This Is Not an Update

Reflections on privacy, pressure, and living the story slowly

I have spent seven days trying to figure out what to tell you today.

Last week’s share made me reflect on what should remain private and what should be shared. I’ve gotten so used to telling my business to people on the internet that it’s become my default setting. If I’m going through something, trust: y’all gon know about it.

I share parts of my life that most people would never talk about publicly. My vulnerability is applauded. I show my mess and people think how brave. Writing gives meaning to the mess; it’s a way that I transform poison into medicine for myself and for others. For years I have thought of this as one of my purposes in life — to share my story so that other people may see themselves reflected and feel less alone.

I’ve had the blinds wide open for the last decade. As a writer, it feels normal to have an audience. But I’m starting to question the value of letting people look through the windows of my inner world. I know it’s helpful to other people, but is it helpful to me?

After sharing about my re-entry into the world of polyamory, my newsletter received a record number of paid subscribers. People are — quite literally — invested in what I’m going through and what I have to say about it.

As the subscriptions rolled in, I started to feel pressure about providing an update. I released the pilot and now people are waiting for the next episode.

But I don’t know how this story progresses, and I most certainly don’t want to rush myself through it just to have something to tell.

I like telling my truth, even when it’s hard. Even when it’s painful. I have learned over the years — after many failed attempts — that concealing my truth is a self-destructive habit. Wearing a mask gets exhausting. When I do it for too long, the performance becomes a world of shame.

As I navigate things in my personal life, I write about them. I have shared publicly about my ongoing journey with grief and depression, the aftermath of experiencing the back-to-back deaths of my loved ones, co-parenting my sister’s children with my mother, navigating life as a semi-retired entrepreneur, struggling with finances — the list goes on. There are so many parts of my story I am still writing. There are so many versions of me I am still healing. Still trying to transform.

When I am struggling with something in my life, there is a constant tug-of-war between the desire to isolate and the desire to be held and seen.

There is a part of me that wants to tell you everything. This part of me feels tangled up like a ball of yarn, desperate to be unraveled. This part of me feels so, so alone sometimes, and finds comfort in sitting across from you as I unravel.

And then there is the part of me wants to keep all my cards close to the chest. The part of me that feels protective and proud. This part of me doesn’t want to share anything until everything is neat and tidy — ready to be packed up and presented.

When I am going through something challenging, it takes up so much space in my mind. Sleep is my only source of respite. I wake up and within seconds, it’s right there. All day long, it follows me around. If I’m fully present with an activity or distracted, I can forget it’s there. But sometimes it gets so loud I can’t ignore it, and I have to stop what I’m doing and attend to it.

My feelings get so big they take over the room. Writing is a way of gathering them up, synthesizing and organizing them — finding out what they have to say. Dealing with my emotions is a project that never ends, and sometimes I want to step out of the work-cave and tell you about what’s been going on behind those closed doors.

But today I’m leaving the ball of yarn tangled up. I know it’s there. I feel it resting like a stone in the middle of my chest. My truth is: I feel weary from the work. Tired of sorting. Eager to not have a mess to make sense of.

I’m choosing to compartmentalize — putting everything in a little box to deal with when I can.

I feel like I just finished moving into a new home but life kept going and going and going and there is still so much to unpack. I’ve gotten the daily essentials sorted, but everything else will just have to wait.

I wish I could invite you in to a house that’s organized — a story that’s complete with a moral and victorious character arc — but I’d have to rush myself to get there.

So I’m leaving the boxes taped and tucked away. I’m letting myself live the story slowly, and shutting the blinds for now.

📦One by one,
-Jamila