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What started as an uncomfortable, nebulous experience has turned into something truly inspiring and empowering. As the cliché goes, things really do happen for a reason.

The thoughtful comments. The subtle emails sent in support. The FB messages. Tweets. Texts. Phone calls. And conversations that have come out of the post I wrote this week have given me such strength and encouragement, I cannot say thank you enough to everyone who reached out to me and offered kind words and such thoughtful responses. I needed them. And they made all the difference.

I had to do some serious thinking about this space that I have inhabited for the past year and a half. The content of this space. Why I come here. Why I share myself. Why I say what I say. I’ve thought about these things internally before, but I was forced to make sense of them in an outward and more tangible capacity. I will never again be caught off guard by someone questioning my intentions. By someone challenging what I put out into the world.

Ultimately, what I realized is that for every word I’ve written, for every post I’ve ever published publicly, great thought and care was had before I hit that PUBLISH button. I have edited, changed phrasing, left posts started and unfinished because when I’ve taken that moment to process the repercussions of what I am about to let the world see, I often do rethink and pull back. I do not write about the flaws of my family and friends. Sure I may jest about James’ fear of spiders, or my mother’s ability to save every item of paper circa 1980, but these are just quirks. Not deep, open flaws or wounds that I lay raw for this audience to judge. I allow myself to write about my own flaws, and wounds, and vulnerabilities because I am controlling that message. I am trying to share pieces of myself that I know others struggle with too but are perhaps too scared to voice, or are looking for someone to relate to.

If that makes me look bad, you are entitled to that opinion. But I struggle to believe that each of us doesn’t live in a glass house. Careful with those stones.

Based on everything that has been said to me over the course of this past year and a half, especially the last 48 hours, I know that I am accomplishing a great thing for those who do choose to read. It may be only a couple hundred, but even just one reader would make all the difference. It’s about relating and connecting, that is why it is not as simple as keeping a diary, or talking to a therapist. The people that talk back are what gives this space its life.

I am trying to give a voice to those experiences that are so universal but so untouchable. To the things so many of us confront but don’t feel they can put language to. I write with humor, because it makes the uncomfortable more bearable. And I in no way force anyone to come here and read what I have to say. People choose to come and share in my life. If this space were private, it would not have the power it has. This space empowers me. It has empowered me through an experience that can be so disempowering for women. It has given me a community and a voice, and I don’t know if there is anything more powerful than feeling support and agency all in one place.

Most importantly, the institution that I work for now is the very same institution that helped me find my voice. That challenged me. Empowered me. Educated me. And taught me how to express myself. It didn’t place judgment on how I did that. My professors provoked and prodded and pushed me to not be afraid of risks, and breaking barriers, and questioning what our society and culture label as “normal” or “the status quo.” If anything, I think this institution would be proud that I have found a way personally to reach out to people about the heady things I studied while in the Ivory Towers. I’m doing exactly what my degrees have taught me to do. To rethink public and private space. Those labels. Who they are imposed on and who’s doing the imposing.

My writing may not come across as outwardly feminist, but every word is infused with this background, training, and lens.

I understand that people may judge me for this. And look down on me. And question me. And disapprove. But that is on them, not me.

Writing about my period and trying to get pregnant, about my boobs and breastfeeding, that in no way makes me a bad person. It in no way makes me unfit to perform my job responsibly and fully. I know the risk I run in publishing these things, but I also know the good I am doing for women who feel forced to experience these things privately, and alone because our society tells them that they shouldn’t dare speak them publicly. There is nothing dirty or inappropriate about our bodies. They can give life. They are strong. They are beautiful. And we should be able to try to make sense of all that without fear of judgment or disapproval.

I am so grateful I have parents who have been the fiercest supporters of my not being shamed into silence. They raised me to celebrate who I am. To not be embarrassed by my body. And to not worry about other people’s hang ups or insecurities weighing on my choices. I can only hope that Addison feels she too can celebrate whoever she grows up to be and knows that James and I will never judge her for it.

I also trust that my parents, my nuclear family, James, and my friends would let me know if they ever felt I was crossing a line. Pushing too hard. Doing something that felt “off,” or “not right.” I trust them to help provide the balance, and to know me well enough to know when I might need a gentle hand.

The blog is back to the way it used to be, and I will continue to treat it in the way I have always treated it, now just with a stronger sense of purpose and a more secure response as to why. It’s not that I don’t value the concern that was brought to my attention. I’ve thought about it very seriously, but this is my conclusion.