Write your story. Write your bones. Write your truth.

Note before you go any further: If profanity offends you this may not be the blog post for you.

On the other hand, it may.

I am finally fully and unashamedly embracing that at the core of my being, my heart and soul is that of a writer. Before a healer, a therapist, a speaker, a coach, a mentor, a business woman...I am a writer. If I had to choose just one role, (so grateful I do not), I would choose my writing. 

Always. 

A writer, at least in my estimation, is less about silver edged degrees, perfect sentence structure, awards and honors, a best selling blah blah, or impeccable grammar.

I believe a writer is a person who dips into their unique internal pool of: muck-joy-passion-shit-fear-courage-grief-humor-rage-desire-greed-and all the other glorious and messy aspects that swirl together making that particular writer's words unique and powerful.

Some days I tuck into my writing for only a few quick dashed off moments. Other days (like this evening), hours slip by as I write. My writing gives expression to a part of my humanness that I simply cannot express any other way. I suppose this post is part of my writing today. Another blog washed up on the Internet sea. A shell between the bottle caps and cigarette butts. Or just another ripple in the sand. Love it/loathe it - this is writing.

When I write, I join all of my parts together. Maybe this is how it feels to a painter or sculpture. I don't know. I don't paint and I don't sculpt. I write. There is something about making time to share parts of my story, about taking my experiences, even the more shameful parts, and putting them onto paper that is deeply nurturing to my being at this season of my life. 

I wasn't supposed to write about my story until now. I tried to outrun my story in my 20s, dashing around with a pack of other gypsy souls also trying to out run theirs. My 30s were about busy, busy business me. I fucking knew it all in my 30s, and people in their 50s were...well...old. God I was an insufferable dick in my 30s. 

It wasn't until my 40s that I began to lean into my story. Being right was less important than being kind. I no longer needed to do all of the heavy lifting of people pleasing. My formerly dis-integrated parts, began to integrate in my 40s. I began to know me. The good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly parts of me. The 40s was a decade about coming to terms with my inner asshole. I wasn't afraid or ashamed of that side of myself any longer. Instead, I pulled up a chair, and she and I had a good long chat. I mostly listened (she had a lot to say). I had a lot to learn.

I found out that my God liked my messy junk. WWJD? Love me not in spite of me, but because of me. 

(Side note: Have you met your inner asshole yet? Fascinating stuff!).

Now a week into my 53rd year, I am here, loving all parts of me. Well mostly. Still working on the cellulite parts. I am learning to love the bad ass mother fucker inside of me as well. I am falling in love my MF-er because that part of me is now full of wisdom (as my future 75 year old throws back her head and has a good guffaw).

My inner bad ass extends grace, but doesn't abide bullshit. I am a road warrior with a heart of gold. A chick who is willing to lean into the challenge without ass kissing, and a sharp clean spear that no longer needs to make space for the following: Hypocrites, gossips, or fakes. 

And can we please lose this newly held ideal that being grumpy on occasion or exuding less than positive energy every dang moment of every dang day is wrong. That kind of a mask isn't interesting, it's exhausting. 

I'd just rather own it.

Owning our disowned parts of self so that we can show up for the most important relationship we will ever be in, the one with self, is how we begin to connect deeply with others. 

How can I really connect with my loved ones, and liked ones, if I can't own my own crappy parts? How can I make space for their bullshit, if I am not willing to make room for mine? How can the vulnerable clients I serve in my practice trust me if I don't even trust me.

What does it mean when I say "I like myself", or "I am doing my best", or "perfectionism sucks", or "balance is key"? What do those words really mean to me? Because I can tell you right now, some days I don't do my best, and sometimes I want to be perfect, and that whole balance thing..yeah still figuring that one out.

Oh well.

Someone recently said to me, "Mari, you are a really sweet person." I hear this often. Well bless your heart for experiencing me this way. Truth be told, I am not really all that “sweet.” But I am kind. And I am generous. And I am smart as a whip. And I am loving. And I am loyal. And I am a highly focused and organized business woman. And I am authentic. And I am an unapologetic truth teller.  And I am an experienced clinician, speaker and coach. And I am funny.

Most days.

Simply put...my writing honors my heart. My writing keeps me honest. My writing is a howl, a whisper, a poem, a joke, an olive branch, a seance, a prayer. It is my best workout and my sweetest dessert. It's my water in a wasteland. It connects me back to God, and deeply roots me in the ways of peace and nurturance. My writing is the happy breath at the start of my day, and a deep sigh at the end of my day. 

So, I write. I write my story. I write my bones. I write my truth. I write.

With gratitude,
Mari