ON FINDING A JOURNAL FROM 17

A journal entry from age 17. 

I sank to my knees. With each syllable, tears sprang to my eyes, so by the end the dam of emotion spilled over onto my cheeks, down my neck, cascading down my chest. Rivers of revealed devastation. 

 May 8, 2009

“Garrett (my brother) did very well at his track meet today, taking 1st in the long jump and the 400. I am so proud of him, he’s really starting to hit his stride. But I hate that I also can’t help to think about myself. I’m a failure. I’ve done nothing and it even feels like my horse training sucks and I’m not doing anything special with them. Garrett’s amazing at guitar, singing, track, cross country, has so many friends and girls always swooning over him, and I’m basically doing nothing. Once again, he’s the star and I’m just…his fan. I mean, what can I say I’ve done? I’m good at getting in car accidents and having surgeries and up-ending everyone’s lives and getting sick and causing trouble. Everyone has some kind of claim to fame in this family and compared to the rest of my siblings I’m just taking up useless space. I feel so gray, so boring and unachievable. I’m not jealous of Garrett, I just wish I had my own thing that I totally dominated, but it seems like everything I do and try is a losing battle, even with my horses it’s hard because of my injuries and I can’t stay consistent enough to get them to their potential. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just be that loser sibling who never actually does anything. I feel sad. I feel sorry for everyone putting up with me. I hate pity and I feel like everyone pities me right now. Like, “she’s the Wolle always getting hurt and going to doctors and troubling her family”. Probably being dramatic, but that’s how it feels. I wish I could see into the future.”

Every cell in my body held its breath. Each vein in my heart was ripped and shredded. I have always had a perfectionism streak, a weird juxtaposition of being the oldest twin and youngest duo of the family. Growing up with a range of interests, yet nothing felt like it was mine to own except my horses, that of course was marred by a car accident. I was so harsh and severe with myself. A baby and felt like a failure for supposedly not having dominated something. So much despair. My poor, sweet girl. To grab her face, pull her to this year. Sit her down and have a powerpoint presentation. Smooth the worry lines in her forehead that I still carry. Tell her to soften. I want to release her from the comparison and mental games, the dangerous thoughts that come and go and sometimes stay longer than is healthy. To release her from feeling like she has to fit in and belong anywhere, that we end up creating that belonging and sense of home wherever we go. 

And I think it’s so triggering, because in my heart there are new ways that I still believe those same things, right? How have the circumstances shifted but my thoughts have remained the same? When I turn 40, what will I think while perusing my journals from year, age 30? I do acknowledge that I am quite a bit wordier now, so I will probably be breathing through and going, “oh my god get to the point, but….wow”. I hope I don’t have as much blinding me, paralysis of decision making, a block meaning I’m unable to see the beauty and unique perspectives, forgetting to live in the moments while I have them. I fight for it every day, am better about it now, but in what ways am I still that 17 yr old? 

Therapy has garnered healing inner child wounds, however, it feels like we haven’t made it that far, as much as I’ve gone. Thinking of getting to age 17 seems daunting, even getting into my 20’s feels insurmountable when there is so much to work with early on. My other childhood journals are back at my parent’s house and honestly, I am so thankful for that. I might never have been able to find my way back from that rabbit hole. 

How do we heal these wounds within us? Some so subtle we forgot they were there, hidden beneath layers and layers of scar tissue, glossed over and forgotten because of more adult items and situations. Acknowledging, going back, holding yourself at that age, asking what you needed and giving it to them, looking around now and opening your eyes to how you still keep those patterns in play. What do you need to do to make changes, to release. 

What are some ways the 17 year old version of you is still active in your life? Do they come out in romantic relationships, work situations, friendships? Do you see yourself through their eyes, still as 17 and craving so much more? The teenage film covering all of the amazing things you have done and experienced? 

I saw this TikTok about saving a compliment from a boss for a “work folder” to use then when asking for a promotion. Now I think I have to start a “Badass Folder”, where I save pictures or texts or things that I’ve done, from cool friend hangs, adventures, to work stuff and trips, etc, for the bad days, the gray, to look through the folder and remind myself/us where we’ve been, what we’ve done.

Because, baby, look at us go. 

The Houses that Built You

I am writing this alone, in the woods, sitting upon the remains of a once warm and active hearth. A forgotten homestead, its walls non-existent, the only nod to days past is the outline of a foundation and the brick fireplace, along with what I am sure are active ghosts.

As I trace my footsteps along the perimeter of what once was, glimpses of what it had been keep rising to my conscious, filtering in with reality. It is here. It is here because someone had the dream and vision for it. It is here because someone took what they had and made it into a physical object. Now, due to circumstances or situations, bones remain where walls once stood, memories have been passed down through generations or maybe they too, have been laid to rest alongside their hosts.

But the courage to build it stays.

