I used to write a lot. Blog posts, journal entries, brain dumps, lists. I must have had five notebooks going at a time. Collections of thoughts. Complete thoughts. Incomplete thoughts. Random wonderings. Whole pages of processing. Bullet points of darting thoughts.

It was a process.

Then I went silent.

For a long time. I stopped writing. I stopped reflecting. I stopped turning inwards.

I blamed the busyness of life. My goodness, the teen years are a rush and a blur. I immersed myself in the lives of my teens, slowly carving out less time for me. Less time for reflecting and thinking and pondering.

And it was ok.

Except that it wasn’t.

Something happened in those years that I went silent and left so much empty space.

Something deep inside changed and without the processing and the traces of the journey, I’m not exactly sure how I got to where I am today.

Is this what happens in our 40s? We decide to pull back and stop sharing. Stop digging. Stop reflecting. Or is this just what happened to ME in my 40s? I don’t know.

I do know that the empty space that I’ve left in my wake serves no greater purpose. The processing that I used to do through writing served as more than just a means to an end. It was, in its own way, a pivotal part of my growth.

I think maybe the empty space is more about fear than it ever was about busyness. The fear of pulling back the rug and looking at the gaping hole left in the floor. It’s scary to look into that dark, dismal hole in the floor and not know what’s down there. To stick your hand in and wonder what you’re going to touch.

Maybe I’ll slowly pull that rug back. Maybe there won’t be a gaping hole. Maybe it’ll just be empty space. I can process that. I can reflect on that. I can probably even deal with some dents and dings. But a hole beneath it? I may just stick that rug right back over it. We’ll see.