, it’s not real. You’d think this emotional hangup would encourage me to live in the moment, to stay present—but the phantom of choice has me convinced I’ve always made the wrong one.

So, we fool ourselves into believing that any one decision could be the “right” one like there isn’t a rotating queue of follow-up cards just on the other side. Baiting us into holding hope and following a line of justifications that we can barely utter half-heartedly.

Do we really think that each choice, each move, stakes a permanent claim on who we are? If so, that’s positively terrifying.

We move through life as though we’re assembling an impenetrable identity, layering on the armor with beliefs and excuses meant to protect us from the very vulnerability we desperately need to crack open. But what do we do when, inevitably, the armor itself begins to crack? When we grow weary of carrying the weight of emotional chain mail and shields made of ideas we no longer believe in?

We must lay it down.

Maybe true honor lives in the release, in allowing ourselves to be permeable, neutral, and observant. Holding space for wordless moments and breathless views. How differently would the trajectory of our lives look if we stopped constantly striving for more to prove our worth—if we released the belief that our mere existence is a sin?

I’d argue that the kindest compliment would simply be, “Ah good, you’re here.” Nothing more.

Being a genuinely good person is not nearly as challenging as pretending to be one.

The better self we're chasing can't be caught with a closed fist, and I don’t know about you but I’ve been whiteknuckling most of this thing.

Perhaps in surrender, not restraint, there’s a freedom deeper than any self-imposed privilege—an honesty in simply being, without the need to be seen as anything at all. Not wishing to be invisible, just not attempting to control the vision before someone else’s eyes.

Our choices are revealed not as bold declarations but as echoes. Each decision—a breadcrumb on our corkscrew path, signaling the places we’re destined to revisit. Haven’t you noticed how you stumble upon the weirdest Easter eggs from your own life? The song that circles back, the name that follows you, the messages that show up on obscure bumper stickers?

But they aren’t immovable monuments to who we are. It’s only in the painfully quiet sting of loss that we see the mirage for what it was—just another layer of self to shed.

Loss can bring confusion and it often does, but it can also bring clarity.

Throughout this cycle, we come to a truth as old as life itself: time doesn’t wait, nor does it bargain with anyone. Time flows, indifferent, washing away each identity we cling to, revealing that our truest self lies not in the choices we think we make, but in the spaces between them—where we let go and simply become. So take a deep breath and remember you’re all the little spaces in between bliss and madness.

Staring blankly at the front end of a Japanese compact sedan, I’m that squirrel with no concept of time and legs like lead. I don’t know how I ended up here, and I can’t say I’m any clearer now that I’m in it. I feel like Neo hesitant in front of the Oracle:

Neo : But if you already know, how can I make a choice?

The Oracle : Because you didn't come here to make the choice, you've already made it. You're here to try to understand *why* you made it. I thought you'd have figured that out by now.

Scatterbrained, I continuously forget the future does not exist. It never has, and the most unreliable aspect of my commentary is this fantastical notion that I’m planning for the future. I plan for a future me—someone stronger, bolder, better—without realizing how these plans always find a way to strip something away from who I am now. I continue to romanticize the ‘not yet,’ but this ache in my body belongs to the present.

There is no future me better than I am now, not in the way I’d like there to be.

The experimenter in me must learn to soften the space between me and what I discover, blur the line, and let more in. I want to indulge the pieces of me that only exist in fiction. The part that hides away on both sunny and rainy days because it’s too afraid of being crushed. But the self no one sees, is that a self at all?

Ostensibly, the self I’m chasing doesn’t even need to exist. Like the squirrel, perhaps I’m caught in cycles of choices already made.

In those moments when the time feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, get your hands dirty. We often project our future selves as better, more put-together versions, not realizing that our juiciest plumpest self—messy, unsure, yet perfectly human—exists right now, not in some imagined ether. This real, beating version of us is desperate for our attention.

The road ahead isn’t something to conquer or master or own but something to sultrily surrender to. So, I’ll roll my windows down, feel the wind on my face, and be happy to be alive.

