In this great effort to share vulnerably and authentically, I’m realizing there’s a lot I’ve taught myself to not even consider sharing in any public capacity. And now, I’m not sure where the line is.

Once upon a time I was so religiously Christian that I thought the best way I could help anyone and everyone was by converting them to my religion. That was problematic in more ways than one and I’m not getting into that part of my past right now. Rather, I bring it up because in the process of deconstruction, I swung so hard to the other side that I told myself I could never talk publicly about my spiritual beliefs, and I ingrained that into myself so thoroughly I’d forgotten it was a choice I made.

There have been times I’ve alluded to beliefs or briefly described them, but only as if those sentences exist as a minor piece of context, rather than one of the most crucial contexts of my inner world.

I made that decision not to share those things because I was afraid, and my greatest fear was that people would think that by talking about them I was virtue signaling or trying to convert them.

And honestly? I suspect that’s largely because a part of me still hoped that if I shared my beliefs, it would end up converting others to my way of thinking, or convince them I was a good person. Those desires and the perspectives that shaped them took years of work to undo even after acknowledging I didn’t want to feel that way.

I’ve always been a writer, but I’m one of the odd ones. I’m… an extrovert. *Gasp.* I feel like that has a lot of influence on how and why I write. Among those many reasons is this: as someone who spent most of her life struggling with severe mental illness, I want to help other people not feel as alone as I did.

Plenty of good books do that without the author specifically intending that result. I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on what it is, exactly, that I want to provide. A lot of my favorite storytelling involves a POV that really lets us into someone’s head, where we really get to see what makes them unique in the way they think. The more their thinking varies from mine, the less alone and the more alive I feel. Those differences bring me such joy.

I also write to be seen. Feeling known helps me feel less alone. At the same time, a lot of what I write is exactly what a younger me desperately wanted to read to feel less alone then. I spent years feeling like a deep enough look into people’s heads would have given me examples and validation I sorely lacked. Examples of what adulthood looks like, how we find purpose in day to day life, where we find meaning, how we make sense of this world, what healthy love looks like in every type of relationship, et cetera.

Last January I started writing vigorously again for about two months. In that time I wrote tens of thousands of words, and I posted essays and stories on Substack nearly every single day. Then, I stopped. I disappeared entirely for a bit. Every now and then I’ll post a new essay. Not too long ago I updated my serial for the first time since February. I think twice now I’ve announced I was ready to make a full comeback, and failed almost immediately. In the last few weeks I’ve planned or started or even finished new essays that I never posted, because it all felt wrong. I so desperately want to get back into writing and sharing, and yet something has been off.

Part of it, I know, is that I’m still too deeply entrenched in survival mode to feel like I can absorb myself in things I enjoy. I feel like that’s negligence. And that’s wrong. I need to be able to do those things. So, I’ve been working on acknowledging that I am in fact doing enough about my other responsibilities, or if not, making better choices so that I am and can focus elsewhere.

Part of it, though, is my direction.

I’ve felt directionless for a very, very long time.

There has been one monumental goal that has been on the back of my mind for years. I never allowed it conscious space, because it seemed impossible, and I stopped allowing myself to want or enjoy anything or otherwise explore other aspects of my purpose, because I felt like I wasn’t allowed to, as punishment for the distance between myself and that impossible goal.

I’m pretty sure I knew from the start that this meant I was stuck, but given just how severe my mental illnesses were, that particular trap felt inconsequential.

Until it wasn’t.

Mental illness has not had that influence in almost three years, but some of the decisions and coping mechanisms I chose then still haunt me.

I gave up on everything. I let go of everything I could, because I felt I had to. Because I felt I wouldn’t survive. Because I felt some things needed to survive without me, and others needed to be let go of in order for me to have any semblance of a chance.

Some things I can pick right back up. Others, I can’t. Still some will take a lot more time and hard work.

That’s something of a direction, I guess.

Learning to distinguish between joy and obligation is a painful and slow process. Some things that I once did out of obligation can instead be chosen with joy, if I do the necessary work on my mindset. Some of those things were once done with joy. Some, I now dread even though they did once bring me joy.

And that’s what brings us here.

Spirituality is my top value, followed by Contribution, Love, Growth, and Creativity, supposedly in that order. At least, according to the values test I took recently.

I no longer view spirituality as something we should all conform to. I don’t think there’s one right path or right end point. Instead I view love as the path, and there is no end point. At least, to put it in very simple terms. It brings me so much joy to learn about other’s spirituality, and I find joy in sharing my own as well. Not to convince or convert you. Just to be seen and to share the beauty in what I see. If others can see beauty in that also, even if my beliefs don’t fit their own worldviews, that also brings me joy.

I want to see more people sharing these things casually.

I think the world would be so much more beautiful if we normalized sharing that specific kind of beauty. I think we might also find it easier to respect and appreciate each other, and we’d likely learn more about what we believe, ourselves.

I used to think there was only one right way to believe, and that everyone else was wrong or bad or going to suffer for not believing the same as me. Unfortunately, there are a lot of people out there who still feel that way.

I’d like to write more personal essays that talk in greater detail about how I see the world and what I believe. I imagine people who feel similar to the way I used to will show up with nasty comments eventually. That used to scare me a little. Not anymore.

Though I’m not afraid that I might still have a subconscious desire to convert anyone, I am a bit afraid I’ll tread some kind of wrong line somewhere. I’ve been fortunate to have so many conversations in person with friends and strangers about our beliefs simply for the sake of sharing, but writing with that intention feels like new territory. That, and my own beliefs deepen or change shape (usually in minor ways) all the time.

Still, the idea of opening up in this way excites me. It feels right. I already feel more whole just for considering it.

For all the ways I’ve struggled with feeling alone, I’m sure I was only making it worse by refusing to share this most important part of myself.