The Text I Had to Write

From the Archives of my former blog.

Hello Beautifuls,

Welcome to everyone who is new here this week. ❤️ There are so many of you! And always, always, welcome back to everyone who’s been here before. I am grateful for you presence and humbled by your generosity and love. Thank you, thank you.

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My Lovlies,

I wanted to write you something beautiful, something full and alive, something new. But then I realized a couple of things. One, it’s almost 3 p.m. and I haven’t written you yet. And two, what I want most is to connect, not to be new and shiny. Something I’m working on, as you know if you’ve been following along for a bit. I love clothes and loved shopping (do you see that past tense there?) I still kind of like shopping, but the state of the world has me recognizing that I want to be the kind of person who has less and wants less. Who is really actually okay with her life choices. Who believes that where she is is really quite magical and spectacular. And I’m getting there. This isn’t a perfect practice, nothing is, that’s why it’s a practice. But what I do know is that when we show up on our mat, in our lives, every day and we work towards loving ourselves a little more and harshing on ourselves a little less, something changes. Gradually, all at once, both.

As I was thinking all this, I remembered a piece I’d written a couple of years ago that spoke to this path I’ve been on for years. And it seemed appropriate to share on this first post of 2025, because I am kind of over the new new-year shit. New you, new body, new resolutions, new new new. What I want is more of the me that’s always been here. I want to connect with the old me. The original me. The one who was determined, at four, to figure out skiing for the first time. The one who both my parents tell me was sweet and happy and good natured. The one who came into this world knowing that this whole things was one big journey of wonderment, tragedy, experience and TRUST.

I loved reading this post because I could see the earnestness of my fear and bravery. And it’s the same as that little girl on the skis. And it’s the same as the woman now, almost exactly four years later.

Me and my Dad, Bear Valley, Ca. Novebmer, 1978. My dad emailed this to me last week and said, “Such a Jocelyn-ish expression. Such determined concentration…like you’re saying ‘I’m gonna get this right no matter what!’”

Originally posted on February 12, 2021.

I struggled. Wow, did I struggle. I didn't sleep well for three nights. I had repetitive nightmares where I kept running towards and running away from things. Over and over and over again.

In one, I was running late for a big meeting in a foreign city and it was pouring. I was run-walking on wet sidewalks in spikey heels (they were gorgeous btw), crossing busy intersections and searching the skyline for the right building. Sometimes I was wearing a raincoat. Most times I was just getting drenched. I was cold and lost and unsure of where I was going. Metaphorical much?

In another, I was running away from someone. The cops? The bad guys? One and the same? They were always about to break down the front door and I would run to the back of the house, open the back door hoping no one was out there to catch me, run through a side yard full of weeds and junk and then vault myself over a fence to safety.

I cannot vault over anything in real life.

I was struggling in my dreams because I was struggling in my life: With a text I needed to send.

I wasn't trying to end world hunger, or fix the pandemic crisis, or even feed some birds during winter. I was just trying to send a text.

But this text had a big hidden message. I am standing up for myself. I am standing up for myself. I am standing up for myself.

Which, in my experience, is like someone telling me it’s a good idea to swallow some drain cleaner.

I used to think the biggest value I offered my parents as a child was invisibility. Quiet, good. Playing by myself or off at someone else's house. But most of all not making noise. Not taking up space. The less space I took up, the happier they were with me.

The less of me there was, the better.

I used to feel like everyone was always talking over me. I couldn’t figure out why what I was saying seemed unimportant or uninteresting. I’m smart, sometimes I’m funny. I’m a good talker. What the f*ck.

But then, one recent day in the car with my lovely, attentive husband - who has also been known to talk over me, and was doing so at the time - it hit me.

I’M THE ONE WHO BELIEVES WHAT I’M SAYING DOESN’T MATTER.

That’s how it came to me. In all caps. Out-yelling every other thought in my head.

I’m the one who believes what I’m saying doesn’t matter. Holy shit.

And that's the difference between the value we want people to give us and the value they do. What we believe on the inside. What that small, insistent voice is bleating at us all day long. You’re valuable. You’re beautiful. You count. Oh wait, that’s the voice the Zen teachers tell us they have running through their heads. My voice, and probably yours too, sounds a lot more conflicted, a lot less sure of herself. A lot more willing to concede she’s probably fucking something up at the moment, but sometimes might be an okay person. Maybe. We did donate to that dog rescue last month, after all.

That little voice inside us is what the people on the outside actually hear. Not the words, not the volume. The intent.

So. This text. Not just any text, but a text to a CLIENT. She’s a great client. Smart, driven, hard talking, swears a lot. My kind of client. But I had to tell this client (who three months ago mentioned come January, which is now, that she’d probably want me to be a real live employee with equity, but we haven’t had the conversation yet to seal the deal, so no pressure here) that I wasn’t coming in person to her swanky all-day offsite team meeting.

I’m afraid of Covid and and therefore, I’m afraid of sitting in a room of 15 strangers, four of whom just flew in especially for this event, for 12 or so hours non-stop.

In hindsight, this may have been a career mistake. But hindsight, it’s not really a thing, so I’m currently pretending it was no big deal.

But here’s the rub. The text wasn’t really about me being afraid of Covid. That was the vehicle for my words, but the underlying message, the bigger and more important message of this text was, I am standing up for myself. Even when it’s uncomfortable and possibly (okay probably) relationship damaging. Perhaps giving someone I don’t know well, WHO PAYS ME MONEY, good reason to think I’m a bit crazy at best and unreliable at worst.

I am standing up for myself.

She called me immediately after I sent the text. To tell me she understood and she was glad I’d said something.

I told her, You know, I thought about it from your side of things and I realized, I wouldn't want to hire a writer and brand strategist who can’t stand up for themselves, because if they can’t do that, then how can they stand up for my brand?

She paused and said, Exactly.

The all day meeting arrived. I zoomed into a room full of strangers and told them I was afraid of Covid. I felt a little weird. They probably think I’m a little weird. And I am. But I am also a woman who took up her own space. Who said out loud what she needed.

I’ve noticed a difference in how I feel, in what my interior voice tells me, since I started doing this, this believing from the inside out what I’m saying is important, what I think is important, taking up my own space is important.

I’ve also noticed that my husband no longer talks over me.

I thought I’d also share this song with you today. I think this version by Chris Botti is so beautiful. And not just because he holds a single note for about 14 seconds, then continues to play a few another 10 seconds or so, same breath, without a single waver. It’s magical. This man embodies practice and patience.

With so much love,

xoxox

j