Becoming, Lucy

Today I did something scary. I admitted to a friend I wanted to be a writer. And here I am admitting it again. It’s a big day for becoming Lucy. 

When I admitted it, I was instantly reminded of something I saw the other day – if you want to be something, but already do it, aren’t you already that something? e.g. if you want to be a writer, but already write, then you are a writer. 

And I am. I write my blog. I write my novels. I write (bad) poetry. I write random thoughts. 

The thing, I realised, making me not believe I am a writer, is because of that funny thing I discussed earlier in the week – resonance. 

I do not feel seen. 

So I took a leap today and published my writing on another platform. Not just my blog. 

I don’t write for views, nor do I want to write for views. I want to write for me, and I do. But sometimes, as most people do, I want someone to read my words and resonate with them. In whatever capacity. Whether that’s taking a completely different meaning from them or taking them as they are, I just want someone to resonate. To say “thanks, I needed that.” 

It’s all about feeling less alone at the end of the day, I suppose.

My writing might make someone feel less alone but knowing there’s someone out there, seeing me… Yeah. That’s what I’m searching for. Not to make someone else feel less lonely, but selfishly so I feel less lonely. 

I never thought 25 would be this lonely. I hate myself for feeling lonely. I chose this life. 

I don’t feel like I fit in with other mums – I stand in playgrounds and feel like I’m wearing someone else’s life. Or I don’t fit in with people my age – I see their Instagram posts and can’t resonate with the life they’re living, building for themselves. I don’t have a category I just fit into. A group I can easily say “yeah, these are my people.” 

Maybe that’s a fortunate thing. Being able to fit everywhere. But truthfully, I don’t want to fit everywhere. I want somewhere that feels like mine. 

I don’t know if I’m allowed to want anything more without breaking everything. 

For now, it is lonely. Never quite fitting. Just being. I’ll just be.

I’m a human being that is just being. 
Being human.
Becoming me. 
Becoming Lucy.