Several years ago, I was a fairly prolific writer. Long thoughts, short thoughts, essays and articles and stories. All came pouring out from my fingertips almost in a flood. There was some ebb and flow, of course, but overall I was pretty consistent in my output. I would write, people would read, some would even comment. I felt connected to my audience and connected to myself. I knew who I was, or at least thought I did.

But in the last several years, my writing has dwindled down to barely a trickle. I go months between posts, wanting so badly to put words to paper but finding myself utterly unable to do so. My mental health has declined. So, too, has my sense of connection, both with others and with myself. I’ve lost some sense of my identity, and that has left me bereft of words.

I want to write. I want to do a lot of things I haven’t done much of in recent years. But when you are disconnected, when you’ve lost your sense of identity, doing things feels almost pointless, without meaning. I’m struggling to live again. I’m fighting to find my identity, my purpose, my meaning. I’m trying to reconnect with the world and with myself, but it’s not an easy road to walk. Sometimes there is no road, just a rocky path that may or may not be going the direction you want to head. My mental health is a continual barrier to connection, and it threatens daily to suffocate me beneath a layer of anxiety and depression.

I can fight. I have to, if only for my kids. But I’d like to start fighting for myself, too. I’d like to reconnect with myself, with my identity, and begin to thrive once again. It’s been so long since I’ve felt like I’ve really thrived, and I’d like to know what that feels like again.

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