Finally Abandoning Hope

It never occurred to me that within the span of these last two years, despite my best efforts at being painstakingly communicative, vulnerable, and transparent— I stopped sharing the story of my journey.

Not only the journey of building a business but also the quest I embarked on over a decade ago.

The quest of self-discovery. Of finding answers to those questions most of us dare not ask out loud for fear they may be swept away into the depths of our own pain.

Our own grief.

Our own experiences.

Or worse….

We may be forced to face ourselves, along with all of our imperfections, in the mirror.

Sometimes it’s okay to get swept away.

Sometimes it’s okay to avoid.

Sometimes it’s okay to lash out.

Sometimes it’s okay to not be what society demands of us.

And sometimes the best thing you can do—something that you should do, but were never told was okay—is to abandon all hope.

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.

“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

Because sometimes, although we may not realize it, holding onto too much hope can keep us from discovering that hope and pain are two sides of the same coin.

We can search for, and desperately cling to, hope for a pain-free, secure, guaranteed-safe future so intensely that we don’t realize that is the very thing preventing us from truly living.

By giving up hope that things will fix themselves the way we want them to, and giving up our own personal definition of what “perfect” is, or how things should be, we drop the struggle against reality.

We learn to not fear life.

We let go of the hope that the pain will go away.

We let go of the idea that life will be oh so neat and predictable, that it will always go “according to plan.”

The true freedom so many of us hope for begins when we accept that we really don’t know what will happen next.

So I guess you could say that’s one of the reasons I haven’t been as transparently clear with much of what I’ve been sharing.

Because honestly…

I didn’t— and still don’t even really know myself either.

Which says a lot coming from someone who once held so much pride in the things he knew.

Why share any of this now?

Who cares?

Who’s gonna read it?

Why bother?

I don’t even have to explain myself.

Nor do any of us, for that matter!

And yet…

We still do.

If you’ve made it thus far, I must commend you on your attention span and reading comprehension, along with your willingness to follow along on this story with me.

Thank you.

Not just for making it this far in my post, or even for following along.

But for making it this far in life.

In your own personal quest.

Your own story

Your own journey.

You should be SO proud of yourself, no matter where you may be in your quest.

My reward to you is this:

Own your experiences.

The good, the bad, the ugly, the wicked, the joyful, the painful, the sorrowful, and even the lonely ones.

Do not be afraid to enter the hell of your own mind and dance with those experiences you keep locked away.

After all— it’s just different versions of you in there.

To be afraid of life is to choose death, or so I’ve read.

How do you expect others, along with the world, to fully accept and see you if you’re afraid to do the same for yourself?

So here’s my unfiltered, bluntly put, dirty-laundry list of those things I haven’t been able to say, or formulate into some beautifully written format:

I’m still doing hair.

I’m actively working behind the chair, along with the hours I put in behind the scenes, trying to reply to a lot of texts daily, that is when I'm not avoiding replying for sometimes weeks because I've neglected other areas of my business, career, and life.

All while simultaneously supporting my clients both emotionally and mentally through the things they cannot speak aloud.

I’m still a growing business.

I’m painting.

I’m creating.

I’m writing.

I’m working on myself.

I'm doing all of it.

By myself.

I'm painfully aware there are so very many people— parents, single moms and dads, men, women, even children— trying to juggle similar experiences.

Some of us are built for it.

Some of us enjoy these supporting roles.

Some of us chose them.

Some of us simply fell into them because we thought that's what we were supposed to do.

And then there are some of us who can’t admit when we are not built for it.

Then no matter how hard we may try new systems, new habits, new therapists, read another book, write another blog, research another study…

Our brains are just not built for the onslaught of stimuli, emotions, demands, and all the little jabs that can come with every day existence.

I’ve blamed it on this year being a Fire Horse year, which the conclusion is still out on.

I’ve blamed it on too much of this.

Too little of that.

The truth is…

I’ve just been pushing myself too hard.

Digging too deep.

Trying to make my brain do something that seems so effortless to other people.

And still…

My relationship is intact, actually it's closer than before.

It’s hard to remember that we don’t have to stay the same people that we once were— even in a relationship.

I’m still trying to build Earthgrove Artistry while also lessening my hours behind the chair in order to protect what little glimmers of joy I have left.

And at the same time, I'm trying to turn those glimmers into something people can take home with them instead of the haircuts.

Over these last several months, I’ve really leaned back into my creative side.

For myself.

To get back to the joy of creating itself. And I forgot how much comfort, fulfillment, and unadulterated JOY I get from it.

Even if I don't post it.

Even if I don't sell it.

Even if I don't share it.

There is this kind of joy that comes from creating, simply because you can.

From being able to shed some layers of protectors I didn’t realize I was wearing.

From living truly authentically as me, even if other people don’t like me.

Even if they may hate me.

That’s not mine to control.

What is mine to confront is how hard I’ve attempted to control other people's perceptions of me so I wouldn't ever get hurt again.

And perhaps, finally abandoning all hope; not hope for life, but hope that Life must become what I once thought it needed to be— and I have finally begun to live again.