what if?

What if I’ve always had the words? What if I never lost them- but what if they were just buried under inaccurate judgements or the fear that i don’t actually have anything of value to say?

What if I don’t really want to have a conversation? What if I don’t want to discuss viruses or elections or any of the other polarizing and divisive topics of our day. What if I just want to deposit beauty here every now and then? Photos, words, gratitude, curiosity, hope, adventure, warmth, things heart-felt.

What if my perspective is limited by my own understanding of the human experience? What if that looks very different from yours?

What if building an authentic life that honors my relationships (including the relationship I have with myself) is sometimes messy and complicated? What if that realness is evident in my writing?

What if some of the people I love the most don’t want to be photographed or written about? What if their other parent doesn’t want them photographed or written about?

What if my own words are taken out of context and used against me? Again.

What if I can’t promise consistency?

What if interesting ideas and deep thoughts stop coming to me or landing on me because I never give birth to them? What if inspiration grows weary of trying to get my attention.

What if I’ve shed a lot of the me that used to write here? What if I’m altogether different now? What if I’m less palatable?

What if my whole life goes by and I was never truly the author of it?

What if I just started writing again? What if I stopped asking questions (which are really just nobly dressed excuses) and slowly started publishing the words that I carry around? I’ve filled enough private journals and notebooks over the last several years. What if I started sharing again? I can’t promise that it will be pretty. There’s a chance that you’ll gain nothing from reading what’s written here. I can promise that it will be me. These will be my words- flawed and true all at the same time. My words.