Sad disappointed ashamed embarrassed scared relieved validated hopeful,

Hopeful.

Drowning in your own bathtub.

Inspired,
soothed.

Lit up,
cooled down.

Encouraged,
comforted.

Juxtaposition. Harmony.

Will I run out of words?
Will the sky run out of stars?
Will a mother run out of love?
Will a world run out of hope? Fear?

Will I run out of words? Maybe.
Maybe not.

Can you tell by looking at me that I’m depressed?

You see this smile, my accolades, the cap and gown. I work hard, dress nicely, I’m kind and composed.

Can you see behind the mask that I can’t bring myself to shower some days? That I used to be a passionate athlete and now, as much as I want to I don’t exercise anymore? That many days I lay on the couch, drowning in self-loathing? That sometimes I am so overwhelmed and consumed by darkness that I can’t move?

I hate myself in these moments.

I’m so good at hiding it though. This facade is my identity.

I have depression. I feel depressed.

You’re just lazy.

The criticism reverberates through my being. The self-loathing thickens.

It’s okay to be anxious, you’re just stressed. But depression? You’re just being weak, you’re not trying hard enough. We’re all tired.

I’m embarrassed for feeling this way.

You’ve had such a good life though. You are so privileged and fortunate. You have no reason to be sad. So many people are worse-off than you.

I feel ashamed.

I can’t help it though. I have depression. Sometimes I feel so low.

But you look so happy.

Is a picture really worth a thousand words?

So, after having an existential crisis of sorts,
I’ve moved past the paralyzing dread for the moment
and am choosing to allow myself to focus on the small details of my life.
Because even though they are minute and don’t matter to the existence of the universe or the human race or the country or city or town or neighborhood,
they matter to me,
and as far as I know this is the only life I have to live
(at least that I will have conscious awareness of because V sure this place recycles our souls and fully identify with the fact I was or will be a blade of grass at one time, but I digress.)

And with that thought, I give myself permission to make this house a home.
To fuss over the details that will bring me joy
and make me feel settled, safe, calm, happy.

After all, if life as we know it can end at any moment,
why spend it any other way?

I have this theory
that we, as humans,
think too highly of ourselves.

We insist we are special.
Maybe we think life as we know it will never end.
Maybe we think the earth’s days are finite, but that we as humans will find an alternative home in this universe.
Maybe we think it won’t happen in our lifetime so it doesn’t matter.
Maybe we don’t worry about it because there is nothing we can do to change it.

I think, that
we aren’t special.
Like the flowers, we bloom then die,
Like the insects we produce offspring then die.

We, as a species, are so certain that we are important.
That our existence is superior to that of a blade of grass.
That we can think and feel and emote,
and that simply because we do not know other species have these capacities,
that they simply do not.

How foolish are we
to think this orbiting rock that graces us with life-giving wonders is not all there is for us?
How foolish are we to think we are special enough to destroy our home and receive an new one?
How foolish are we think think, ‘no, not given a new one, we will find a new one!’
As if we have more self-determination than an unlucky antelope grazing in a field, who becomes dinner for a hungry pride.
As if we have more say than the dinosaurs who met their demise but moments before our existence began.

Now, think about yourself.
Not the human race,
not the planet,
just your small self.
Do you still feel important?
Does what you do, and think, and feel matter?

At first, no. My answer is no.
I sit with myself and feel very, very small.

And then I push these ponderings aside and get back to my mundane existence.
I do my makeup.
I worry about whether or not I put enough deodorant on.
I fuss over which patio umbrella to buy.
I look at my roll of belly hanging above my laptop and tell myself I’ll exercise tomorrow.
I stay up late to finish work that will go unchecked anyway.

I do decide though
that small interactions matter.
I can feel numb and low and insignificant,
but I cannot deny the realness of connection.
Connection with humans, animals, plants, the sunshine, a breeze rustling through leaves.
I still don’t have answers,
but I simultaneously chastise and reassure myself that my fleeting moments of existence in the great unknown scheme of the universe
matter in some small way
because they impact other living beings,
and because connections are real.

Do I believe that to my core?
I don’t know.
But that’s what I tell myself tonight.

What if the world ended tonight?
Without warning.
In a flash of light,
in a deafening crash,
or maybe silently, we fade into forever blackness

What is the meaning of life?
Why are we here?

My problems feel so big,
and then something makes me zoom out,
and my existence feels completely insignificant.

It’s startling.
It’s scary.

I like to think it changes the way I act,
but I also think we are egocentric by nature.
And if I’m being honest,
it doesn’t change a thing
except to add to the anxiety, fear, confusion, depression, numbness.

So close

to the finish line

hang in there

push through

Tired,

Procrastination,

Self-loathing.

Up late,

Not sleepy,

Self-loathing.

