I decided to re-start this blog as a place where I could exercise a bit of my writing skills because I want to start doing some freelance content writing, and I haven’t actually written anything in… maybe a year, bit more.

I wish I had a comprehensible excuse for the inactivity, but the truth is this: writing has always been my escape, and lately I don’t really need to escape. I’m good. I’m happy. It feels weird to think that.

It’s funny that I opened this blog six years ago now, which whoa. Didn’t think it had been that long. You can go down and read the first (and, lol, only) post on this blog, and I actually think it’s an interesting discovery to see how much I’ve changed over the last six years.

Six years ago when I started this blog and made that post, I was a recent university graduate in Argentina, with a job i despised, and a budding sense of loss which eventually snowballed into a pretty savage depression. I still remember starkly feeling the way I did then–to quote Jane Eyre: poor, obscure, plain, and little.

It took me a while to realize that I am no bird and no net ensnares me. I still struggle with that some days; those days are an exhausting uphill battle. But they are increasingly few and far between, and more often than not I can catch the disaster in the distance and derail it in time.

This sort of self-awareness is something I was not capable of six years ago. The therapy I have gone through allowed me to begin the process of unpeeling myself and my identity from my family and my circumstances.

My family, my circumstances, and what those combined translated into in the shape of expectations, had a huge impact on the erosion of a self-esteem which had always been, admittedly, shockingly low. I couldn’t tell you why that always was, because for all of the issues, glaring and subtle, in our little family unit, my parents and sisters were always supportive and loving of me. It was everyone else around me, I felt, that judged me and found me wanting.

I think that’s the biggest change I notice in myself. The shift of my attention from the thoughts of others to the awareness of myself and my own feelings, independent, standalone, and complete even in solitude.

Reading that post from six years ago made me feel like looking into the past from the top of a rocky mountain. It hasn’t been easy, getting up here.

Most people don’t understand why Jane Eyre is my favorite book. It’s not the window into an era different from ours, or the prose, or the thought of a complicated Victorian romance riddled with issues and secrets.

It’s that Jane is a human being, with an independent will, which she is exerting now to leave.


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