Blogging is so weird. Like, I am 100 percent certain it is one of the stranger things in my life, and you know that my life is just chock-full of strange things.
Here’s the deal: I’m a writer. Words are in my bones. I started stapling together books and creating “magazines” while most of my friends were playing with Barbies. I was that girl. (Picture Molly, the American Girl, hanging out at the library, rocking cowlicky bangs and ’90s style like whoa.) I wrote and wrote and wrote my little fingers to the bone and that turned into penning columns in the middle school paper and that turned into editing my high school paper and that snowballed into a journalism degree and a career fueled with bylines and colored with blogs.
Writing, I just can’t quit you.
Except I did.
This summer could be called How Kayla Didn’t Get Her Groove Back. It was great season of loving my little people and praying through what God would have in store for our family, but the words just didn’t come. I continued to do my steady stream of freelance writing, but felt uninspired for any personal pursuits. I felt like MEH times a billion and it felt freeing and weird at the same time. Blogging had become more about promotion and page views than an authentic outlet. I found myself getting sick to my stomach wondering if I would offend someone, worrying constantly about how my words came across. This little corner of the Internet was getting sponsorship offers and higher stats than ever before, but I was spending more time hustling than I was writing. And that led to what it always leads to when something you love becomes something you have to do: Burnout.
The thing about burnout is that you’re not suddenly engulfed in flames.
It’s this sneaky slow-burn that creeps into your heart, whispering lies.
Whispering this is pointless. Whispering no one cares. Whispering your voice doesn’t matter, but maybe if you just shouted louder…
And slowly, parts of you start to turn into smoke, turning your passion into an illusion. And all you’re left with is a pile of ashes where that light used live.
As much as it hurts to burn out, those wounds aren’t fatal. And this summer was the time for triage. It was time for binding up the wounds and examining how deep they went. And that led to resting and finding restoration hidden in walks to the park and quiet moments soaking up the real-life goodness around me.
And now, it’s a new season. I’m energized and eager. I’ve reassessed this little space of mine and I’m excited to keep going, and with your help, maybe head in some new directions. I want more connection, less strategy. More truth-telling, less worry. More Kayla, the real Kayla. More of YOU, too. More stories, more humor, more tough stuff, more collaboration, more compassion, more real-life.
And even though I know Sunday afternoons statistically aren’t prime time for blog reading, I’m posting this anyway.
Because this little space isn’t about numbers. I’ve never been a numbers girl.
I’ve always been a word girl. Words are in my bones.