The Hardest Yes

On the heavy lift of self-trust

Remember those push / penny pencils? The ones that had a stack of short lead tips inside, and when one wore down you'd pop it out, put it in the back, and click a fresh one forward? I remember two things about them: their smell (I swear some of them came with a fake strawberry scent) and how the fresh tip felt to write with.

How that sharp point bit the paper, the lines of my letters so crisp, the marks intentional and clean. It felt powerful and sounded precise. There was no eraser on the end of this pencil, so the ideas gripped the page. As a budding writer, this was exhilarating. What I had to say felt like it mattered, like I could sit up taller and claim my space as the author.

I remember wanting a fresh tip as soon as the one I was using became the slightest bit dull. Maybe it was because there were ten or so tips readily available and that knowing instigated my obsessive changing. This went against my typical pencil-use behavior. With the Ticonderoga #2s, I didn’t mind a slightly dulled point or how the pencil glided across the paper with a soft swishing sound.

The moment that I’d go to change out the tip on my push pencil and discover the next one was actually my first one, that I’d lost count and the point was already dull, was the moment the pencil lost its appeal.

When there was more, I wanted more. And when the tips ran out, the pencil had no use.

Lately, I’ve been struggling to write on this platform. The not-knowing-what's-safe-to-say, the self-censorship, the ideas that feel too live to touch. Initially, writing here was like writing with the sharp points on my push pencil. The ideas grabbed the page, and I allowed myself to crack open around my most recent middle space, the ending of my former ten-year relationship.

What’s strange is that I’ve written and submitted a few pieces for publication in the past month or so. Like the validation of an external publication saying yes outweighs the anxiety. This Substack is just my own publication. Publishing myself here is saying yes to myself, and that is the hardest yes of all.

There is no gatekeeper, no editor, no publisher to tell me my work has earned its place. It’s just me both asking and answering the question.

I'm in Japan right now (more on that later), and today I visited Fushimi Inari Taisha, a Shinto shrine in Kyoto. One of the rituals available to visitors involves a small rock on a pedestal: you make a wish, then lift it. If the rock is lighter than expected, your wish may come true with ease. If heavier, the path will be difficult.

I stood in line behind a few other tourists until it was my turn. The rock was smooth, dark, about the size of a cantaloupe. Placing both hands on the coolness of the rock, I closed my eyes. I’m going to tell you my wish because this was not my birthday. I wished for self-trust. And then, I opened my eyes and lifted. The rock was extraordinarily heavy.

I laughed a bit aloud, alone, as I moved out of position and let the person behind me to their destiny. Of course it was heavy. This is part of my lifelong work, to trust myself. Just because the path has already been difficult and I’ve put in my time, doesn’t mean it gets easier. It just means I know what hard feels like, and I keep showing up anyway.

Maybe there’s a part of me that’s a glutton for punishment. Or maybe in my wildness I was just born to seek more. The next challenge, the next opening, the next thing that asks something of me.

I have to trust my own judgment about what's ready, what's true, what's safe enough to both say and share in my writing. I find it somewhat amusing that the space I created to explore and grapple with the middle place has become one of its own. When I was a girl writing with the sharpness of a new point on my push pencil, I felt as fierce as if I were adept with a sword.

Where is she now?