Here is where I usually make a comment about the monsters lurking in the shadows and my feelings about them, but to be honest I’m just glad to have some company.

xx

RissaJean

Quote from The Matrix Reloaded

P.S. Thank you for being here, it’s been a while.

They are watching us
Flail and 
Question
And rejoice in moments
We cultivate for merely a breath

They have no fear
No worry
No concern

For “they” are us
Thought inside a different mind

Expression is both concrete and malleable.

You feel how you feel and it’s true,

Yet

It’s not the end of the story.

Hope has been stringing me along. She brought me out of despair and overwhelm across the border to a sense of calm optimism. Hope is a short train ride from which you must hop off one day. Why? Because hope doesn’t bring you knowing, or gratitude, or bliss. It carries you over the edge you thought you’d never see again.

And just like that, you find yourself back on your own two feet with more steps to take…

Hope is not a place to stay, but a way to transport you up from the depths from concrete to malleable.

xx

-RissaJean

find you 
strewn across my favorite
memories
no context - no coordinates

My body is having a difficult time regulating its temperature. Everything feels a little too harsh. Last night was windy and the landscape lay sideways. Now I’m grateful for the sun shining through the leaves and my dog in my lap. But the days have been galloping past me and I want to hitch a ride. 

What if days are like carousel horses? On track to come back around?

I want to sit on the horses backward and sidesaddle and upside down.

Let my hair down, barely hold on, and close my eyes.

Maybe then I’ll finally gain a different view.

I can’t quite put my finger on it, what it is I need to say.

So much to say. Do you ever look up to the potential ahead of you and freeze?

I’m still wading through the waters of perfectionism and avoiding attempts. The combo that oddly fuels this newsletter either way.

I should have left a trail of breadcrumbs when I went out. Now I can't find my way back home, and I'm worried about going in the wrong direction for too long again.

How do you cope with being a statue in an everchanging landscape?

How do you find your way home?

-RissaJean

xx

Too many essays I don’t know how to finish. Too many emotions I’m afraid to face.

I whisper to myself, "Be more positive. Don’t include that… it’s unrelatable, it’s unsafe."

The brain uses its experience to predict future events, strategizing the best it can to ensure survival. Primally, we’re obsessed with foretelling the future.

Perhaps my mother was predicting the future when she labeled me ‘miserable’ at a young age. Miserable—a tag that stuck like Eeyore’s nailed-on tail.

Sad. Pathetic. Wretched. Unfortunate. Tragic.

This was her way of labeling “a no longer agreeable, little young lady.”

I learned that if my truth included sadness, it was better left unsaid.

If you bother to say it, fix it.

How do you fix this feeling? This chronic mix of melancholy and rage.

A result of misplaced emotions and unattended baggage.

My writing became an exercise in safety rather than truth. The truth was inconvenient so better off tucked away, out of sight. Nothing to see, nothing to say.

Recently, a note from caught my attention, resonating deeply with the struggle I’ve been facing… how to show up for the craft wholly.

"…I want to bring joy with my literature, but I also want to tell the truth. I think that’s what’s been blocking me."

Blocking me. It’s the desire to show up, bearing the gift of whatever it is you have to say, but the guttural stop that makes it seem impossible. Include the raw facts or gloss over with euphemisms to not seem so grim. To tell the truth or be agreeable?

Wondering, I scanned and found ’s comment that softened my perspective,

“…Because perhaps we’ve been trained, with such an intensity, and from so young, that truth tastes bitter, and delusion tastes like honey. But what if we’ve been lied to? What if it’s the other way around?”

This intensity is felt by others. The predictive past laid across our future.

What if the truth didn’t come with an expected bitterness?

What if misery’s company wasn’t all so bad?

All I wanted was confirmation that it was safe—good even—to be me.

This longing for safety and acceptance extends far beyond childhood—a deficiency that has only grown stronger with time.

Even after this year of writing publicly, the fear of being pigeonholed into melancholy has derailed the stories I’ve wanted to share. I didn’t want to face the miserable little girl in the mirror, I wanted you to see joy.

