Have you ever been in the deep end of something that felt so overwhelmingly Big, you froze? Just sort of folded in on yourself, raised the white flag in surrender, gave up? I’m raising my hand over here. High. It’s happened to me (a lot). Still does. Sometimes just being a parent feels like too much. Like waking up and realizing, I have to do this again (and again and again and again)?! Sometimes it’s more like going through infertility or miscarriage. Or wondering what your greater purpose is in life. Are you taking action on it or running from it? I’ve done both, still do. Here’s what it looks like for me, the stuff I usually don’t share out loud, but is practically a prerequisite for doing anything I care so much about it makes me want to chase it, run from it, and throw up. Good visual, right?

Lately its been these words.

Once I made www.sandycocos.com a thing, I stopped writing.

I clicked that tiny button that had popped up (and been ignored) for years. And made the unseen, Seen.

Do you want to make your blog public? Click here.

And with that click, the very foundation of my thing came screeching to a halt. I went further than just not writing. I had an aversion to it. I avoided it. I let my computer run out of batteries. And then lost my charger. I did not recognize this person who declared a hostile takeover over the Me I’d come to know.

It was all fine and good when my insides were kept inside, but somehow that damn publish button made me freeze. I felt that every word I wrote had to be made available to the outside. I was a fraud if I wrote something and didn’t share it.

I write because it’s how I exercise my demons. How I get stuff out so it doesn’t settle in my cells, in my bones, in my soul.  It’s how I think, learn, process: aka sanity, my friends. Since that hasn’t been happening, I’ve felt fucked up off.  And for awhile I couldn’t put my finger on wtf was going on with me.  I couldn’t understand why I was cleaning out a closet or organizing my refrigerator - doing all this filler stuff (mindless busy work to avoid doing the real thing you know you should be doing) when normally I tuck away and write at the expense of a clean house or folding laundry.

And when you are a Mom you can blame not getting to anything on that fact alone. I have kids, responsibilities that never end, how can I possible get to <insert passion here>? This has been a tricky one for me.   

I’ve tried.  A lot.  But every time I tried, pen in hand or blank page staring back at me, and came up with an empty page and lost hours, I felt defeated. And then frustrated and agitated.  So the past week (or month) I just stopped trying.  Because I didn’t want to feel those things. My sudden writing paralysis had me second guessing myself. I froze. Does this resonate? Of course I’m over here feeling like this happens to no one but me.

It’s taken me some time to get these words out. To sift through why it’s become impossible to do the thing I love. My therapeutic soul rinse of words. Of sharing them. And then hearing back and connecting with You.

Here’s what happened after opening the doors to my little house of sandycocos:

I made my Squarespace site “live” and signed up for Mailchimp. And then I created a Facebook account. Apparently this trifecta is like lighting a flare off in Internet Land. Now I could be put in all kinds of boxes (blogger, wanna be influencer, author, some type of authority on blah blah blah). And my inbox was relentless with its messaging: here’s how to take this “side hustle” and make money, here’s how to develop the brand relationships you need for success, how to get a gazillion followers on Instagram, how to be Known. And I was behind. Like, I needed to get my shit together or just get out of the game. This was not a warm and fuzzy welcome. So I froze on all fronts: writing, e-mail, social media.

I stopped because suddenly something that had been this place of wild freedom and zero censorship (what you are reading) became low hanging fruit for the internet masses to attack: You are doing it all wrong. You are wrong. Do it this way. Say these things. Write about this, not that. Say it like this. You can “be yourself” but “being yourself” should look like this.

Wait, what? I could no longer just dumpster style it all into a Google doc?  Nope. Now there was “a Way.” 

Didn’t I know this?  If I was going to be a blogger I should know all the rules. Now I need to do things a certain way. I can only write/talk about specific topics in the culturally acceptable way that doesn’t offend or exclude anyone and I have to make sure its a particular length and I have to share it at a peak time on a certain day and then I have to apologize if I didn’t actually do everything right. Writing that just exhausted me; I couldn’t imagine doing it.   

What used to be a source of cathartic release became a source of stress and angst.

And I don’t even know where to begin on the social media front. 

Now there are courses (millions of them!) that tell you how to use Instagram and Facebook and everything else. What you are supposed to write, what images to use and exactly how you need to do it.

I went in naive, willing to be vulnerable, open, exposed. Then the rules and conditions and the “way I’m supposed to do things” made me feel overwhelm/stress. Something that filled me, quickly made me feel heavy, ill equipped and not enough. I drank the kool-aid that is other people telling you how to do you.

It took me a minute (a loooong one) but I’m on the other side. 

I had to find my way back to my Why. I slowly started to tap out a few words. Then decided to not pick up the onslaught of other peoples opinions about what I should be doing or how I should be doing it and who I should be. Mother of all revelations, I get to be Myself. Imagine that.

But holy sugar it was not easy. It’s still a climb but my headspace is clear and I can see it was just Noise. Distraction. Meaningless. Empty. I bought into it for a bit and it made me second guess Me. Like Who I am as a human: every word, every photo, every sentence. That’s some powerful stuff.

I learned things. I remembered that everything, always, leads back to being the truest expression of yourself in thoughts, words & actions. If they are in alignment with my values, then I can write ‘til my fingers bleed.   There is not a version of me that I present when I put something out there. The only version is Me; who I am as I go about my life and live and learn and exist.  I could never keep track of versions. 

There hasn’t been one instance when I thought to myself, I wish I hadn’t shared my truth in that way or I wish I’d have kept infertility/parenting meltdowns/things that scare me to myself.  Its always made me better. Even when I was scared or embarrassed or felt inferior or flawed.

Something magical happens when you stop trying to contain all the bits of yourself you think you could not possibly expose to the light of day and you choose to stand with your arms open wide, letting it all out and letting it all in.  It’s exhilarating.  It’s living.  

Especially when people come and stand with you, next to you. Maybe they grab your hand, look you in the eye. Smile. When they see you. When they let you see them.

When I started writing again, everything that was off in my life fell back into place.

I got back on my yoga mat. I made time for my nightly rituals and morning routines. I’m meditating. I’m devouring books. Going to church. I parent better, with more patience and calm. I’m sleeping better. I’m prioritizing service. I didn’t set out to intentionally do any of this, it happened on its own because I tipped the big domino over first. The Domino labeled: write + share + connect with people in your perfectly human, flawed way. I used to tackle all the things, all at once, and never properly accomplish anything. Like a computer with 100 tabs open, all in various states of undone. And the Big Thing would be saved for that one day when I had enough time/energy/sleep. We know how that goes. Doesn't work. Never happens. Find your big domino, tap it and watch everything else fall.

They say that once shared, secrets lose their power. I didn’t realize it at the time, but clicking that publish button a few months ago was my version of doing that. My way of highlighting the things I thought I needed to hide. Not hiding has been a game changing gift to myself. What story can you let go of? L E T it G O. Be seen! Follow me @sandycocos so I can know you and your story. Because we are human and need to remind each other: you’ve got this, do not give up, keep going even though.