Let beauty be free.
For years, I have struggled to structure and contain whatever was happening inside of me.
Keep it neat. (she said.)
Have a point. (she said.)
Be of service. (she said.)
And so, like a beaver building a dam—ambitious and diligent—I worked strategically to create structure around the ever-flowing intensity within. A coach, a hairstylist, a blogger, a writer, something. Anything.
Yet time and time again, almost comically so, I would start to feel trapped. My evolution hindered. Strangled by a commitment to an identity that I, myself, had created. Society plays its role in this too, offering a "give the people what they want" kind of narrative. Because even when I would burst the dam, rip open the box, sell it all, and walk away—new terms awaited me. A “free spirit,” a “seeker,” a “gypsy.” More boxes. More roles that I could not keep up with.
I question this process from many angles. Is it too masculine—to give form, to externalize? Does the feminine nature crave more fluidity, less definition? Where is the balance? How do I hold the tension between two opposing forces?
I am reminded of a time when I was younger, openly sharing, when a spectator—a client—pointed out the ambiguity of my expression with a sharp, condescending tone. It stung. It haunted me for years, echoing my own inner critic: “Keep it neat. Have a point. Be of service.”
I am also consoled that, along the way, I have also met kindred souls who have shared this deeper sentiment with me. A teacher once said, “I don’t want to be defined, ever.” A reprieve to my ears. An observant friend encouraged me, “Embrace your need for change.” My system soothed. “Oh,” I thought, “this is me. But if this is me? Who was that?”
Liminality: The state of being in between two stages or places, especially when transitioning to something new. It is often associated with uncertainty, ambiguity, and powerlessness, yet it can also be transformative.
Over time and through my journey, I am finding peace within the void. It comes, it goes, it dissolves, it evolves. Like the space between heartbeats, the pause between words, the silence between one song and the next. Liminality is my solace. I am familiar with the place where I can be something… but oh, what a wonder it is to simply be nothing.
To be honest, I don’t have anything to sell you. I don’t have any advice to give. This journey is colored by our own lens, and maybe this is mine.
Am I of no service to the world if I create simply for the sake of creating? Is art or expression not a service? Does it not make the world a better place, more beautiful, more soothing to the nervous system? More relatable? Must it be justified before it can simply be? Who shames me for this? Oh yeah, it’s me.
I have struggled deeply to find my why, to make logical sense of my efforts—though my body just does. It moves, it knows. It seeks not to be contained or defined.
I want to dance in the idea of never being defined. To always share whatever comes through me. To let beauty be beauty—in a glorious, messy format, with no point and of no service. Just free.
The ideas come. Some go. Some stay and turn hot and acidic if ignored for too long. Because why? Or how? Or what if fleeting? Must I melt under that tension, or is that a sign? A sign that I am far from my flow? Am I so dutiful and indebted? Or is this a gift?
A hobby. A hobby only?
Or can it be my life?
