The Whispers

Relapse, Restitution, and Revival

(TW: Eating disorder, and alcohol addiction. Actually, all my posts should just come with a TW watermarked at the top)

I attended a writers retreat for contributors of the popular Her View From Home writers platform a few years ago. Set in the mid-west at an actual farm with sweeping views and real-life fireflies at dusk, it was as picturesque as you could hope for in a retreat to solicit inspiration, camaraderie and faith.

Leslie Means, the founder of Her View, spoke about ‘the whispers.’ The whispers were from her ‘Knowing’ (as Glennon Doyle would say) and they told her to create this space for mothers to write about all things parenting. The whispers told her if she built it, they would come — a reference to the epic movie Field of Dreams.

I sat in that audience, inspired and excited. I was honored to be part of such a well respected group of writers. But I also carried a deep secret inside me.

I was a fraud. I was a phony. Sure, I called myself a writer that day amongst the group. I shared my passion and my hope for my writing. But deep down? I carried the weight of imposter syndrome. I would never let myself follow my passion for writing — not completely. I would keep my day job. I would only dabble in writing on the side because I am a responsible adult.

Fast forward to 2022.

I am 20 years into my marketing career and I am MISERABLE. Stressed, depleted and angry. The work-life “balance” is BS. Lean in? How bout lean-the-eff off?

It’s make-believe and we are all just gritting our teeth and holding ourselves together like ticking time bombs.

My passion project (writing) is what’s kept me chugging along, though. And I am pinching myself because I just signed a book deal (yay me!) and figure I can write the book in the early mornings and on weekends. Because that’s what a responsible adult would do. “Don’t quit your day job, poser,” imposter syndrome sneers at me.

But here I am, working a real job, and ready to fall to my knees. I am so stressed at work, I’m starting to have regular panic attacks and yes, my eating disorder has reared it’s ugly head again. Four years sober from alcohol, I feel myself unravelling to a dark place. I have nightmares (real, bonafide nightmares) about missing deadlines or angering my boss.

And in a brief moment of clarity I hear the whispers: “What are you waiting for?”

I pause. What am I waiting for? Well, I’m making money for my family. I’m following my career path. I’m making sure we have good health insurance. I’m being a responsible human, dammit.

But I hear it again — Honey, what are you waiting for?

I’m killing myself slowly. I’m holding my head over a toilet bowl again. I’m back on anxiety meds to quell the panic and shakes. I’m feeling triggered to drink again, not enough to actually do it — but enough to notice and early enough to pivot. This is not where I’m suppose to be.

The funny part — and yes, it’s funny, I promise. My gut has known all along what to do. My job was always a distraction from the truth. And I knew it. I knew it with every meaningless meeting. With each “I just want to circle back” email. And every time I prioritized work over time with my kids, or myself, or yes, even my physical health. Because it took me literally purging — PURGING — for my gut to finally get my attention.

So I listened to the whispers. The ones who have been telling me to turn to writing for years now. I’m going to focus on my book. A real book deal (something I’ve dreamed of but now that it’s here I haven’t been able to feel genuine joy because I’ve been so stressed out at work).

I’m going to pursue my writing like it’s my job, not a side hobby that doesn’t mean anything. Because our passions mean EVERYTHING. We only get one shot at life. One shot at making it count. And every time we push what we love aside, we are subconsciously telling ourselves we don’t matter.

And we’ll see where it takes me. Or where I take it. Because I might succeed, or I might fail. If I build it, will you come? I don’t know.

But dammit, I’m going to finally listen to the whispers before it’s too late. Before I pick up a drink just to silence the voice that now bellows like guttural cry — What are you waiting for? it begs me.

Please just listen. Have faith. You are a writer.

So I will write.

***

Thank you for reading, and thank you for being here. Did you love this post? You can support my writing by being a paid subscriber. Not ready or able? No worries, I got you. Free subscribers will receive 1-2 posts a month. Paid subscribers will receive 1-2 additional posts a month available only to them, as well as access to the comments section and 1-2 videos a month. Regardless of whether you are paying or not, I APPRECIATE YOU. You are why I’m here.