What would happen if we allowed ourselves to be everything? Let the old come to the surface and offer a new perspective. We are a complex blend of emotions that overwhelm us if not acknowledged. Insecurity and rage and doubt and frustration exist in the same world that hope and happiness and passion and bliss do.

Instead of forcing positivity, I listened to the voice asking for help, not condemnation.

My desire to be agreeable is waning with each passing keystroke.

In its place is a desire to witness the magic more closely. To honor the moment waiting to spill out through story, through art, through anything.

Now, with 34 drafts staring back at me, I see them as gateways for the magic.

The truth may not be climbing out all at once, but it will always find a way out.

Thank you for being a part of this journey, even during the quieter weeks. It’s in these restorative, sometimes discouraging days off that the truth bubbles up.

Be a little less agreeable and say something real.

xx

RissaJean

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P.S. Thank you to & for illuminating this moment by being vulnerable out in the open and inspiring the work to flow. 💚

This is the third year on this land. The woodland edge is overgrown. The wild blackberries have returned. The “non-fruitful” peach tree bloomed and dropped sweet, fair-ready fruit. The white-tailed deer hopped the fence and mozied closer than ever before.

This process of rewilding amazed me. A little forgetfulness and Mother Nature thanked me. If only it worked that way with people. All I wanted was for the grasshoppers and lightning bugs to have safe homes, but I ended up sifting through waves of shame and embarrassment. What would the previous owners think if they rode by and saw the brown-tipped fields? How would I ever tidy this all up again on my own? What was in that moment beautiful and rebellious became meek and apologetic.

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And then it hit me: the seven-acre reflection of myself. I had dreams for this land and dreams for this body, but I felt too shy about them. My shyness is my apology.

All I want is a body filled with love. A field where it’s safe to run, twirl, and fall without concern. Someplace where no one else’s opinions matter and the deer roam free.

I am awkward. Things come out clunky, ill-worded, rushed. So what?

I am an overthinker. Thinking is futile. It’s egoic masturbation. Might as well work on this being a more enjoyable experience.

I am anxious. Realizing this comes from an archaic belief that time is always running out and that there may never be time left to fix anything I care about.

Another I am, another limitation. A box with a label. A box my ego will search high and low to fit me in to keep me safe. To exert control.

Maybe I’ll wait without waiting. You know, really thinking about it at all?

Sure, lately some things are moving, but it’s more than stuck. It almost feels like someone *just* handed me this life. I’m making mistakes, I’m slipping up. They gave me a personal backstory and let me ease into this skin, but if I’m honest nothing feels like mine.

Dissociation. Depersonalization. Derealization. Maybe.

The act of surveilling my feelings brought me to this point in limbo. Some of my beliefs were so nonsensical that I knew there was no way they could reflect who I was. No one thinks about you the way you think of yourself. But your self-perception makes way and wants to be right.

Regardless of finally realizing “I am not my thoughts!”, I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know who I am. That scares me.

I pedal forward with awareness and softness and then screech to a halt when I meet this apologetic, shrunken figure—the one who cares what others think. I no longer identify with her lies but I can’t stop staring.

There’s been a long game of tug-of-war between penance and grace. It would feel good to embrace this season of rewilding for myself. Especially when nothing feels like how it “should.”

Beginning to confront whatever this is has been a task. Not too long I felt on top of the world. Now, it feels like I’m on the flip side of that coin.

The Unity of Opposites. The feeling of being on top of the world depends on the existence of feeling miserable once again. I keep flipping the coin to see if each side is still really there.

I began to fear I wouldn’t have something to share, something to write. Thank you for witnessing these early, floundering stages. 💚

xx

-RissaJean

Somehow this song always finds me while I’m feeling blue. I keep thinking it was the nicest thing while it lasted to be known by you.

I’d be better off in this self-imposed separation if I thought I could exist without you, but that’s just not the truth.

Reviewing a post from last year, I see components of the truth without clarity.

