On December 14th, 2022 I got over myself entirely, came in here, and deleted ten years worth of posts.

I hesitated, of course, because that’s a lot of content – a lot of really *personal* content. The virtual diary of a decade in which I gained almost everything, lost almost everything, gained almost everything, lost almost everything again, and then slowly, began to gain everything back again.

The *everythings” are shifty things because the gains I made in the early aughts (as defined by me as beginning in 2012 when I began my online business in earnest) were shifty things. Therapy is like that. You gain – self-esteem, awareness, healing, perspective – but it can feel like gaining those things costs *everything*.

But the “everything” in this equation was, in fact, not everything. Not even almost. The everythings I lost were:

  • Shituationships.
  • A home that I hated that was never mine to begin with.
  • Trauma bonds.
  • Ways of being in the world that were not in alignment with who I am.
  • Masking. So much masking.
  • Tying myself into impossible configurations in order to try to get along.
  • Fawning. So much fawning.

    And so on.

The posts I deleted from this space were all about that “everything that was not actually everything”. They were love letters to people who didn’t/couldn’t love me back. They were attempts at being an acceptable self that somehow might win the acceptance of those I was trauma bonded with. They were a kind of spinning out. Desperate flailing. Rewritten history. Dreaming out loud for things that weren’t actually my dreams. Making an opus out of whistling tunes. Beauty from ashes, and okay, that’s a pretty worthwhile pursuit, but not *these* ashes.

These ashes were dumpster fire ashes.

So I exported the whole thing as an .xml file (because I’m no dummy! There may be times when I’ll want to comb through them for my #autobiography *rofl*!) and then I trashed every single one.

It was a lot like cutting my own hair. Let me explain.

The first time I cut my own hair was shortly after the pandemic started. I gave myself bangs, and they looked great. I was full of hope and life and light despite everything that was going on and it was a fun blip on the “shelter in place” radar.

The second time was in October 2021 when I was *still* – and much to my chagrin because protracted grief seems to be my way and I was *sick of it* –  in deep grief over a breakup. I wet it down, brushed it all up and over the top of my head, grabbed the hank of it and snip snip snip with the kitchen shears. Yes, the very same ones I use to break down a chicken.


I didn’t even bother to make any kind of magic with it – no drying it out and tossing it on a Samhain fire. No offering it to the birds for the making of nests. Nope. I flushed it. Done. Gone.

I left it long enough that it was barely noticeable, but still. I noticed. How much lighter I felt. How much like I’d cut something more than hair – something energetic that had its hooks in me and would not let go. Something that had kept me drowning-not-waving over here in my own little storm.

The last time was a few weeks ago after months of feeling like I was growing more and more “swamp witch like” in appearance and less and less enamored with that self-designated honorific. I wanted, more and more, to be less swamp witch-like. Yes, still your favourite rusty bucket of bog water, but not so much with the straggly, grown-out locks.

I watched a bunch of TikTok videos on the art of the wolf cut in preparation for what I knew was coming, and one night, after turning over in bed and almost yanking the hair right out of my scalp because I was laying on it, that was it. I was done. I stormed into the bathroom, grabbed the good scissors I’d ordered on Amazon and kept on the shelf by the mirror, and did the thing.

Here’s where it took me:

Pardon the quality of the photo please. It’s a screen grab from Zoom.

I had some regrets the next day. Not going to lie. BUT, I’ve gotten nothing but compliments on it since I did it because instead of wearing it up and back and away from my face the way I did when I was in full swamp witch territory, I’ve been wearing it down. So instead of perpetually looking (and feeling) like some kind of school marm (not that there’s anything wrong with that – it’s just not me), I feel a little bit like a rock star. Especially with these rose-colored glasses that I love love love.

And this blog feels like that now.

I chopped off all the dead weight. I spiffed it up a bit. I tossed the whole thing right down to the design and logo down the toilet, and I will not look back. No more masking. No more pretending. No more rewriting history. No more making super novas out of candlelight.

Candlelight is better. There’s no exploding, and it’s mine, and I can tend it, and it lasts.


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