Earlier this week I put a post up on instagram about my diet story. I shared and tagged 20 other bloggers, challenging them to share their diet story. And already I’ve read so many of their incredible stories in return.
It’s beautiful to witness, and a precious moment of warm community amidst the cold chaos of internet life.
I posted all of this on a whim. Although it feels like I developed this idea a long time ago. As if it was being formed in my subconscious without my even knowing.
Lately I’ve been really empowered by the idea of sharing our vulnerabilities, sharing our real and strange and messy selves.
For a while now I’ve found myself gagging at the surrealistic composed lives I see on instagram and personal blogs. I love it and hate it, simultaneously. It’s beautiful. It’s art. I appreciate it. I want to go to there.
But do I relate to it? Can I envision my own life so artfully disheveled? Illuminated in blue hues and set against a venetian plaster backdrop? Surrounded by fluffy kittens and toddlers in hand-crafted linen jumpers and infinite cups of coffee with fashion magazines sprawled around my collection of designer clogs?