I am a thief. A voyeur. An emotional pirate. Scavenging moments from the collective library. An ethereal scrapbooker, if you will. I have no clue what is me and what is outside of me. Imagine my horror.

“I have no clue what is me and what is outside of me.” A precursor for psychosis or enlightenment?

Let’s ditch the idea of going down the rabbit hole that I have major attachment issues. Instead, let’s settle on the less-seen perspective that I recognize myself everywhere. The distinction between self and other is blurred, for I am made from the blood and breath of my creator and I see the signs everywhere.

Aren’t we searching to be loved, to be held, to be seen? To feel safe enough to return to an amorphous state. We long for silent moments together where it’s anything but boring because it’s an ode to all that is.

I used to say (or rather thought once, wrote it down, then thought of it often) that I was —

Made for leading others to their lovers,
Stepping aside, a heart with pseudo longing,
Made for instigating fights and
Always an empty bed to come home to.
Made strong to carry the weight of faults -
Like a love ox, I stand silent.

Truthfully, I force myself through painful separations to teach myself how to process grief, the biggest lesson I came here for. Accurate dosage of necessary suffering. This has ALL been a lesson to learn how to process grief fully, wholly, completely, once and for all. What’s written in the stars may also be written in the title. How do you write Field Notes on Love, Life, and Loss unless you love, live, and lose…?

This desire, this deep-seated longing for connection - to feel whole after once feeling so broken catapults me through time. Forward and back.

I prefer getting tangled in the weeds over surrendering. A 28-year-long melancholic tantrum.

“Process the things that you feel might kill you.” That’s the message I receive loud and clear. It’s facing the pain I don’t want to leak into the blood of my children, the pain I don’t want to vomit on you. But they and you are not separate from me…

Compartmentalizing these chronic aches is the only thing creating a hallucinatory distinction. The parts of me I’m afraid to own have a magnetic pull I can no longer deny.

Most of the hurt is a misunderstanding anyway. All feelings other than love are a misunderstanding… and love is the only way I’ll find my way out of this misery.

Surrendering doesn’t always look like peaceful resignation—I know I could never lay down my old identity this way. Instead, it looks like spinning open until I break, until I can’t separate the bad from the good.

I’ve seen things through your eyes lately more than I ever have before in years.

You know, I found a picture of myself before I met you. I was deleting an old Flickr profile and there it was. I only had one mole on the center of my forehead. I stared at this face forgetting it had ever really looked like that. Photographic proof. You insisted I’ve always had two. But that one appeared out of the blue.

Somehow, without fail, all roads lead back to you. In the end, just like the song that reminds me of those blissful in-the-moment summer days, love and loss are intertwined, and so are me and you.

When it feels scary, I’m doing something “right”.

xx

-RissaJean

If you’d like to support my work further, consider a paid subscription—you can cancel anytime, no hard feelings. Or, drop a little something in my virtual tip jar. As always, your presence is enough so thank you for being here!

Seven days after I quit drinking alcohol I had a spiritual awakening.

The once fluffy statements of “All is love, Everything is perfect, There is nothing wrong, It’s all divine timing,” made sense all at once.

I had seen the signs, both subtle and otherwise, urging me to go sober.

Fears. Memories. Prophecies. His voice saying, “You remind me of your mom.”

I like to play cowgirl with my addictive personality and reign and rope and lasso more than do what I say I’m going to do.

When you’ve broken your word to yourself so many times your capacity for self-trust and self-confidence is diminished… greatly. Add the shame and guilt that comes with dissolving your bond with others and you begin to question your substance.

Last Wednesday afternoon I took an anxiety pill so I wouldn’t spontaneously burst into tears around my coworkers—two days later every worry I could have got tossed out the window. Cosmic defenestration.

Time does collapse. But it doesn’t until it does.

I don't believe I can genuinely come up with a complaint at the moment. I’ve settled into a peace that takes the edge off everything—like a really good drink.

My bank account is still slim, I am the only human in my bed, the field’s three-foot-tall grass is beginning to lay down for the season, my body has yet to gain any significant weight, and I have no clear vision of my next big move. And all is well.

