knew steps.

For no reason in particular. That familiar and comforting feeling of letting my brain throw up onto a page without any second thought of who would read it, how it sounds, how unprofessional every typo may make me seem.

If you’re lucky, your life always looks different in the rear view. Sighing over how my life used to be is a detriment to acknowledgment of the growth I’ve made as a person.

I’ve cried here a lot over the past 15 years. This was my comfort spot when home was states away, yet somehow I misplaced it - even when it is quite literally in my back pocket more often than not.

This is short and albeit bittersweet, but it still feels nice. It’s like the sip of lemonade with a bit of pulp in it that hits just right. Appropriate.

Like the Menzingers line thats says “What a way to start new - shed your skin and find the old you.”

I am a big fan of the gifts / kind gestures love language. It’s how I communicate with the people in my life that I care for and appreciate them (home girl loves to bake and find small treasures for her friends), so I am always floored and appreciative when someone does that for me at shows. I never, ever expect it and sometimes get a little speechless (I spend most of my time alone when I’m not on tour, so it’s a huge contrast), but it warms my heart.

I actually redid my entire living room recently so that I have a whole display area for all the art, letters and things people have given me on tour. It’s kind of cool to have a physical reminder when I’m alone that there are people who appreciate me.

This was probably more in depth than you expected, haha. Like I said, I often find myself speechless in the interaction, so I guess this is just a little tangent of appreciate and how those gestures have positively impacted me.

It is me.

It happens before that.

they consisted of me sitting on my patio, long after my parents went to sleep, sneaking cigarettes and dreaming of a life that looks a lot like the one I have now.

In those idle day dreams (late night awake dreams?), I had one part terribly off. 

I was completely disillusioned into thinking that the struggles would dissipate.

I’m sitting in that house now, nearly a decade later (thankfully rid of some of the habits), contemplating what the weight of fighting for something really means. I’ve come to a conclusion.

The struggle, the fight, the push and pull we all encounter, exists because we know something is worth the seemingly ceaseless turmoil. The tossing and turning in our heads is a product of a problem occurring around something we know we need. Is it something we need to save or something we need to sacrifice? Well, that's the scary part. That’s the part that the conflict helps us discover.

With that being said, I will also say this--

There are places we go, places we crave, and places we end up.

We often break them down into trips, wants and experiences, but at the end of the day we are all just placating our fierce desires to grow. I am not really sure where I am anymore, but the Tarantino film on the television and the subtle picking of an acoustic guitar in the background is helping me differentiate between the three perspectives.

A voice memo being recorded to keep an idea from slipping away. 

I never know exactly what’s next, and more often than not, I’m finding myself confused by the people around me. I have accepted that, by this age, the things I anticipate are more often than not, incorrect.

It’s hard to keep guessing and landing on the wrong idea, but I think a lot of growth can blossom in that. The trick? We have to let it. Sometimes allowing yourself to grow just means accepting that you are wrong.

This is me, descending from my pedestal of pride, to humbly and whole heartedly say exactly that: I was wrong.

I’m ready to grow now, awhile acknowledging I’ve already started. 

Photos and videos of my old friends. It all seems so fleeting now, all of it. Every single thing that got me to this moment, driving through Texas and looking st my own history.

I was caught off guard by a few faces. Some of them far away, some of them no longer with us, and only a few of them still a part of my life, but even those are less so.

It’s a 15 hour drive to Phoenix, and my life long best friend is on the other end of it. She doesn’t know how much I’m going to need her tonight, but she will as soon as she sees me. She’s one of the few who can really see it written on my face. I miss her all the time.

More surprisingly today, I miss the old me. I suppose a better phrasing would be “the young me”. It’s an odd dichotomy, I know some things were worse back then, but I was better. Now, things are better, my life is much better, but I am much, much worse.

I can see the switch in the photos and the videos and the social media posts. I can see exactly when my repressed memories changed me. I can tell you exactly when the last light in my eyes was snuffed out. I bet if you look closely enough, you’ll see it too.

You’ll see the point where I started saying I was happier because every part of me needed to believe it. You’ll see me saying I’m fine and putting all of my energy into helping other people feel better.

Better than they did before.

Better than I do.

Better better better better.

I don’t want to be “better”, I want to be the best version of who I can be.

But I’m not sure where I left her.

Here’s hoping that I find her in the next two weeks buried somewhere in the mix of miles, sweat, tears and trauma.

I promise to do my best. I promise to never stop looking.

Nobody laughed at my jokes.

I talked too much and some of my words didn’t make much sense.

I tried to focus on where I was instead of where I’ve been.

The bad news I got was at the front of my brain.

I forgot some of the lyrics and I couldn’t remember how to forget where I was.

I kept staring st the exit signs. There are three. They were the only lights I could see in the room. I was trying to stay grateful for the opportunity but every part of my body wanted to hide.

The audience probably thought I was quirky, a little weird, the signs of an “artist”.

But that wasn’t it.

I was having an anxiety attack.

It doesn’t happen as often as it used it. Not on stage. Not at shows. Not in the place where I always feel safe. Not in the only place I am comfortable being vulnerable.

But it happened.

One song in and I couldn’t breathe.

I could feel the stage floor shaking like a trampoline.

I felt like every eye, even from the problem signing along, they were all staring at me with a feeling of discontent.

I was drowning and feeling naked, like the only thing that ever helped was, in that moment, breaking me.

And the next day I tried to brush it off.

And then I found out there were industry people in the audience.

And then I felt like I blew it.

And then I remembered the conversations we had at the merch table. The healing and the helping. Isolating the feelings that isolated us so that we could remove then.

And then that made me feel better.