I don’t particularly enjoy sharing pieces of my life.

That might come as a shock, I know.

I am very aware of how attention seeking I am, don’t you fret. 

But I truly do have a deep-rooted fear that comes with being open and honest

Whether that’s on the internet, on stage when I’m performing, or anywhere my art has a moment to reveal itself.

Ironically, it has very little to do with vulnerability itself.

In fact, sharing with strangers and finding common ground with them has always been one of my favorite parts of creating. 

I love the moments when someone says, “You just put my indescribable feelings into words and now I feel seen.”

No, the fear is much simpler than that:

What if my story hurts someone I love?

Or someone that I used to love?

Back in college, I started a blog where I wrote about whatever happened to be bouncing around in my frolicking, little brain.

And because I was a hot-blooded twenty-year-old girl, that often meant writing about my love life.

And trust, it was a very chaotic love life.

When I first started publishing those thoughts on my website, I assumed the hardest part would be criticism from strangers.

Or just getting anyone to read my thoughts in general.

I never thought anyone would care about anything I had to say.

As it turns out, that wasn’t the hard part.

What hurt was realizing that my words sometimes affected the people closest to me. Sometimes something I wrote caused someone else pain. 

Other times, strangers skipped right over me and directed their opinions at my friends or family instead. 

I hated that. 

They hadn’t signed up for public scrutiny just because I wanted to create something honest.

Somewhere along the way, I started believing that creating freely meant accepting that I’d inevitably hurt people I cared about.

And I didn’t want that.

So I stopped sharing freely.

I chose maintaining my relationships over creating art that was overly vulnerable.

After the chaos of my early twenties, 

and after losing relationships that meant the world to me, 

I slowly became a creative recluse. 

I convinced myself that mystery was kinder than honesty. 

That if I stayed vague enough, private enough, I could protect the people I loved.

Maybe I did.

But I also protected myself from making the kind of art I actually wanted to make.

This year, I’m trying to change that.

Not because I suddenly want to air my dirty laundry across the internet. 

I don’t.

…Usually.

I still believe the people in my life deserve privacy. Their stories belong to them.

But my story belongs to me.

And I’ve realized there’s a difference between exposing people and telling the truth about my own experience.

So my goal this year isn’t to become an open book.

It’s simply to stop covering the pages up.

To write songs that are aggressively and embarrassingly and shamefully honest.

To publish essays that feel so personal, that I get scared when I press “post”

To share paintings, poems, and stories that reflect the way I’ve experienced the world.

The good. The bad. The downright fugly.

It’s still scary. I don’t think that part ever completely goes away.

But I’m much more secure now in my relationships, in my boundaries, and in myself.

And maybe that’s enough courage to start telling my story again.