chickpeameatball

I have been writing this blog for over five years. I started because writing is an outlet for my thoughts and emotions. I was inspired by “influencers” like Whitney Simmons, who shared their lives on social media (she still inspires me).

I wish I could say I grew up reading and fell in love with stories from the first I read; they inspired me to be a writer, and since I’ve written like my bones ached for it — I wish that were true because my author idols say that’s true for them. Because if it’s not true, if my bones haven’t ached to be an author since age ten, like many others, than do I deserve it? Could I ever be as good as those writing stories since they learned to spell words? I don’t know.

It wasn’t until around the time I began this blog that I realized how much I truly loved to write, and it wasn’t until I read Cheryl Strayed’s book Wild in 2019 that I realized how powerful books are.

I was in a bad place mentally and emotionally for several reasons. My father died, and what proceeded was trouble, adult-level trouble. I will tell you that story someday, but there is a time for it, and now, is not it.

Amid it all, I read Wild. I was searching for something, someone outside my family to tell me mistakes are okay and here, look at me I made it through too. Cheryl Strayed’s book gave me another life. One I could compare mine to; her story made me feel less alone. Wild was the light at the end of my very dark tunnel.

Before this, I was admittedly naive to the influence of storytelling, that books could connect people in such a way.

Then and since, I’ve wanted to be a writer. I’ve wanted to connect with people through my stories. Then and since, my bones have ached.

As I write this, my thoughts are scrambled, seemingly as much as what I’ve been doing on the internet for the past five years. I’ve been honing my craft but also searching for my purpose — my voice. Unfortunately, searching for my voice has often meant looking to others—the popular, well-trafficked blogs. I asked myself what they were doing to be so successful and then duplicated that. I’ve made things my own in some regard, but I’ve come to find not enough. I am burning out.

I am burning out of cloning. I see my stats growing year after year, and I don’t want to walk away. I never want to walk away from this space, but I’ve found this space to be less and less who I am now. I’m generating content for who I was and what Chickpeameatball was back in 2019 when it began.

My husband hates the saying “authentically me” because he doesn’t understand how anyone could be anything else. But, regardless of the fact I’m sharing things I enjoy, I am not being authentic here. I’m chasing after stats and numbers, views and validation.

It’s hard to figure out who you are when people tell you who you should be; how your life should look. I spent the past year of my life searching for myself again (it’s wild because I thought I already found her, but turns out girls gotta hell of a sprint on her.) I tried things and hated them, then felt disappointed in myself for not enjoying what Instagram Reels told me I should (No, I don’t want to make homemade sourdough, and “slow living” actually seems quite time-consuming).

I want to be here again because it’s my own cozy place of the internet. But, if I’m going to be here, things need to adapt to fit me again.

I hope you join me.