Going Nuclear

Getting To The Core Of My Delete

A little over a week ago I went into the “danger zone” area of the settings on Substack and in an impulsive moment, I clicked the delete button. I had written 14 essays, hundreds of notes, and in doing so, lost around 225 subscribers, who were kind enough to give me some precious commodities - their time and email addresses. I was just starting to make some good friends on the platform, cultivate a sense of community, and I was pushing myself a bit, creatively.

I joined Substack in May of 2024 in the middle of some very real and raw life-grief. As a deep feeler, someone who hates change, and takes a long time process things, I wasn’t doing so hot. I had just resigned from my job of 16 years, the only real job I’ve ever had, where I was cemented as a provider in the community. A month before, I lost one of the great loves of my life, my adorable 11 year-old dog, Angus. My 10 year-old daughter was rapidly growing and finishing elementary school. My heart continued to break as I watched her grieve Angus, too, whom she had never been without in this world. I was in a reality I didn’t recognize any longer. I was crying every single day. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know how to get through all of these changes. Too many endings.

I was stripped to my barest emotionally, so I thought, why not bare it all for strangers to see on the internet? What could go wrong? Seriously though, nothing really had gone wrong. I was sharing and skirting the edges of some of the things I wanted to write about. I was suspended between the relief I was feeling by sharing my innermost thoughts and the terror of feeling like I wanted to run and hide. Were people really seeing me?

Messy, dirty, me in the summer of 1984

Just before the delete I was starting to feel the pressure build. We had started a new school year in a new school, it was new season, and there was some confusion about some aspects of my future. I hadn’t really mentally seen past the summer after I’d quit my job, and the summer was now in my rear view. I was on the precipice of some new beginnings. I felt paralyzed in the in-between (the topic of another essay).

When I start to feel this way, I crave solitude, which has been in short supply since 2020. I decided to take a trip to our family lake house (privilege, I know) to hopefully reset. I enjoyed gorgeous fall weather, some crazy moons (maybe it was also the moon?!), hiking, and stillness. But what goes up must come down. When I got home, my dog wasn’t here and I was hit with another wave of grief. And instead of reset, I felt….lost, untethered, and exposed. In reality, no one was watching a damn thing I was doing. Still, I hadn’t slept in several nights, had no appetite, and desperately wanted run away, act out, or burn something down. I used this feeling and some creepy direct messages as an excuse for it to be Substack that got nuked.

My daughter and Angus, best friends

I started to explore why the feeling of exposure was such a trigger and as I kept digging, I realized it was shame that was beneath the exposure. And fucking childhood. It’s always childhood, isn’t it?

I grew up in a chaotic household and after breaking down, alone, several times as a child, I decided that feeling anything wasn’t going to be way for me to survive. It hurt too much. So, I stuffed all of my emotions down. I distinctly remember saying to myself, at 9 years old, “Today is going to be the last time you cry.” And I didn’t cry much until all that emotion that I’d buried, came back ten-fold when I reached my mid-20s. Then, I dealt by numbing it with alcohol, degrees, perfectionism, productivity, accomplishments, and “success.” When I did allow myself to feel things, or cry, it was mostly done in private. I was good at appearing like I knew what I was doing, that I had it together, and I was strong and smart.

However, I didn’t know what I was doing. Still don’t. The energy it takes to keep pretending is untenable.

I think a core fear of mine is being found out. Having others to see the “real” me, the one I am hiding. The person I am ashamed of: the imperfect, fucked up, and messy girl with more baggage than she can carry. That people will get a glimpse at the real me and not choose me and reinforce all of those negative ideas I have about myself. I know other people feel this way, too. We’re all wearing masks, right? But I have never been able to give myself the same grace I give other people. I should be stronger. I have read every self-help book published since 2008. I should have shed some of this shit by now.

About 6 hours after I hit the delete button, I regretted it. I have learned many times to make sure my nervous system is regulated and I am calm before I do anything important and I was so disappointed in myself for repeating old patterns. I felt trapped in a cycle of self-defeat. I realized Substack was one good thing I had going on and I just burned it to the ground.

I almost didn’t post this note, but I felt so low, and was hoping that despite the algorithm no longer being in my favor, some would respond. I expected some to scold me but instead, I was met with compassion and grace which almost instantaneously erased the incredible shame I was feeling. It is one thing to understand what these people were saying to me, but another thing to really begin to feel it in my body.

I had no idea so many would bear witness to such a weak moment and hold space for me. At the time of writing this, I’ve had over 100 comments and direct messages that made me laugh, cry, smile, think, engage, and be okay with my vulnerability in a way I never had before.

I wasn’t, and don’t have to be, alone.

I do not want to “lie” any longer. I want to show up authentically, with the hope that others will meet me where I am and care for me for who I am beneath it all. I have learned a thing or two along the way and I want to share it to help lift others up. I’m challenging this duality in me, this urge to hide versus wanting to be maskless. I’m going to feel uncomfortable and put it forth. I can do hard things. I cannot control what others think, but I can begin to dig deep, get back to my essence, my core, to the girl in there who is innocent and pure and good and deserving of love.

And I can do it with a little help from my friends. Thank you Substack. Many told me that maybe this was supposed to happen. And now I believe they were right. A big part of my heart that was wounded is now open to let the light in.

“The wound is the place where the light enters you.”

- Rumi

When I find it hard to give myself grace I try to think of me at 2 years old. In March of 1984