I almost didn't, until I did

Good things happen when I stop talking myself out of them

An audio version of this essay, read by me, is available here. ⬇️

August Macke, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

I had a very basic plan: show up, then show up again. The commitment was as much about managing my own tendencies as anything else. I can’t count how many brilliant ideas have lived and died in the span of an hour in my head. Given the right moon phase or sun sign, and a prickling in the part of my brain that hates feeling overwhelmed, I could talk myself out of a winning lottery ticket even while holding it.

But here we are, four years from the launch of this publication and still moving along.

For more than 200 weeks, that’s mostly meant crafting essays. Words are my love language, after all. Getting them down gives me a chance to notice things, worry over them, figure out how they make me think or feel in the moment, then offer them up in case they might resonate more broadly.

Occasionally, it’s meant something else—a photograph, a playlist, a poem—because those were the honest shape of the week. I’ve learned to trust that those count, too. Not that anyone’s keeping score.

What surprises me more than maintaining the writing ritual is that so many of you have joined me along the way, and stay with me still. You’ve trusted me with your attention, your time, a slice of your very full lives. I don’t ever take that for granted.

It feels right to mark this moment by naming some of what stands out about the process, some of the observations I’ve gathered along the way, bits and pieces of what I’ve learned:

• Consistency is more about design than willpower. I know this isn’t true for everyone, but for me, habit makes it less likely I’ll bail. I do the same thing with exercise, dragging my reluctant butt to the Y for a predictable suite of classes each week. Without the schedule, I’m left to negotiate with myself, and I am a very persuasive opponent.

• Doubt is part of the routine, not a sign I’m doing it wrong. It shows up faithfully, like a dog at the dinner bowl, peaking right as I click “send.” I’ve learned to stop waiting for it to go away.

• Humor can create a bridge to hard truths. When things feel heavy personally, politically, or collectively—which is basically always now—laughter changes the air by cracking the door open for hope.

• Community eases the burden. Writing into the void is one thing. Writing with the knowledge that someone else out there is thinking, feeling, nodding along is a game changer. And this is where I’ll wave my pompoms for those of you who are willing to turn up visibly. I get that this isn’t for everyone either, and I’m not asking anyone to change. But I do need to acknowledge the lift this provides for me, one I try to consistently pay forward.

• Attention is an act of care. Noticing what’s painful, infuriating, and bleak, or tender, funny, and exhilarating is a way of staying connected to the full spectrum of life as one of billions sharing an existence here on Earth. And when I’m attentive, I’m more likely to see what needs more care.

We are all holding a lot right now, some of us more than others. Most weeks I wonder whether anything small or reflective belongs alongside everything else clamoring for urgency. What I tell myself is that it’s okay that my part looks different than others’. Chicken Scratch offers the option to remember who I am, expand a little, touch the breadth of what has always mattered, what still matters, what can matter.

So this is my time to say thank you. Thank you for reading and listening, for responding and sharing, for supporting this work in the ways that you do. Thank you for trusting me with your energy, your imagination, and your willingness to explore. For me, this practice and this community are a way to return to dreams I hope we never lose sight of, giving them a place to call home.

I’m glad we’re here together. And while I will almost certainly try to talk myself out of next week’s post, I’m pretty sure I’ll show up anyway.

With real gratitude,

Elizabeth

AFTERWARD:
I’m including this section as a way to turn reflection into action, if you want. Each week, I’m sharing one small, concrete way to raise your voice, because sustained, visible engagement is one of the few levers we still have to influence the world around us.

TRY THIS:
Make something nourishing—soup, stew, or bread—and bring it to a neighbor, friend, or someone who could use it. Care is contagious, and showing up with a little sustenance is one of the simplest ways to make a real difference.

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