A love letter to me and a soft return of Interiors by Beck

I haven’t published a blog post in over two years. I’ve missed this creative outlet so much and have dreamed of writing again, but I’ve let fear block me. I can’t tell you how many half-baked mood boards I have in my Canva account that have been collecting dust waiting to be shared.

I felt embarrassed and lost — so many negative thoughts and self-doubt swirled through my mind. What if I start posting again, then I take another break and feel like a lazy failure? What if I post and my boyfriend (at the time) thinks it’s lame? (We broke up, thank goodness). What if people judge me for writing frivolous blog posts for my twenty-one subscribers as if it’s important? The list goes on.

That version of me was an unhealed, directionless, young woman who was badly hurting. I mistakingly thought I couldn’t do anything right, and if I just changed myself :’) then everything would be okay. Looking back I feel heartbroken for her — someone so self-critical, insecure, and desperate to be enough.

But I’m done entertaining the negative self-talk. I’m done posing hypotheticals where the end result has me failing. I’m done letting insecure people in my orbit who put me down to elevate themselves. And I’m done letting fear, anxiety, and perfectionism rule my life.

The Becca I knew eighteen months ago is a mere memory now. The old her had to take a leap of faith and move to Chicago without a job with a man she hardly knew. The old her had to fall madly in love and go through a painful, dysfunctional relationship to finally wake up and realize what she’s worth. The old her needed to recognize she was so eager to please that she’d abandon herself just to reduce the odds of her partner abandoning her. The old her had to go to therapy, actually communicate her feelings out loud, and do people-pleasing homework her therapist assigned her. The old her had to be torn down, so she could build herself back up into someone with a voice and self-compassion. And the old her had to humor her logical, pragmatic self and go to a psychic in order to question her pre-conceived limiting beliefs and crack the door open to newfound spirituality.

I’m ready to embrace positive thinking and manifest nothing but good things — after all, like calls to like. I’m ready to call joy and success into my life. I’m ready to attract a kind, supportive partner who tells me I’m pretty on my birthday and is so god damn zesty for life they’re practically a key lime fucking pie. I’m ready to start listening to my intuition and doing things that fuel me. I’m ready to find my purpose and start living in accordance with it. And I’m ready to start writing blog posts again because it’s fun, and I enjoy it.

No matter how dark some days were over the last eighteen months, I’m grateful as hell for them. I now understand those experiences were happening for me, not to me. It wasn’t a random coincidence. Everything — the good, the bad, the ugly — happened for a reason. I needed the lows to kickstart my healing and wake the fuck up. It was all part of my plan and brought me to my twenty-eighth birthday feeling hopeful, proud, excited, curious, clear-headed, open, loved, and sparkly.

Here’s to self-development, new beginnings, and a soft return of Interiors by Beck. I’m happy to be back.