I never notice how far from myself I’ve strayed until the moment I find my way back.
There are tells.
Synchronicity returns, and I realize how long it’s been. The world stops feeling small and confining, and I remember the way I really want to live. I feel swells of gratitude in my heart and car dance to all my favorite songs everywhere I go, finally aware of how flat life seemed before all this joy returned. I take more pictures of everything and nothing, finding magic in even the most mundane of moments again.
And I write in a very distinct way.
Telling stories upon stories upon stories.
I haven’t stopped writing in the last week since I processed and let go of so much, literally having to pull The Rig over at times to capture the words before they’re gone.
And I can feel how much the writing has changed. How much I feel like myself again as I swim in the endless stream of words.
Thousands upon thousands of words.
Whether or not I’m writing has always been a sign as to how I’m feeling and if things have gone awry.
But I’m finally learning that there’s more to it.
What and how I write are a clear tell around how much I’m feeling like myself and whether I’m living a fully aligned life.
It’s far too easy to lose ourselves with obligations, expectations, shoulds, and to-dos. Grateful to be back home in my own heart and even more committed to never straying away from it again.