I’ve been experiencing a bit of a mind-fuck with social media and blog posts of late, where I enjoy the process of writing IMMENSELY, not knowing where I’ll end up when I start; but often unconsciously creating an arc—because the act of writing changes me. I am different when I finish than when I started.

And then, I am so EXCITED to share what I’ve written with all of you!! I have poured myself into it, treating the subject with as much honesty, humor and compassion as my current evolution of self is capable of at this particular moment in time—and therefore I know that it is good.

It is good by my standards.

And finally, I hit the “Publish” button. Oh, boy— this is where things get ugly. I try to carry about my day, now checking my phone twice, thrice, 40 times per hour; and I observe in horror as my prior feelings of delightful child-like GLEE plummet magnificently in direct proportion to the inverse relationship between how many “views” it has gotten; and how many hearts/comments it gets.

100 views in the last hour but nobody has even “liked” it so much as commented on it yet?

People hated it.

Until a month or two ago, I was usually able to get myself out of this spiral; tapping back into the wise part of myself that knows, people are just busy! Of course nobody saw it, I posted at 2am on a Sunday! They are just contemplating; maybe they will circle back and comment later!

Or even wiser:

I don’t need outside validation for something that felt really fucking good to write.

But recently, with regards to my last couple of posts about auditions, I actually know for a FACT that there are some people who hated it (ie, my colleagues). This has lead to my being absolutely terrified to step foot back into Maison Symphonique, the gorgeous hall where the Montreal Symphony performs (my regular gig as a freelance violinist for the last 11 years); not to mention feeling paralyzed from writing publicly again.

(Side note, I actually shame-cleared my locker out a few weeks ago by cover of night; even though a virtual meeting with the concertmaster, the principal 2nd violinist and the fantastic new personnel manager made it very clear that while it was their duty to inform me that I’d upset some people, they understood where I was coming from; and that I am welcome to work with them again whenever I feel ready. I love and respect these three very much.)

In any case, this is the first time in the history of this blog that I’m starting to feel like this isn’t a safe place for me to share absolutely EVERYTHING, anymore. Glerp.

I really, really want to be able to share my full self in my writing, ugly bits and all—but in order to do this, I think I need to create a space where I feel supported and understood. I don’t want just anybody to be able to wander into the darkest parts of my psyche anymore. Sharing my most vulnerable thoughts and feelings for free has started to feel like plastering posters of my naked body all over town, with my home address written underneath.

“Come on over! Do whatever you want in here, I won’t know it’s you!”

I want to write about the career of 20 years I am leaving behind in a brutally honest way; as a way to process and release the pain I’ve been holding onto silently for all these years.

I want to write about what it’s like to move from a big city to a small town in the middle of nowhere; where everyone waves at each other and I feel like I’ve stumbled on a magical land straight out of a fairy tale. But where I also feel so isolated at times, it’s like the breath is being knocked out of me.

I want to write about how much it hurts to witness friends that I considered so dear in the past, slip away as I become a new version of myself. As they become new versions of themselves.

I want to write about the rough patches I have with my boyfriend, in a way that is clear to everyone reading, that I absolutely LOVE this person. I want to make fun of him, in the most compassionate, hilarious way—without worrying that his entire extended family and all of his ex-girlfriends are reading it.

I want to write about how beautiful and HARD it is—as a woman who has chosen thus far not to have kids—to suddenly be a parental figure to a sweet, stubborn, bright, messy, shit-disturbing 15-year old boy.

I want to write about anger, and grief, and sadness, and fear, and trauma, and triggers, and sex.

Good lord, I want to write about sex. That completely natural act that many of us engage in, that we feel like we CAN’T TALK ABOUT IN PUBLIC FOR SOME REASON. I want to write about that!

So dear readers, if you are still with me, I hope you’ll understand what I need to do next. I need to create a barrier of sorts, to make sure that the people who come into my home are here for the right reasons:

-You love me and/or support my work 🙂

-I make you laugh—or at least, smile!

-You feel seen and understood when you read my writing.

-You want to travel under the surface of things with me and get fucking REAL.

-You understand that we are all human, we all fuck up, and we’re all just doing our goddamn best.

If this is you, consider yourself officially invited over to “Twinkly-Eyed Mischief,” my brand new Substack!

If you are not familiar with Substack, it’s essentially a playground for writers in which we feel much more supported and like part of a community than other platforms ❤

By clicking the button below and becoming a subscriber to “Twinkly-Eyed Mischief,” you are telling me that it is safe to share myself completely with you. You are not just here to ogle at the GLORIOUS CAR WRECK that is my life sometimes; you are going to actually slow down, get out of your car, and stand here with me as we watch old versions of ourselves burn up in flames. We will gently witness each others’ grief, saying silently, “I see you in your pain, and I’m so sorry for your loss.”

And then we will alchemize our pain into something so incredibly beautiful, it inspires others to get out of the car, too.

Much love to you all, and see you on the other side!