This made me think humans in terms of houses. The houses we build, friendships, projects, or own internal awareness, houses built for love, adventure, care, healing. The house we present today, as now, maybe it’s brand new, paint still drying, perfect lighting, shiny appliances. I like this house, am excited for you to walk me through it, giving me the guided tour of all the things learned and seen. Yet, I want to see more. Not the finished basement or the four car garage, I want to see the remnants of the houses that have burned to the ground, the ones you have abandoned in parts of town no one goes. Show me the shaky foundations or the walls you took sledgehammers and the beams that crashed when everything fell apart.

I want to see the charred remains of the houses you have been, the homes you have built for other people. Because the house you are building now? It will all make sense. Why you chose the oak over the cherry, the brass pulls instead of the silver. The fenced in yard versus the open back that butts up to the forest. To know you now means more when I know your past. I want to revel in the houses you can’t wait to show me, that you are so proud of, as well as the ones you left condemned.

I want people in my life who have started over and over again. Rebuilding over and over again what they thought they knew and becoming who they are meant to be.

I want to know a thousand structures of you.

Stolen Moments

This post had me writing late last night, unable to sleep, beats pumping through the pathways in my body. It feels like these little electrical pulses that radiate through to my hands, at the same time making me feel strangely powerful and also concerned about my circulation. The hum? Has anyone else felt that? An energy moving that has to be explored and it won’t let you rest until it manifests. This gentle ebbing of something needing to break the shoreline, crash into the rocks and ignite upward.

I’ve been deep diving into vintage photographs recently, mainly due to discovering the trove of vintage National Geographic archives on Pinterest. Something I grew up on, the rare treat my parents actually bought and the stacks that lined our shelves, certain issues dog-eared, coffee stained, what the pages contained setting free imagination, yearning for foreign lands and strangers, exotic cultures and customs. But there’s also something else to the photographs, it stirs something, breathes something..

Pictures mean a lot to me, yet while my friends have been able to grind past the barrier, I’ve rarely let lovers or boyfriends take pictures of me. Like, regular pictures, no nudes or sexy-ness (sorry if that’s disappointing). It’s happened occasionally but even now I cringe thinking they have those memories on their phone (or maybe not and I’m being super vain). I keep trying to dig into the meaning and background of this and don’t worry, my dear therapist who is probably reading this, we’ll be talking about this as soon as we finish EMDR on that other thing. I choke, freeze, turn into the most awkward object in the room and feel like something is being stolen from me, without permission. Maybe it’s because I knew that we would never last or it was a passing fling, maybe it’s because there are legit only 5 photographers in the world that I actually trust to take my picture. But it makes for the innocent, relaxed, uncensured moments to be few and far between. The stolen moments where we aren’t faced with the split second decision to be real or a manicured version of ourselves.

It’s so strange. There is Native American folklore about pictures that also share similar thoughts with mirrors. Certain tribes (specifically from the Great Plains) believed that to let your picture be taken, that meant your soul was stolen by the camera and it disrespected the spirit world. So they were terrified when the white settlers started rolling through with cameras and wanting to document. Eventually though, they came to view photographs as cherished possessions and ancestral heritage.

It does, though, capture a part of your spirit, and soul. It captures you in a moment either of vulnerability, of happiness, perhaps caught off-guard and unprepared or inviting because you want your image captured.

But I see these pictures and they make my heart ache. I want to know everything, I want to be there with them, I want to know what they were talking about, loving, hating, worrying, what stirred them with passion and what left them wondering. Because, inevitably, most of these humans captured are either gone from this world or older and in a phase of life that is in a different realm. And, you never know. You never know the last time you are going to see someone or experience something with them.

And I am living in the era of the magazine, I’m in the era of vacations with friends and a body that usually cooperates (minus past injuries but hey, can still ski, barely). Pre Covid, hopefully soon somewhat post, the dinner parties and birthdays and days at the lake, the nights at the bowling alley, the bars we haunted and the land we ran across to the lakes we skinny dipped in. They were living for the time and memories, not the picture, not the gram. It happened to be captured, it wasn’t captured to say that it happened. They didn’t take the picture and then stop what they were doing to post about it, something that I’m quite guilty of doing, although I try to be cognizant of those kinds of actions.

What happened to living and not simply existing, existing to post or show a perfect life. To not immediately looking at the angle of my thighs or the bend in my arm, correcting immediately to take five more pictures and choosing one minutely distinct from the rest. I want to talk about the things that matter and don’t, to talk about memories of past trips and upcoming events, theories of the universe and stories of the sky. What is inspiring and dumbfounding, boils our blood and stupefies us in wonder. To be so curious about something to go there without a perfectly planned trip or itinerary and least of all, cell service. When did we, when did I, stop living like that.

But, I do want the pictures to remember it. To recall the times when my body was young and nubile, my cares were less and laughter came easy. When the get-up-and-go was simple and awe was easily attainable. When my worn, wrinkled and sun leathered hands pick up the picture of my girlfriends and I, flashes of the dance parties, awkward encounters, beautiful meals, shared moments and the stunning joy of youth plays through my mind like an old movie reel.

I’ll get lost in a daze, the summer nights that felt endless, cigar smoke blowing, laughter ringing, drinks sloshing, and the conversation flowing like honey. Closing my eyes to the sound of my friends voices, both comforting and devastating. That velvet humidity slipping over my skin like a dip into water, the honeysuckle riding the occasional breeze like a perfume accompanying Mother Nature gliding through the door.

