My dears,

An explanation of my extended silence

I’ve gone silent. I know.

Halfway through last year, I lost all desire to “live out loud.” The world, it seemed to me, was screamingly loud enough already. I did not want to add another voice to the cacophony. I wanted to push the universal mute button for us, to white noise over the constant siren of talking that accosts us in every feed and channel.

I withdrew in an effort to go inward, to hushen up the input enough to allow in clarity of thought and feeling. To get quiet enough to hear the whispers of my soul. (That word... I know. It makes me cringe too. But I haven’t found a better one to encapsulate the tiny seed buried inside that’s programmed to grow into the lush canopy of Self. If you have, please let me know.)

In that time, I drastically reduced my consumption: of podcasts, social media, and even books (I read a grand total of two all year). For over a decade, I tried all the systems that promised deeper self-knowing: astrology, Human Design, Gene Keys, the enneagram, Soul Contracts, past life regressions — you name it! I joined countless programs and retreats, invested heavily in self-study materials, only to feel I was “learning” who I was according to someone else’s definition. Which… kind of defeats the whole point, don’t you think? I wanted to absolve myself of outward influence, release from the gravitational pull towards the shiniest bauble or the loudest voice. To take back my autonomy from any outside authority that claimed to somehow know better than me about… me.

I wanted to coax the baby bird of my subconscious to the surface.

And while my overall mental health drastically improved, I didn’t take many steps towards the larger quest of answering the question that’s haunted me for decades: What am I here for?

Now I know, intellectually, that our mere existence is inherently purposeful. That just being who we are is enough. That each grain of sand is needed to make up the beach. But I also deeply sense a more specific reason for being, and a desire to shed the costumed garments and roles assigned to me and return this factory model to wholeness. To return home to myself.

Because I was baptized, like we all were, into the cultural programming of productivity before I could sign my name on any dotted line consenting to it. I have taken on identities that were both ill-fitting and ill-advised. (I have often felt like a stack of puppies in a trench coat, and I can only imagine I looked like one.)

Oh, sweetie, I think, looking back. You tried so, so hard. To fit in, to please, to contribute. To be someone you’re not but who you perceive as acceptable.

It’s time to stop trying.

But stepping off the carousel is frowned upon. Breaking the mold is heretical. Disrupting the pattern is chaotic. The simple act of resting or just refusing to chase continual improvement is spit in the eye of the system, and the guilt that comes from this rebellion is real. So it’s taken a bit of extra elbow grease to remove the residue of [inadequacy / guilt / shame / fear / frustration / anxiety] that comes from discarding a blueprint without plugging into another. And it turns out just getting quiet is not enough to overcome it.

I’ve stepped off the well-worn path, into the deep wilds of the unknown where hungry forrest creatures snatched up any trail of breadcrumbs. And now, I can admit, I need a little assistance. (Pride will make you stumble, but using crutches, I humbly remind myself, is a progression toward learning to walk again.)

What I’m talking about is structure. I’m no good at creating it for myself. I don’t know where to start, and once I do, I question every step. Most routines I’ve spent time carefully crafting go by the wayside the second something like illness or a poorly scheduled dentist appointment disrupts my schedule, and it’s hard for me to get back on track.

So this year, I’m committing myself to finding and embodying my life’s purpose with some scaffolding in place. (Again, my inner cynic/critic cringes at this proclamation. But I know dismantling this voice that tries to protect me from discomfort also blocks me from shedding the faux fur of the ego.) I’ll be doing this in community, with the help of a guide and a rigorous curriculum of practices and reflections. I’m curious and open to whatever emerges, and whether that involves writing about it here or not.

I want to thank you all who have read my words and lifted me up over the years with your generosity of spirit and support. In the last 7 years, I have stepped beyond many default purposes of safety, security, comfort, material success, etc. But there’s always more. So I will continue pruning back the trappings that lead to complacency and obscure the lighted temple beyond the hedges. Because I want to more fully experience life from a place of my true purpose, to discover the gift of service that I was born to offer this world.

I’m thinking of this year as what in Old Irish they would call an immram, a seafaring journey to the Otherworld in order to fulfill one’s destiny. I welcome any prayers to tuck into my breast pocket for the road. I’ll carry your kindness with me, wherever the winding path may lead, and will send some courage and peace on the wings of carrier pigeons to meet you on your own.

Slán go fóill, mo chairde.

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Because who says it better than Rumi?