🌸 I let my house burn down.

I disappeared. It’s been a few months since I sent out a story. But it’s fine to take a break, right? Nothing bad about taking a step back.

Well, yes.
But also, no.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just about not sending out a newsletter — but it was never just a newsletter.

It started slowly.

Missed a few deadlines. I was busy.

I kept telling myself I’ll send one next month.

I wrote it in my to-do list every night. But every time, I would push it to the next day.

I didn’t have time today. Couldn’t find a story worth telling. Wasn’t inspired to write.

I tried to write. I wrote. And then I told myself: “Who cares anyway?” That’s not interesting…

Little by little, I gave up on this space I created and loved.
Little by little, I gave up on writing.
Little by little, I gave up on me.

That should have been a warning. A deafening siren.

Something’s wrong. DUDE! There’s a fire in the attic, and you’re just standing in the kitchen cooking. (Metaphorically obviously)

In retrospect, there were multiple signs I should have noticed in the past few months showing me I was not ok. Turns out, I’m very talented at ignoring them.

I’m a big plan girl.

Always have ideas for projects.
Always want to try new things.
Always envision what I’ll do next.

This is how I work, and I love to believe that my creativity’s my best friend (or my best quality).

A few months back, I realized:

I had no plans.
I had no mean.
Worse: I had no drive at all to create some.

That little light in my chest was dying.
And I couldn’t care less.

So I let my house burn.

My lungs filled up with smoke, my eyes with tears, and I kept cooking. Coughing.

When I dared looking up from my cutting board, the kitchen was licked by flames — and I was running too hot.

But instead of running, I stood there.
Letting the flames take everything I cared about.

Not able to move.

Until, I realized (tbh, my husband made me realize) I needed the assistance of a professional, because fuck, I was not going to extinguish anything, on my own with my cup of water.

So I asked for help.

“What’s your emergency?”— “Therapy, please!”

She helped me understand that I should have been focusing on the fire in the attic when it was still in the attic (duh!) — since I didn’t, the fire was going to be a long fight, with a lot of crap to deal with once it died.

Now that it’s mostly out, standing in the remaining ambers and ashes, I see it.

I’m picking up things here and there, trying to decide: should I fix it, or should I let it go?

That’s how I ended up looking at Florafolly.

Should I fix this? Or… should I let go?

Florafolly used to be my safe place.

I missed it every month I did not write.
But I understand now that it was not a choice — I just couldn’t.

But I’m not ready to let it go.
I’m determined to make it mine again.

Maybe it’ll change.
Maybe it’ll stay the same.
Maybe…

I haven’t figured it all out.

But I’m going to try this new thing where I don’t need to have a clear plan, or path, in front of me to walk.

I’m going to take one step a day.
Write one word.
Pick up one ash.

And like a phoenix, I’ll rise again.

Love always,
Flora