I’ve forgotten why I write. And maybe I’ve forgotten too how to write. “All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” {Ernest Hemingway}

I keep thinking about those early posts, the ones from several years ago. I compare them to what I’ve written over the past few months. There’s something a little less personal about my recent writings.

I think back to the beginning, to the reasons why I began: to share words of hope, grace and love for those who are hurting; to get past the surface to the truth of hearts. Fear has stopped me from doing that. Fear of making others angry when I don’t ignore certain parts of my life experiences. Fear that I’m a hypocrite because I’m struggling to extend grace in a particular area. Fear that I’m not good enough, and why would anybody want to read my story anyway? Fear keeps chattering in my ear: “I’m hurting so I couldn’t possibly have any hope to offer.”

Last fall I heard Jon Acuff say, “Fear fears community.” I’m finding that to be increasingly true for me, mainly because I’ve had some nasty experiences with larger bodies of community. The more criticism and rejection I experience, the smaller I want my community to be, which is negatively affecting my writing.

So I’m trying to remember how to put my heart on the line again, to hang it out there for you to see . . . to take from it what you will. I’m trying to remember what my voice sounded like before I allowed it to be silenced far too often. I’m trying to recall how to write my feelings instead of trying to write what pleases certain people. I’m trying to remember how to be me, that I am enough, and that my story, like yours, matters.