Living in Uncertainty

 Uncertainty means letting go of control.

Control has been one of the ways I’ve tried to create safety my entire life. As a little girl, I learned to anticipate, watch, be careful, and figure out what others needed so I could avoid upsetting them.

As an adult, control took different forms. I helped people. I worked. I created. I searched for answers and tried to solve problems. When my body became painful, I searched for answers there too.

What is happening?

What can I do?

What should I try next?

There was always something to figure out.

So perhaps this new place feels so uncomfortable because I can’t control my way through it. I don’t know what comes next, and I don’t like not knowing.

But maybe I don’t have to fix the uncertainty. Maybe I can simply experience it.

I can feel restless without needing to escape the restlessness. I can feel uncertain without deciding something is wrong. I can be uncomfortable and still be safe.

That is a very different lesson for me.

I also don’t want to confuse surrender with giving up the things I love. I still want to create, teach, travel, and live. But perhaps there is a difference between doing something because I genuinely want to and doing something because I need to escape an uncomfortable feeling.

That distinction feels important.

Maybe I can choose.

Not react.

Not escape.

Not control.

Choose.

Perhaps that is what freedom will eventually feel like—not a life without discomfort or fear, but a life where those things don’t make my decisions for me.

Tonight, I’m still restless. I’m still uncomfortable. But maybe I don’t have to like this place yet. Maybe I simply need to get acquainted with it.

Maybe there is a space between fear and freedom—a place where I don’t have to know what comes next or rush to fill the silence.

A place where I can simply be.

Perhaps this is another kind of surrender.

Not surrendering because I’ve run out of answers, but because I no longer need to have all the answers.

I can sit.

I can breathe.

I can feel.

I can wait.

And maybe, slowly, I’ll discover that this strange place I’ve landed isn’t somewhere I need to escape.

Maybe it’s simply somewhere I’ve never learned to be.

And maybe…

A Place I’ve Never Been Before

 I sat with discomfort this morning.

I could feel my body shaking inside.

I was uncomfortable.

Very uncomfortable.

I had made a decision.

Fear was no longer going to run my life.

I expected fear to fight back.

Fear has been with me for a very long time, and I know it doesn’t give up easily.

But neither do I.

What I didn’t expect was what came next.

Restlessness.

I can find something to accomplish.

Something to create.

Something to look forward to.

I’ve always been able to give myself momentum.

But today, I felt restless.

And I realized something.

Restlessness can actually feel painful too. 

I think what I’m experiencing is bigger than restlessness.

I’m used to being motivated by doing.

Doing something gives me somewhere to go.

A craft gives me something to focus on.

A trip to the grocery store gives me a destination.

For most of my life, there has been something to do.

Something to fix.

Someone to help.

Something to accomplish.

And now I feel like I’ve landed somewhere I’ve never been before.

And I don’t like how it feels.

Maybe that’s because I’ve spent so much of my life knowing how to fill the space.

I know how to distract myself.

I know how to help someone else.

I know how to solve a problem.

But what do I do with space?

What do I do with uncertainty?

What do I do when there isn’t something that needs to be fixed right this minute?

I don’t know.

And I think that’s the part that is so uncomfortable.

No More Places to Hide

 When I look back at my life,

I can see all the creative ways

I learned to avoid the things

I didn’t know what to do with.

Before recovery,

I hid my feelings of unworthiness

by helping other people.

I threw myself into creative projects.

I excelled in my career.

From the outside,

I probably looked like I had it all together.

But I knew how I felt about myself.

Others didn’t.

I carried a tremendous amount of shame,

but I became very good at hiding it.

Helping people gave me purpose.

Creating gave me somewhere to go.

Work gave me something to accomplish.

And all of it kept me busy enough

that I didn’t have to look too closely

at the emptiness inside.

It looked like I had a charmed life.

But appearances can be deceiving.

Inside, I felt empty.

For a long time,

I thought I was simply being productive.

Now I can see

that some of it was survival.

I had learned how to build beautiful places

to hide in.

But eventually,

there came a time when

there were no more places to hide.

Recovery began to turn the lights on.

And once the lights were on,

I had to see myself.

The shame.

The fear.

The unworthiness.

The little girl who had been waiting

to be found.

It wasn’t easy.

But perhaps that was the beginning

of becoming whole.

Because you can’t heal

what you keep hiding from.

And today,

I don’t want any more places to hide.

I want to know myself.

All of me.

And finally learn

that I don’t have to accomplish,

create, or rescue my way

into being worthy of love.

I already am.