I don’t really have pictures from those nights, or many nights and days. I do want them though. Even just one. One picture. To fill the albums my daughters and granddaughters will comb through one day, looking for evidence that I was once like them. I will slyly tell them stories of past lives, as they get older adding more details and audaciousness, maybe even causing a gasp or two. I’ll smile because for the boundaries and barriers, the things and rules that I held onto for too long, thank god there were times I just didn’t.

Let your spirit be stolen, just for a moment. Then let it free again.

Tiger Kitty Tears - A Cocktail

An odd name for a cocktail, to be sure. I’ve said how much I hate long, drawn out paragraphs to recipes because we don’t need to know every minute detail of the weekend you just had, but this one does owe some backstory.

It was the week of the launch for Wild Wednesdays. I was exhausted, suffering from Impostor Syndrome, questioning everything I’ve ever done and will I ever make enough money to like, have a savings account much less buy a house or send my plant babies to college. The spiral hit and every issue I’d bottled up inside came bursting forth. I couldn’t stop it. Family issues, hurt and disappointment from romantic relationships, that comparison of legit everyone is better and more talented than me, feeling like everything I was touching wasn’t good enough, people were disappointed in me and I was running at 100000% but the production was 50%. That I was choosing to do this thing that I felt so compelled and drawn to but was it all a complete joke and should I just go get a desk job somewhere and let them start calling me Kathy and die a slow, drawn out death but be able to chat about my 401K.

So, instead of working out, my roommate sat at the kitchen table with me, tears streaming down my face, my breath catching and voice shaking as I unloaded it all, ashamed that I was feeling and acting like a child and yet I couldn’t stop. My chest ached and my heart hurt. Barely able to see through the barrage of tears, my hands fumbled around my bar cart, picking up bottles, putting them down, keeping the ones that felt right, until I had ingredients in front of me.

I needed to play and produce one thing right. Something to end the day. To close on a high note and be born anew in the morning. It wasn’t really about the cocktail, getting drunk or showing off my perfect life and perfect skills on social media. It was about the familiar, the unknown and, mostly, trusting my instincts. The same instincts that I’ve trusted through this entire process and that haven’t let me down, but because of the world, insecure people projecting their shit, lack of grounding and burning the candle at both ends, I’d started second guessing.

So I played.

I didn’t think. I didn’t second guess. I didn’t measure carefully. Tears ran down my face and splashed onto my arms, I’m sure a few forayed into the shaker. I felt.

It was exactly right.

And so was that night. While I don’t advocate for always treating your friends as therapists, there are time and places when that happens authentically and I am always and forever grateful to the humans who have been there for me in moments like that, and feel honored when I can be that person for one of my friends. We skipped a workout for a walk and Mexican Food, a movie and margaritas. I handed my worries to the next day and in the end, it was perfect.

It can be hard when you live the type of life that no one has a rule book for or hands you the to-do list to be successful or is like, here’s your tasks for the rest of your life. It’s exciting and thrilling, freeing and inspiring. The world is ours and can be intoxicating with the possibilities. And yet, to produce all the time can take you to dark places, is terrifying, constantly putting yourself out there because the separation between art/work/self is a constant battle.

So, close your laptop at 5, put down your brush, place your camera back into its case. Do something creative that isn’t for production. Write some thoughts to burn. Treat yourself like a child and eat some food and put yourself down to bed early.

love your life

“your life. love it. from the hurt to the wonder. from the bone to the flower. love it. with everything you’ve got. it’s yours.” - Nayyirah Waheed

Many people see what I post and think my life is this beautiful, carefree, magazine editorial full of stunning dinners and beautiful art, and it is. I love my life. I love what I’ve created and the collisions of beautiful circumstances that has led to the humans who are my loves and community and friends. But I also choose to love my life. Because it’s full of dark, trauma, scratching to survive and pulling myself up from the depths of things I thought I might never recover from. I’ve been exhausted since the day I was born. My life is beautiful, because I know the other side. If you’re jealous, know that I work every day. Infants have more money in their bank accounts because everything I have I pour back into my business or collaborations or friends. I haven’t shut off my email or not worked on a trip or vacation in 3 years. Networking, promoting, dreaming and scheming is constant for all aspects of my jobs. At the end of the day, I have no one to rely on, my parents don’t financially support (as they shouldn’t) or partner who has a stable job or health insurance where if my own work falls away it’s ok because there is backup. My life has never been safe or secure.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve always had that insatiable feeling that has me running towards it, towards more and knowing I’m creating something more. Chase the light. Creating it.

So, love your life. Love the way your sheets feel as you crawl into bed, the way the light filters through your bathroom window. Love the way therapy wrecked you this week or the hard decision you had to make for your family. Love delving into the dark depths you keep shutting away so that the light can shine brighter. Love the fact you can leave your desk job at 5pm on Friday and not think about it until Monday morning, or the way you work on your passion project every chance you get. Love letting yourself play, create to create. Love your life. It’s yours.