Letting Go


You know that scene in Forest Gump where he’s running forever in the same direction and everyone thinks it’s just the best thing ever? And then suddenly he decides I think I’ll go home now? That’s me right now. I think I’ll go home.

This year, I’ve come to the realization that I’ve kept hold of things, I mean white-knuckled-death-grip on things that were no longer bringing me joy or serving purpose because I never allowed for myself to entertain the idea of letting them go.

I don’t know how that happens exactly, but I’ve also come to the understanding that I’m not alone in this. I’m thirty years old, and only just now am I giving myself the permission I’ve needed to just be my damn self.

I’ve accepted my quirks and weirdness and would prefer not to keep any of it tucked away, hidden for fear of judgement. I’ve started to find my people, and with that I’ve learned what unconditional love and full acceptance actually feels like. And for the first time in my entire life I feel like I actually can do what I want, and that being myself isn’t anything to be ashamed of.

[Tweet “I want real and open and candid. I want purpose and relate-ability. I want to say what I need to say and maybe what you need to hear.”]

I want real and open and candid. I want purpose and relate-ability. I want to say what I need to say and maybe what you need to hear. I want to feel less alone, and I want you to feel like you’re not the only one who _____.


I’ve spent most of my life being told who I am and worse what I am. I was bullied in middle and high school for being quirky and weird, for not fitting in. I was called slut and whore for being friendly. I got chastised for talking too loud only to then have my silence misinterpreted as bitchiness. It always seemed that no matter which way I stepped, I was wrong. So after a while, I stopped bothering.

And that’s where I messed up. That’s where I failed. I stopped using my voice. I stopped trying. I allowed myself to be boxed in and bullied into submission. I allowed opinions louder than my own dictate my life.

I’ve chosen my own path. I’m doing my own thing. But if I keep it all to myself what the hell good is that doing? I’ve spent the majority of my life quietly rebelling, slamming my shoulders into the walls praying they’ll come crumbling down quietly.

And that stops now.

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  1. kristen

    October 17, 2016 at 3:04 pm

    everyone is always wrong in someone’s opinion, so as long as you aren’t wrong in your own opinion, you’re good. so you do you girl. you’re amazing, don’t listen to anyone who says otherwise.

  2. Kristin Darhower

    October 17, 2016 at 6:57 pm

    I think you need to read The Life-Changing Magic of Not Giving a F*ck. Just because I read it over the weekend and it was practically designed for a yes-man; advice for someone who has trouble saying no, basically.
    And yes. I have a RBF by nature, so my silence is ALWAYS interpreted as snobbiness. Being naturally shy is something I can’t quite overcome.

    Anyway. Excited to follow along (as always!) and soooo glad you came to peace on your “flaws” :):)

  3. Leslie

    October 17, 2016 at 9:54 pm

    I LOVE this post. Especially the part about getting judged for talking to much and then thought of as bitchy for not talking. I still get this all the time and I’m starting to learn to just get over it. I’m me and whoever doesn’t like it can move right along 🙂

  4. Myra

    October 18, 2016 at 6:28 am

    I love this new beginning that we are embracing together! Love you, gush.

  5. Kim

    October 20, 2016 at 7:51 am

    Not surprisingly, again I feel like you are describing my life. In junior high & high school I was surprisingly self-assured (or at least that’s how I remember it) and then adulthood hit and I became completely insecure and only recently have tried to fight those feelings off. Most of my friends have known me since high school- but I think they got used to me being insecure and now don’t know what to do when I assert myself a little bit more- it’s hard but worth it! <3 this new blog.

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