This isn’t denial, apathy, or a pretentious “love and light” message. Boy, how I despise those.

This is the result of eyeing a door for years, turning the handle, stepping within the threshold, and walking confidently through instead of loitering in the hallway.

In 2018, this same doorway was shrouded in slimy manmade fear. I couldn’t go too long before the edges of my vision would go grainy as if a thousand newborn spiders were ushered into the frame. Mind you: I love spiders. As a four-year-old, I made friends with an itsy-bitsy one who lived outside our balcony screen door. A small and mighty friend.

These spiderlings were not friendly reminders of simpler times; my sense of comfort was being used against me. Fear poisons the resounding comfort of the truth and consumes you like an illness. It jumbles the frequency and makes you out to be the fool—all the pieces are there, yet you cannot perceive them.

My heart didn’t seem capable of holding all the world’s tragedies. “Our children, the world’s children.” I stayed awake for three or four days at a time, convinced another night without relief would kill me.

No conversation, no media, no outlet was safe. No one could be trusted and certainly not me. I faded and became something other. Soon the external world was morphing into the vision of my internal pandemic and all was sick. I planned for the worst, I lived out of go-bags of fear. I broke off my engagement because surely I wouldn’t be alive to see happier days. I gave up.

Little did I know how this era would deeply affect the next six years. I can see these confusing times now as a meek shoreline lapping at my feet.

“Nothing is safe. Allow nothing new in.” - It’s evident how quite literally these words ruled my world.

I regurgitated old scenes like shadows on a cave wall to catch a glimpse of motion.
If I couldn’t entertain the future, I’d entertain the past.

Now, I am enticed to finish the full extent of the thought—to follow the origin of the desire. To be the kid again asking, “But why?” after everything.

Do you ever feel like if you let the bare thought live outside of you, it might break you? That the words would tumble out as anvils from your lips and destroy everything below? Those sentences feel an ocean apart from who you’ve carefully curated yourself to be.

We push dusty, damaged bits of ourselves into the archives failing to let them ever see the light of day. We wonder why saying the truth, the whole truth becomes such a feat. We want to be better and to live better, but we think only the best parts of us are worthy of the promotion.

Our collective experience is expressing what we all internally repress. An inverted display, a tool of illusion. Our embarrassing, painful archives are witnessed on global stages as we cringe and fight and sob; claiming it couldn’t be me.

Any of my past criticisms of the world were counterfeit because I’ve committed the same atrocities to myself. Disowning, shaming, starving, mutilating. Oh how I dishonored my divinity, yet demanded respect from others.

The reality is the truth can never be absent. You only wield the perception and attention to it. And when we stuff our filing cabinets full of those things that shall not be named—we deny the truth. We blatantly ignore a part of the equation yet toil away at balancing it.

Today, I find myself in a collective reality that would have once shattered my heart.
It would have been too heavy to carry into the next moment of existence.

We are expressing our deepest fears, most profound traumas, and cleverest childhood revenge in a global arena with an audience of eight billion and wonder why it‘s chaos.

I spent years reigning, roping, and lassoing only to realize that I was the mustang I was trying to tame. There was no external problem, no one to blame.

We often think one grand moment changes our lives, but we fail to recognize the nuance in a million little shifts it takes to alter our perspective.

It’s been two weeks since I quit drinking.

I was present long enough to let the million little shifts reach my awareness.

Here’s to dusting off the ugly bits from the archives and letting the full version of you stand in the light.

xx

-RissaJean

Some pieces from others that have been lingering on my mind this week…

day dreaming, and i’m thinking of you by ẹniafẹ isis - This left me speechless.

twistin’ myself free by - Caroline just gets it! Her willingness to be present and communicate what we all feel but don’t say is immpecable.

If you’d like to support my work further, consider a paid subscription—you can cancel anytime, no hard feelings. Or, drop a little something in my virtual tip jar. As always, your presence is enough so thank you for being here!

. . .

