Where My Energy Flows

It’s been a while since Wildflower wrote a blog. I could say I’ve been busy, or that life got in the way, and both of those things would be true. But if I’m really reflecting on where I’ve been lately, I think I’ve been quiet because I’ve needed time to figure out where I’m going. Life has felt full in every possible way — motherhood, work, responsibilities, ideas, dreams, exhaustion, healing, and all of the ordinary things that somehow require pieces of us too. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, I started asking myself a question I probably should have asked a long time ago: Where do I actually want my energy to go?

For basically forever, I think I hid behind my computer. There was comfort in being able to write something, hit publish, and then retreat back into my own little world. I could share parts of myself without actually having to stand in front of someone and let them see me. Being seen has always carried a little more weight for me because I know there are people who know pieces of my story. I have wondered more times than I care to admit if someone has looked at me and thought, There’s that girl who had all those breakdowns. I wondered if the hardest moments of my life had somehow become my introduction before I ever had the chance to introduce myself.

Looking back, I think that fear had more to do with starting vendor events than I realized at the time. Yes, I wanted to grow Wildflower Expressions. I wanted to get my name into the community and meet people. But I think a part of me also desperately wanted to rewrite what being seen felt like. I wanted to walk into public spaces and attach something beautiful to my name. I wanted to be the woman standing behind a table filled with things she created. I wanted someone to see me and see a writer, a creator, a mama, a photographer, or simply a woman trying to build something meaningful out of her life.

Vendor events forced me to step out from behind the safety of my screen. I had to talk to strangers, tell people about the things I created, and stand beside my own work instead of letting it speak for me. Sometimes I came home proud of myself. Other times I came home replaying conversations in my head and wondering if I had been awkward, talked too much, said something stupid, or made a complete fool of myself. That is the part of pushing your comfort zone we don’t talk about enough. Growth doesn’t always make you feel powerful while it is happening. Sometimes growth makes you feel exposed. Sometimes it is uncomfortable and clumsy and messy.

But I grew.

And now I think that growth is asking something different of me.

I’ve been MIA because, quite simply, I’ve been dealing with life. In doing that, I’ve realized I don’t have an endless supply of energy. I can’t pour myself into every idea, every opportunity, every responsibility, and every version of the woman I think I could become. Eventually, something gets the leftovers. And I don’t want the things I love most to keep receiving whatever is left of me.

My energy has to flow in the direction my heart pulls me.

Right now, my heart keeps pulling me toward two dreams: my writing and my photography.

There is another book inside of me that I hope to have out next year. Writing has always been more than putting words together for me. It has been a place to unravel, understand, remember, forgive, grieve, and release. Some of the things I have written have come from the darkest parts of my life, but somehow putting those experiences onto paper gives them somewhere else to live besides inside of me. I want to finish this book. I want to give it the time and energy it deserves instead of trying to create it from whatever scraps of myself remain at the end of the day.

Then there is photography, which came into my life and pulled at something in me that I didn’t expect. There is something almost poetic about someone who spent so much time afraid of being seen falling in love with capturing other people. Through my camera, I get to notice things people might otherwise miss. The way a mother looks at her baby, tiny fingers wrapped around hers, a family laughing between posed photographs, or the expression someone makes when they forget for a second that there is a camera pointed at them. Photography makes me feel alive in a way I have learned not to ignore.

Because of that, I’ve decided to step away from vendor events and give more of myself to these two dreams. That decision doesn’t feel like failure or quitting. If anything, I feel grateful for what that season gave me. Vendor events served their purpose in my life. They helped me get out from behind the computer. They made me introduce myself again. They forced me to become comfortable with being uncomfortable, and they showed me that I could survive being seen.

Maybe part of growing is realizing we don’t have to stay somewhere simply because it helped us become who we are. We are allowed to appreciate a season and still leave it. We are allowed to change direction. We are allowed to decide that something good has served its purpose and that our energy is needed somewhere else now.

I think I’m finally beginning to understand how precious that energy really is. Mine has spent years flowing into survival, fear, overthinking, responsibilities, proving myself, and trying to hold everything together. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life scattering myself into a hundred different directions and wondering why I never have enough left for the things that set my soul on fire. I want to be intentional about where I pour myself. I want my energy going toward the manuscript sitting unfinished, the camera in my hands, the people I love, and the woman I am still becoming.

Maybe you’re in one of those icky-sticky seasons yourself. Maybe everything feels heavier than it should, and you’re wondering if God, the Universe, or whatever you believe in is actually working with you. Maybe nothing is unfolding the way you pictured it. Life can feel like too much sometimes, and I think we need to stop pretending healing means reaching some magical point where it never feels that way again.

Healing can be ugly. It can be crying the oopiest tears you’ve ever cried until your eyes are swollen and your head hurts. It can be anger, grief, confusion, exhaustion, and finally admitting that something hurt you more than you wanted it to. Sometimes what feels like falling apart is actually your body finally releasing something it has carried for far too long.

That’s what I’ve started calling it: release.

Release the tears. Release the expectations. Release the version of yourself you thought you had to become. Release the things that served you once but don’t anymore. Release the idea that changing your mind means you failed. Maybe we aren’t supposed to drag every version of ourselves into every new season.

I don’t have everything figured out. I’m still messy. I still overthink. I still have moments when hiding behind my computer feels safer than letting the world see me. I still wonder what people think sometimes. The difference is that I’m beginning to understand that I cannot control the version of me that lives in someone else’s mind. I can only choose what I do with the life in front of me.

And with this part of my life, I want to create.

I want to write the damn book. I want to pick up my camera. I want to pour myself into the dreams that continue tugging at me no matter how many times I get distracted by everything else.

Maybe I don’t need to know exactly where they are taking me yet. Maybe I just need to trust the pull.

So that is where Wildflower is right now. A little quieter. A little more intentional. Still healing, still growing, still changing her mind, and still figuring it out as she goes.

But I think I finally know which direction I want my energy to flow.

Toward the things that make me feel alive.

— Kels

Where wild meets grace.