Personal blogs Wellness

BACK TO BLOGGING.

This is me, setting solid footing for new, intentional steps, more honest and moving goals, and a healthy challenge to self. This is a fresh start, prompted by clarity, and to be upheld by the highest levels of self love and discipline I can muster. This is a writer, finding her way (or writing her way,) out of every self inflicted corner and ditch. 

Hello, and welcome to the blog. 

My name is Katrisha Rose, and I am a writer and artist in the pacific northwest. I am also the author of Remission—A Collection of Writing, which I self published in the fall of 2020. This time last year, and frankly, even when at the time of releasing Remission, I was not able to surely call myself a writer or artist. The truth is, I have always been both of those things, but I also work full time at a totally unrelated job, I am a mother, and I’m going to school. Unfortunately, I do not wake up each morning at sunrise, brew myself a tea, and stroll into my writing den or artist’s studio, work for hours uninterrupted and without conflicting obligations, make beautiful work every single time, and rake in big bucks off my talent, beauty and virtue. Not quite. I wake up when I must, and most days I run my tank empty on entirely non-writing and artistic tasks. This does not mean, nor has it ever meant, that I am not a writer or artist. Even when I did not work on something for weeks, even when I was insecure about my work and myself, and even when I wanted to just be “practical” and stop indefinitely— I was, am, and will always be that writer and artist within. Yes, this is me, making my peace with the calling that I continually seem to be too busy, too afraid, or too tired to answer—I think it’s time to pick up. Not for the sake of money or popularity, but because I feel like I have been clamping my own veins. So don’t mind me if I make a mess, if I must, I must, and I am (finally) okay with that.

To be completely transparent, this is not my first blog. In 2016-2017, just after I had my son, I ran a blog called The Millennial Mama, where I discussed new motherhood and other personal perspectives. The Millennial Mama had something special about it, and I found and built community around the subjects of being 20-something, a new mom, and figuring out things in general at such a transitional time in life. Things have continued to transition, and I continue to be in a perpetual state of figuring things out. I believe there is always room for someone to show up and be imperfectly honest, uplifting as possible, and offer community to others—because life can be excruciating, confusing, beautiful, and seriously conflicting at times. I’ll be the first one to say I don’t have all the answers, and I am on a trial and error journey myself, but I’d like to show up anyway. 

So, what happened to The Millennial Mama? Just like that, I just stopped writing it. I just stopped. There was not necessarily any decline in traffic or apparent failure of the blog whatsoever, it was all internal, it was all me. I got into my head for the thousandth time, and I quietly stepped away like it had never happened. I sift through that blur of time now and I recall a severe onset of postpartum depression, the most heightened anxiety I’d ever felt in my body and mind at that time, I was wracked with insecurity and imposter syndrome, and I don’t think I could stop mulling over that small handful of anon hate comments I got. I just wasn’t ready to trudge ahead and dare to challenge that ongoing and worsening negative self narrative. That’s okay. That blog served a purpose for that time, and I’m grateful to have been able to pour my heart into such welcoming arms when I mutually desired that same support and community I wanted to offer. If you’re reading this, and you are first hand familiar with the Millennial Mama blog, thank you so much for being there, and now being here. Internet wave/covid safe hugs and kisses for you. 

Where do we go from here— I don’t really know, but I have some ideas. For the last couple years when I sat down to write, I mostly wrote poetry or personal journaling. My book, Remission, is mostly poetry and personal journal excerpts. Remission is about a journey I am still on. It very much says, “my first book,” to me, but it literally is my first book, and I love and appreciate it for what it is. It’s good. Even when I am in a mood of self brutalization, Remission is damn good. What I recently realized is, I did what I believe a lot of creatives do. I started to box myself into one thing: poetry. The thing about poetry is, 28 days of the month I feel nothing at all, and on maybe that other 2-3 days, maybe, I wake up to forehead kisses from angels, sunbeams bursting through my skin, and I write poetry with strange, unscheduled, (unreliable,) divine inspiration. This has always been obviously unsustainable to me, but I didn’t know what to do about it. I thought I only wrote poetry. Upon getting back into college courses again, I have discovered a hidden super power: the essay. That piece of writing that knows exactly what it came here to do. It’s not so long that I get utterly lost and overwhelmed, and it’s not so short that I must pinpoint everything in four sentences. Don’t commit me when I say this, but I do enjoy writing a good essay. I am continually developing myself as a writer, quite curiously and ambitiously, and I feel as though a blog, with blog-length pieces, may just be a sweet space to learn.

I have every intention of expressing my opinions freely, telling my truths, and experimenting with topics. This includes things we don’t normally talk about at the water cooler or bring up at thanksgiving dinner. I have decided that I am going to write for myself, finally. I have decided I am going to write without the spread of eggshells underneath the computer keys, and the invisible audience over my shoulder. I also regret to inform you, I will no longer write to cater to people from my hometown, those who’ve created their own versions of me in their heads, those who I have serviced, enabled and ego-stroked by being too polite, ever so demure, insecure, and NOT identifying myself as a writer or artist. Shall we proceed?

That felt good. 

I am so glad to have you here. If you feel so inclined, I invite you to subscribe, pull up a seat, and engage with whatever resonates. I’ll let you know when there is a new read.

Best,

-Katrisha Rose 

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