The Things I Don’t Share

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how quickly I turn life into something.

An experience becomes an Instagram post. A realization becomes an essay. A photograph becomes part of a monthly recap. Something I’m working through becomes a lesson I might eventually share.

I’ve been writing about my experiences in one form or another for more than two decades, so this feels instinctive now. I notice things. I make connections. I wonder what they mean. And eventually, I write about them.

I love that part. Writing has helped me make sense of nearly every chapter of my adult life, and sharing what I’m learning has created connections I never could have imagined when I first started putting words onto the internet all those years ago. Some of you may even remember the Hip Tranquil Chick blog circa 2004!

But recently, another question has been surfacing: What stays mine?

I noticed it while putting together my July recap. There simply weren’t that many photos. July had been full: outdoor concerts, belated birthday celebrations, flowers, rain, a lotus water garden, fireworks, evenings out, and time with people I love.

At first, I wondered why I had so little to show for a month that had felt so full. Then I realized that maybe I’d simply been there. I’d been living it. There was something surprisingly satisfying about that realization.

When you’ve spent years creating and sharing, the line between living and documenting can become blurry. This isn’t unique to people who write or share online. Most of us carry a camera everywhere we go now. We photograph the meal, the concert, the flowers, the vacation, the pug doing something adorable. We share milestones and ordinary moments alike. Sometimes documenting them even helps us savor them.

And I don’t want to stop sharing. I genuinely enjoy it. I like capturing a beautiful moment, putting together a reel from a weekend, recommending the books I’ve loved, or letting you into a little corner of my life.

Sharing a life and explaining a life are two different things.

That distinction feels especially relevant right now because things are changing in ways I haven’t written much about. I’m several months into a new relationship. I’m questioning what I want my work to look like next year. I’m thinking about ambition, intimacy, and how I want to spend this particular chapter. Normally, all of that would send me straight to the page.

Except I’ve noticed a change. I don’t feel the same urgency to explain it all. I’m curious about what might happen if I let parts of my life belong to me before deciding whether they belong here.

It feels a little unfamiliar to have so much happening without immediately trying to make sense of it publicly.

For years, writing has been one of the primary ways I understand myself. I write to notice patterns, untangle feelings, preserve memories, and figure out what I think. Sharing some of that process has become part of my work, too. There’s a particular kind of connection that happens when I put something into words and someone writes back, “Me too!”

I still want that. I love sending you these letters and taking something that has been circling in my head and seeing where it leads on the page. At the same time, I’m finding there’s value in letting things unfold for a while without immediately doing anything with them.

The new relationship has made me particularly aware of this.