There is a little wounded girl who takes pride in her ability to be responsible and polite and obedient and mature and hypervigilant. She keeps things safe. She monitors and contemplates. Ruminates. She makes herself solely responsible for the actions around her, the consequences, the judgment, the ‘what ifs’ —the weight of it all. Falls upon her. Has for years. It was light, manageable at first…

But once upon a time, a spell was cast— a not-too-insignificant “Shame on you!” Thrown out momentarily for some little improper thing or a simple inconvenience.

Grandly insidious shame slowly crept in and ate away at her ability to feel joy, to know pleasure. She’d never not second-guess herself from this point on. If she’s doing something wrong how can she ever be safe? When the burden becomes too heavy, she disappears somewhere inside her hollowed-out body.

But that’s what shame does: it brainwashes you into surrendering to the narrative that you are the villain in every story.

I recently had a call with an astrologer who echoed that my path is one of suffering, suffering, suffering, suffering, suffering, suffering, suffering — breakthrough.

I really hope you’re there on the other side of this breakthrough. 

I’ve feared that my path to healing would be a violent one and ashamed to face the depths of my self-hatred in front of anyone, I turned inward a long time ago. And now I’m confronted with turning again.  

Nine is still afraid to accept she’s ten.

Good God help me.

xx

RissaJean

If you’d like to support my work further, consider a paid subscription—you can cancel anytime, no hard feelings. As always, your presence is enough, so thank you for being here!

Welcome to my newsletter, “Field Notes on Love, Life, and Loss.” You being here makes the years of writing and ripping out thousands of notebook pages worth it.

Whether you have ventured into my nonsense before or this is your first time, I wanted to properly introduce myself and this project for what it is.

I am Maurissa, also known as RissaJean.

Field Notes on Love, Life, and Loss desires to uncover the raw truths of the human experience through introspective essays and authentic storytelling. Even when it hurts, we persevere.

These reflections and those to come have fought tooth and nail to live outside of my mind.

I can be dramatic at times, yet somehow never quite enough. I hold back, making false starts along the way. I’m completely irreverent, yet I often pretend to be a poised and proper lady. A MESS.

This tug-of-war on expression has connected me to the unsavory truths we deny. What we claim to be, claim to hate, claim to love, and lays it all out on the table.

It all began with a notebook and something to prove. Prove to whom? I still don’t know.

. . .

You’ll find that I teeter on the edge of extremes: radical self-acceptance and total degradation of everything I have ever believed in. Mutability is my favorite trait.

I’m so honored to be witnessed by people who donate their time, thoughts, and words to my little existence here in this corner of the internet. You are a reminder that I am here.

. . .

My newsletter is a journey through life as I experience it, love as I’ve discovered it, and growth as I’ve learned to embrace it. Through introspective essays, raw reflections, and genuine storytelling, I aim to inspire courage and nurture deeper connections within our community. My vision empowers you to welcome your vulnerabilities with open arms and live with unapologetic authenticity. Embrace the mess—it's lifesaving. I promise.

Your support—whether through reading, sharing, commenting, or subscribing—means everything to me. Thank you for being a part of this space and for letting me share my heart with you.

I’m ready for what’s ahead and eager to share more. Look for upcoming posts exploring love, life, and personal growth. I’m excited to continue our conversations, open up new perspectives, and deepen our connection.

All posts are available to free subscribers, but if you’d like to support my work, consider a paid subscription (you can cancel anytime, no hard feelings) or contribute to my virtual tip jar. Your presence is enough, and I’m grateful for any good energy you send my way.

In a world optimized for bullshit, let’s choose the real thing.

Most of my outros whisper about the vague monsters—think Where the Wild Things Are, but the monsters are us. They shift in shape and motive, but today, I couldn’t care less about what they’re up to.

xx

RissaJean

My first line of defense with any remote is a firm slap in the palm and my electrolytes on the terminal. I’m not sure when I learned that adding a little spit would allow most remotes to carry on working indefinitely, but I play out this little routine more often than you’d think.

“Good enough,” I thought, reaching for the only new AAA in the drawer. “I could probably power the remote with a simple thought at this point…”

I found five screws in the old garden bed. “Fix it,” they said but I’m unsure if this can be fixed.

