Holly Whitaker’s archive of her Substack newsletter, Recovering, has moved me to tears on multiple occasions in the past few weeks. Here’s an excerpt from a piece (I highly recommend reading the full essay) she wrote that had me shamelessly balling my eyes out in the middle of my local coffee shop, even after my third time reading it:
“If you’ve read between the lines of anything I’ve written in the last few months, you might have picked up on this: I feel broken; I’m depressed most days; I don’t have a clear purpose or reason for existing that makes sense; I feel like I failed fantastically; there are many days I feel like I could completely lose my mind; I feel stuck; a lot of the time I cannot imagine a future that is good; a lot of the time I cannot get out of bed in the morning; I feel old and like I’ve missed every opportunity to build a joyous and fruitful life; I feel old and like I’m going to be alone forever; I feel old and like my vagina is just chalk; I feel old and like I keep making the same mistakes over and over and over again and that I’ll never learn never grow never never never; as I’ve mentioned before, there’s this toilet leak downstairs I need to get fixed and I keep putting that off. I could go on but I’m worried about you so I won’t. The point is, this part of my life fucking sucks. I don’t want it. I want the next part, or 2015. Either works.”
If you feel anything like I felt after reading that, then I’m just going to give you a selah1 moment to breathe. Inhale… exhale.
Ok, let’s continue.
I truly believe that to be a damn good artist, you have to be able to go to the dark places that make most humans cringe, because it really is the pathway back into the soul. I once heard Oprah share: “We appreciate art so much because humanity is being reflected back to ourselves, in a way that our actual spirit feels that.” These words encapsulate exactly why Whitaker’s words (and many forms of art) move me to tears. In a world where it feels like almost every single person (including myself) is putting on the performance of “I’m fine” and desperately doing whatever it takes not to be seen—allowing their egos to get in the way of being able to have real human connections—reading those honest to god words felt absolutely liberating. Like fuck, you too? Thank you for saying it. Witnessing this kind of honesty and vulnerability shook me to my core, out of my numbness, and allowed me to break down a wall that absolutely needed to come down after months of ignoring the dark reality of where my mental health has been. Most of the time, I feel like I am honest with myself; I share a lot of my thoughts online, and I have no issues with vulnerability. But apparently, only to an extent. I’m now discovering that there are definitely layers and shades to my darkness, and the truth is, things were getting close to vantablack.2
I’ve always thought of art (especially writing) as a bridge to the soul. Seeing ourselves through other people’s stories is powerful. The right set of words can heal us. Even when they’re dark. Sometimes, especially when they’re dark. To be able to give name to our pain is revealing. It provides us with a clear starting point of where to begin our work—an opportunity to choose to grow now that there’s a recognition of what the pain point and problem is. Whitaker’s excerpt that I shared above is the exact place I’ve been in during this season of my life. And for longer than I’m comfortable admitting, but here we are. I have this deep knowing that many of you who have been reading me are in that same place too. I wanted this week’s newsletter to potentially be a starting point for you to finally affirm to yourself that it’s OK to not be OK. In fact, feeling our rage is necessary for our healing. Below are words from Clarissa Pinkola Estés’ Women Who Run With the Wolves:
"...there is another aspect to mastery, and that is dealing with what can only be called our rage. The release of that rage is required. Once we remember the origin of our rage, we feel that we may never stop grinding our teeth. Ironically, we also feel very anxious to disperse our rage, for it feels distressing and noxious. We wish to hurry up and do away with it. But repressing it will not work. It is like trying to put fire into a burlap bag."
So for this week, regardless of how fine you may think you feel on the surface, I’m gonna ask you to take a moment to dig a little deeper. See what you might find through the patience of listening to your body. And if what you feel is even a sliver of pain, I invite you to fall apart with me. Cry. Make crying a ritual and do it for 5 minutes at 8 a.m. everyday for the next week before you interact with anyone. See it as cleansing and a clearing for the pathway to new life. Find a pillow to scream in or take a solo retreat somewhere in nature and let your rage rip. Ask Mother Earth to hold your pain for a while until you’re ready to alchemize its energy back into love. To keep performing like everything is OK when you know with every bone in your body that it is not is to remain in limbo. And I can tell you from experience that limbo is worse than hell, because it is the latter that leads you back into your light.
Sending you my love,
Val
P.S.
For next week’s newsletter, I’m working on a set of inspiring resources that have helped me through every dark point I’ve had this year to share with paid subscribers. Click here to upgrade and support my work, or respond to this email to ask for a gifted paid subscription.
I want to experiment with beginning an “I’m not OK” column, where I invite readers to write to me about whatever hardships they’re currently going through. I’ll choose letters to publish a response to (which I will keep anonymous) that I feel may best serve this community. While I may provide advice (if asked for), my intention is not to make this an advice column, but more of an “I see you & I love you” column. I understand that getting access to mental health resources can be so difficult to find when we’re in a state of overwhelm. I believe having a space where we are invited to safely express our not okayness with no judgments can be incredibly healing.
IMPORTANT: While writing to me may feel therapeutic, do keep in mind that I am not your therapist, your punching bag, or the solution to your problems. I will, however, respond to every letter.
Tell me why you’re not OK at co-create@lunasbyvalroxas.com.
according to Glennon Doyle, Selah means holy pause; the space between what happens to us and how we respond to what happens to us.
the pigment considered the blackest shade of black on the planet.
I love this one. I honestly don’t feel okay right now, and this read made me feel like that’s okay. Thank you. We’re all in this together.