How can I be expected to write miracles when I'm wearing jeans?

On being brave, defying your own expectations and jeans

Recently, I sat in front of a doctor and wept. She was kind and gave me a tissue and her time. I do this really unattractive thing when I cry, when one half of my face wibbles about and my nostrils flare to the size of Jupiter. I was also bright red and horribly sweaty, due to September pulling an August on me. She also told me there wasn’t really anything she could offer me in the moment, but that I have shown immense bravery in how hard I have battled to get help. More than anything else she could have offered me in that particular moment, that was what I needed. Being told you’re brave brings out the same feeling as when you were a child and someone says how tall you’ve grown. Is that just me?

I feel like I’ve done a lot of that lately, the whole being brave thing. Being an adult is a constant sequence of bravery, and, if I’m being completely truthful, I’m exhausted of it. I want to be a small child again, hiding in a self-assembled pillow fort, watching the blinking fairy lights above me. I want to be young enough to think of days in terms of the things I will do, instead of in shifts. I long to be the version of myself writing at the table, at fours years of age, writing a story inspired by a pack of stickers I owned.

The other week, the twenty-four-year-old version of me sat at a different table in a different house and wrote an article for Substack whilst wearing a pair of jeans. (We’ll come back to the jeans.) Writing for Substack is my favourite thing I have done since… well, it’s the best thing I have ever done. It tethers me to my creativity amongst the violent sea of maturing. I overshare on here, which some could perceive as brave. For me, it’s the only way I can possibly be. I can’t be anything else other than entirely honest. I’ve had a couple of my family members say to me that they don’t know how I share such intimate details (looking at you, the Emma who had to shit in a forest) on the internet.

It’s so brave, Emma, talking as candidly as you do on there.

Is it brave, really? Is it my substitute for therapy? Is it slightly daft to share so much? Do I write something incredibly vulnerable, and then hide behind my dry, British sense of humour because that feels a bit too scary? Will I write about creating being my lifeline, and then make a joke about ill-fitting jeans? Yes, actually. That’s what I am just about to do.

So, I was sat there writing, and I was in a pair of jeans. This was my first mistake that day. The button of the jeans I cram myself into pressed into my stomach. When I adjusted the waistband, I saw the angry red creases against my soft stomach. My stomach, who is the subject of my greatest hate campaign I have ever waged. It’s funny how, writing here and now, I can only bring myself to talk of my stomach gently. These words are so different to the ones in my head.

I ran my finger over the deepest crease, which was my second mistake that day. It made me feel an unbearable tenderness towards myself and my body, and I didn’t know what to do about that. So I undid my button, threw down my zipper, and sardonically expressed to my mum:

“How can I be expected to write miracles when I’m wearing jeans?”

She laughed. I love making my mum laugh more than most things in the world. It makes being brave worth it. I carried on writing, and pushed that unwanted emotion to the back of my mind. It is easiest to live with yourself when you are letting hate lead the way; it is almost impossible to let gentleness have a say. Self-compassion is bravery. I will die on this hill. It is infinitely harder to be kind to yourself. To pick yourself up, again and again and again.

My partner compared me to a little spider the other day. He said that every time my web gets destroyed, I start again and rebuild it. It made me cry. Admittedly, most things make me cry. But this dislodged one of my internal Jenga blocks that keep me upright and stable. It’s one of the most beautiful things he has ever said to me. It is so very bright, and I am so very cave-dwelling.

My loved ones tell me that I inspire them with my strength. I’ve always answered that I don’t see myself as strong, not really. They shake their heads in disbelief. I tilt my head in confusion. I want to absorb what they’re saying, and tuck it into the weathered corner of my heart and keep it safe. I want to defy my expectations of myself. To be strong because I am strong, not because I’ve had to be. Maybe they are one and the same. Maybe I just need to wear jogging bottoms when I write.

Everything makes me think. It forces me to go to new depths of feeling. A doctor telling me I’m brave makes me long for childhood. Relentless appointments and self-realisations don’t allow me to stop trying. Jeans cause a crisis.

I am brave, but I have to be. The tune of adulthood rings on.

All my love,

Emma