We were one.

Not like the Sun and Moon

or two peas in a pod 

or fire and ice

or an angel and the devil 

or two-of-a-kind

or any duo or pair.

Every other partnership has been established through the lens of two. Every friend, every lover, every family member. It’s the duality that is always seen first.

But with you…

It’s one. The blur between it all, no lines, no delineation, just the curve following its horizon til infinity. It’s been a sacred union all along. Even underripe and inexperienced it held the totality of all we could be. 

You aren’t my other half. You aren’t a missing piece. You are the one.

There is nothing to fix because nothing is broken. Sigh… nothing is broken.

I straddle the line between praise and condemnation. 

I’d cry myself into a muddy puddle if I could. 

My cells vibrate and shimmer and I want to spew and lash and cry or cling and kiss and laugh. 

I realized early on that my emotions run deeper and wider than what society deems appropriate.

After being called sensitive one too many times, I calloused over my humanity and slunk behind the iris of my eyes. 

Having time to spare, I book-hopped on the Barnes and Noble floor. Thinking “Don’t cry in here!” Using everything within me to keep the tears neatly stacked up behind the dam. 

The most honest thing I can do is cry. 

I want all the flat surfaces in the house to be littered with trinkets you were too nervous to collect all these years. I want your stupid socks in the way of my next step.  

I drove through the damp and wealthy neighborhoods to find the best park to cry in.  Beyond a thousand shades of heirloom green and steep driveways, these homes clutch to preserve a legacy no one even knows about.

Unpaved and borderless, I parked myself on a bench in the misty rain.

I watched as someone scared a gaggle of geese only to throw their trail mix at them in hopes of “communing with nature”, I laughed out loud once they were out of earshot. Some people will never get it.

The edges of my bellbottoms and the suede of my off-brand Birkenstocks soaked through with rain. My daily uniform is so impractical. If I squinted my ears just right I could hear the water seep and crackle and pop into the ground. The swallows swooped and dived. The humid breeze splashed my face, and the dam slowly eroded.

How many maidens have cried at this riverbank’s edge hoping to seep into the ground, too?

Oh, to dissolve and disappear back into the Great Mother…

But me disappearing into the ground isn’t part of this story yet, I must regain the will to live and empower myself with a simple thought. I am the remote and the show must go on.

The monsters are loose and roaming freely. They rearrange time and misplace my belongings. Nothing is where it should be…

xx

RissaJean

I alter you

As I watch the tape with doe-eyes

I even forget the point.

“I have nothing now but praise for my life. I'm not unhappy. I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can't stop them. They leave me and I love them more...What I dread is the isolation. ... There are so many beautiful things in the world which I will have to leave when I die, but I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready.”
― Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are

Lately, words and I don’t see eye to eye. We fight and we tussle and we go our separate ways.

Not even words themselves can stop me from writing, for it’s the only thing that keeps me alive. So, today I am grateful for the frog in my throat, the indecisiveness of my fingertips, and the cacophony of poetry and prose through my head. Insanity is a familiar spot, where the sweet wild things are.

xx

- RissaJean

Wednesday’s would have been too melodramatic to reread.

Friday’s would have been barely scratching the surface.

Today marks my one-year writing on Substack! Indulge in the confused and optimistic tale of how Field Notes got started…

Subscribe now

I wanted to try something new today. Inspired by ’s 10 Word Story series.

Restraining oneself to a few words, taking nothing for granted, and maybe leaving something on the table is a tall order, especially for me.

…So, we will roll this word rope out to 27. It wouldn’t be anything else.

After rereading my first post, this came up.

Slinking under mindless distraction I am reminded that there is nowhere else to be, nothing else to think, nothing else to do to come back to yourself.

I’m already late. Forgive me, mama.

So much more to come.

More writing. More friends. More opportunities.

I have witnessed such a beautiful community on Substack, and I am so grateful for its impact on my relationship with this thing we call writing.

Thank you for being here, and here’s to another year.

xx

-RissaJean