Twelve is the number of half-finished blog posts currently sitting in my ‘drafts’ folder, but countless more have died well before they could even make it there. In the year of our Lord, 2025, my self-censorship is so strong that I self-corrected and edited the prior sentence roughly ten times before deciding it was good enough for me to move on — and then I circled back and made more edits. Twice.

I once instinctively knew how to tell my own stories. Creation felt effortless; cathartic even. Now I google the word ‘cathartic’ immediately upon typing it; no longer trusting myself to be sure of its meaning.

I spent five years scrutinizing every sentence, censoring every thought, and doubting every motivation. I’ve lost count of the words I’ve abandoned in various draft folders, spiral notebooks, and post-it notes. Snippets of wisdom sent by unseen forces regrettably left to dry up like the ink they were scribbled with.

For five years I’ve sheathed my pen and shelved my dreams; opting to ruminate rather than to react. Self-suppression as commonplace as untold stories catching in my throat. A self-imposed Exile, where no one was permitted to truly know me except for myself.

And though my Exile has taken much from me — my resounding voice ranking high among the causalities — the forced navigation of foreign and often hostile terrain revealed to me profound truths I had overlooked and exposed lies I long believed:

I once believed that I was a difficult person to love. Too loud. Too headstrong. Too freely spoken. Too deeply feeling. Too passionate. Too needy. A being full of confounding and impossible expectations; nothing short of exasperating to others. Someone destined to be unheard, misunderstood, and left behind. And so, I clung to spaces and people with a level of compassion, care, and concern that I rarely extended to myself. Begging them to stay. Begging them to see me, to love me, to choose me. The epitome of that David Foster Wallace quote: “Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.“

So thank God for my Exile. For in retracting my claws and licking my wounds I discovered an option to see, feel, and honor my own worth. To pour into myself with the same vigor and vibrance that I once poured into others. To choose me first. To love me most. To like me best. To see me for the beautiful soul I am and have always been. To choose me. To be me. Just me; Categorically Kate.

These days, the concept of holding tight to something, someone, anything that doesn’t enthusiastically choose me is well, bewildering. I cannot tolerate being tolerated anymore than I can sprout wings and fly to the moon.

You see, in taking much (and many) from me, my Exile forced me into a deep retreat, that while unpalatable, ultimately allowed me to understand, deep in my bones, both the Pragmatic reality of what it means to be afraid, hurt, silenced, alone AND the Positive possibilities of what always — yes, always — lies beyond such despair and uncertainty. Not all who retreat are defeated.

So, in a paradoxical kind of way, the hours, days, weeks, months, and years I spent with my mouth shut and my heart broken, opened my mind and beckoned my soul to seek an abstruse conclusion that now permanently dwells in my heart: Our worst Nightmares are often also our saving Grace.

Thank Source for this Grace.

Beyond this Exile, a Homecoming approaches. In true candor, that scares the hell out of me. After all this time, my voice feels weak, shaky, and unsure. Despite formerly being an extrovert, my solace now lies in shadows and silence and, quite frankly, I like it there. For while I have never been as undoubtedly convinced of my own power, I am also starkly aware of my fragility; and no one wants to be broken again.

But this vessel of mine is capable of holding hope and reality in equal measure. And while I’ve struggled to find my words and my Voice — and spent far too long questioning whether I shall ever be equipped to employ them again — I cannot deny that the profound pain I’ve alchemized into authentic and meaningful wisdom demands an audience.

So, despite now struggling (deeply at times), with the fear and anxiety of being seen, the world is burning and I am forced to acknowledge that my Voice, among others, will be needed to quell the flames. Taking solace in silence and shadows is, quite frankly, no longer tenable.

Trauma, loss, separation, despair, and rejection once led me to doubt all I once intrinsically knew; and now, though I admittedly sometimes doubt whether I retain an ability to weave metaphor and truth together, like a spider spinning silk, deep down, I know I haven’t lost my ability to tell my stories. That gift has always been mine and nothing can rob me of it except, well, myself. Moreover, my stories deserve to be told and somehow, someday, I will tell them; Today I can accept that I am merely out of practice.

So perhaps nothing has slipped from me. Maybe I’ve never abandoned my words or abdicated my Truth. Maybe I have just carried these narratives as my children; carefully waiting for the right moment to let them breathe. Undeniably aware that their labor will be raw, honest, and difficult, but also holding space for the Homecoming it will be when — through them — I find a way back to my Voice.

For today at least, I do not have it all figured out. Not by a longshot. But I do find myself draped in type of pragmatic positivity; willing to be radically honest about the roads I have traveled, and yet, still somehow believing that the path before me, while currently obscured, remains ripe with possibility and potential. For me. For everyone I have ever, and will ever, love. For a world poised to rise from its ashes and come back home to itself.

Not every Exile ends in Homecoming. But this one will.
If nothing else, I am certain of that.