Repeat

All my life I’ve been searching for a purpose.. no, I’ve been trying to fulfill what I believed to be my purpose: To make a difference.

But what does that even mean?

To improve people’s lives. To make the world a better place. To leave a positive impact. To share with individuals compassion, caring, and grace.

But what about me? Did I think the giving of myself would make me feel whole? Sometimes it does. Other times I feel more empty than ever.

What if I spend my whole life trying to position myself to best make a positive impact and in doing so never truly, genuinely interact with the world? Never truly live and explore my life? What if, by constantly searching for the next thing I let my life pass me by?

What if expressing my thoughts and feelings is enough?

What if the impact I leave is through being courageous enough to lead a genuine life?

What if I find my purpose by not searching quite so hard and instead allowing myself to live, be, and do things that bring me joy?

By not conforming but instead stating my truth with abandon. Embracing myself and those around me with abandon. Living with abandon.

What if I stop searching for someone to be long enough to be myself?

So much distance, I’m drowning in isolation.

So much work, I’m drowning in privilege.

So much unknown, I’m drowning in fear.

So much love. I’m drowning in you.

It’s not that deep.

I ride your waves—peak to valley. Valley to peak.

Hang on for your life.

What will tomorrow bring?

What does it mean to be full and satisfied?

When you look at the big picture, and compile the little moments, you have a sense of fulfillment that you feel deep in your bones. Not just a shallow satisfaction.

It feels like joy and peace that radiate from your core. Not a superficial happiness.

If you tap on your words, they don’t echo. You aren’t hollow, you’re filled with earnest.

You brim with warmth, like if you turn too quickly you’ll spill over. Like some of the happiness will slosh out.

You say you’re happy, and then look in the mirror and know that she’s happy too.

The person you send out into the world to represent you is not a stranger. Maybe even there’s just one you.

When asked, what did you say? You don’t have to stop and remember. You speak your truth because you believe your truth is worth speaking.

You’re not numb. You give yourself permission to feel.

And maybe sometimes you do feel a little empty. Don’t we all sometimes? I think that’s okay. I think it’s okay to say so too.

Grey hair, cold toes. Blue specs, long nose.

Mint tea, big mug. Warm socks, soft rug.

Tat sleeve, nose ring. All alone, does sing.

Nurse by day, writes at night. Calls mom, says goodnight.

Sleeps in, guilt-free. I am her, she is me.

Full, but not satisfied.

I should be a warm cup of coffee filled to the brim. I am a dried husk beneath the counter.

Love me and leave me empty.

If I say it does it make it so?

I will myself to fullness. Full, but not satisfied.

Woman, millennial, daughter, granddaughter, sister, friend, partner, nurse, researcher, student, athlete, individual, human, living being, soul.

There are all these categories created to define us, yet do we ever feel like we truly fit neatly into any of them? I didn’t know it yet, but Full But Not Satisfied was conceived at my sister’s Bachelorette party in the beautiful Finger Lakes region. After a long day of touring wineries around Keuka Lake, the crushing reality (and associated existential dread) that I was not far behind her, in combination with a day’s worth of wine, drove me to text my long lost crush asking if we’d ever end up together.

Although I didn’t find my prince charming that weekend, I felt more liberated than I had in years. Soon after that taste of freedom, I broke up with my live-in boyfriend, and booked a last-minute flight to join my girlfriends for a long weekend in Paris. There, I found myself in an odd air bnb situation with a kind, fascinating stranger. Over the next few days, we spent our nights together, passionately discussing big ideas that haunted humanity- who are we? Is there a higher power? Why are we here? And, naturally, the fact that women are perpetually accepting, no CHOOSING a state of being that can no better be described as “full-but-not-satisfied.” We pointed out couples in the street, in the jazz bar, saying, ‘he’s thinking about getting lucky tonight. She, she’s full but not satisfied.’ We came up with chapters to the book I would write with this exact title. He reminded me that men can be respectful and caring, even when they are not looking for a sexual dividend. I returned home, determined to continue seizing the scared-but-doing-it-anyway moments like my spontaneous trip to Paris.

Months later, feeling the suffocating depression of quarantine seeping in around me, I was listened to Glennon Doyle’s latest book on tape, titled Untamed. She brought me to tears with her truth and beauty. I thought, ‘damn, no need to write my book after all- Glennon’s gone and done it for me!’ I should have known better.. a few weeks later, on one of her daily Instagram videos, she spoke about how she began writing. She said, ‘you know you’re a writer if you are jealous of other writers.’ That was a gut punch. She then said she started writing by creating a blog. A few days later, and your girl has gone and made a blog.

I created this blog because I was a little girl who loved to write poems and stories, because I feel more myself and understand myself more than ever through the written word, and because I owe it to myself and that little girl to put my ideas out into the world. To not settle for an existence marked by feeling Full But Not Satisfied. And with that, Here We Are.