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note to self: go outside

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." —  Henry David Thoreau credit My phone died recently. Not like died because of its charge — permanently died. I'm not the only one whom this has happened to, I'm sure, and this isn't a complaint. Rather, it's an observation on how different the landscape of my life has been without it. I've been reading more, watching more TV, doing less doomscrolling. I found that I've missed my phone a lot less and simultaneously a lot more than I expected. And I've been noticing a difference in my mental state. My mental health is, apparently, linked in part to the device I hold in my hand 99% of the time. Who knew? However, it's still been challenging lately, for more reasons than just my phone, and my sister invited me to go outside with her. Th

To the Tiny Critic who Lives in my Head Rent-Free

There is a tiny critic who lives in my head, and I think it's time that I kicked them out.

It's been a while since I wrote anything — this blog is proof enough. I've hemmed and hawed over words I've written, keeping them in the drafts because it somehow didn't feel good enough to put out there. I haven't written a novel that I felt good about in literal years, which can be a huge blow to your self confidence, especially when writer has been engrained into your identity since you were six. I've written post upon post about my struggle with writing on this blog — the last post I wrote here is a testament to it, but it stretches back even into 2017 (at the very least). In this post from three years ago, I reference the door to writing being locked, and that I hoped one day it would open again. It's only recently that I've realized I'm the one who locked the door.

That's an embarrassing revelation, let me tell you. To realize that you're the one who's been holding yourself back. But I guess I shouldn't be too surprised; I am a perfectionist after all. I always have been, but for some reason when I was younger, I was better at keeping those disparaging voices and critical thoughts out. I didn't really question whether my writing was good, I just wrote it, and I wrote a lot. My need to write was compulsive and all consuming. I didn't care if anybody read it or liked it or not because I did it for me, because I had to. I used to say, "I write for the same reason I breathe — if I didn't, things would get difficult." What happened to that girl? The girl who didn't care?

Truthfully, I'm still trying to figure that out. There is one moment I can pinpoint, a moment where I received some criticism and my world crashed down around me. However, I'm still trying to work out why that would be the thing to keep me silent for a few years  and truthfully, my struggle with writing and perfectionism predates that. It's something my therapist and I have been working through for a while now, genuinely ever since I met her. But now I'm tired of sitting around waiting to write. I think I actually just have to do it. As my therapist said, what do I have to lose? I'm already miserable.

As I said, there is a tiny critic who lives in my head — rent-free, might I add  and I think it's time that I kicked them out. No more questioning. No more negative self-talk. That's enough. 

To the tiny critic who lives in my head rent-free: this is your eviction notice. You've overstayed your welcome. Get out.


  1. This is inspiring! Way to go Sky!

  2. Glad your kicking the critic out. Hope writing gets easier for you too!


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