Hey There, I’m Just Jill, Writer.
As simple yet profound as that.
This is me coming home to what matters — the words.
Follow The Journey
Be Inspired—Start Your Own
just jill, writer.
I have a confession. It’s a tough one to swallow but this is about stripping all-the-things bare.
I have a confession. It’s a tough one to swallow but this is about stripping all-the-things bare.
See, I would rather throw the baby out with the bathwater than try to figure out how to unravel what I receive as a mess.
Even if that mess is simply to change the water, my go-to way of showing up is to toss it all—the good and the bad.
“Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater” is a German idiomatic expression dating back to 1512 and the meaning behind the most graphic phrase is “don’t discard something valuable along with something undesirable.”
And yes, even though I do not have one, I find babies desirable and would never truly toss one.
However, my baby of a website that became a mammoth beast of an unruly thing . . .
Toss it, I say.
Which some may think is a bit insane.
What one might find foolish and down right insane, I find quite natural, normal and a needed part of my untangling of self.
But it does come with a cost.
I often feel the need to nix something and start again (only to stuff my face).
Habit. Pattern. Waste of precious time, resources and energy.
Because when this is one’s way of being
about something external,
like a book half done,
a website spun too big,
a cottage under construction way past its expiration date,
that same way of being can also apply internally.
And lead to a tossing of self.
For some it’s a self-deprecation humor,
a proverbial tossing of oneself under the bus,
a conscious no to self care.
The negating of all the good within
by focusing and saying good-bye to all there is
simply because there is also bad.
And I must admit this is a most painful way to be, but in all transparency, this is me.
See I have always been a bit of a spider playing at creating the most intricate of webs.
And currently, here I am with a book in Formatting Land,
my amazing editor busy reviewing pages,
a release date just two weeks away,
a list a mile and a half long,
a desire to get my first-look readers on board and informed . . .
and yet the itch to strip bare is there.
Taking over. Almost all consuming in it’s Now, because it’s literally time I fully do this thing my way.
Just as I am doing a new book my way.
This is me spinning a new web with intention. Not tossing the baby, but pulling the drain plug that needs to be undone so that I can rebuild . . .
with the whisper of less is more in my head.
Stripping back to the words, not the design.
Shedding what doesn’t fit this new Just Jill, Writer version of me.
I am Just Jill, Writer.
And so much more that it’s finally time to fully let go.
Letting go of the part of me who is a Jill (sorry Jack) of all trades and saying no more
to over designed pages,
to much time in Canva (gosh-darn, love that space)
and instead focusing on my zone of me—
words.
So while nobody puts this baby in a corner (but me), I am saying no to that way of being while also learning I can change my mind.
I can make a change and not toss myself when the need to expand into less grows within me.
Just Jill, Writer. Stripping bare for all to see.
It won’t always be pretty, definitely never curated, but it will be fully, honestly, totally me.
💜
[ If you like this message, you’ll probably go gaga over my new book. ]
No one completes me, Jerry Maguire, but me!
I stopped asking permission to do what I love to do.
I stopped hiding it so I wouldn’t have to.
I started to own all the pieces of me I’ve let fly
fly away since childhood.
Since the four harsh walls of someone’s classroom told me to color within a set of lines.
Hmm, just hell no.
I stopped waiting for permission.
It just happened suddenly.
Or not so suddenly, as I’m currently in my forties and it’s been a slow build the last decade to get to the point where OMG, I need no one’s permission to live my life.
To do me.
Be me.
And it all started with a little cottage on a hill,
where one day there will be secret gardens,
but for now a delicious place that overlooks the sea
where I sit all day and write.
And so I do.
I stopped asking permission to do what I love to do.
I stopped hiding it so I wouldn’t have to.
I started to own all the pieces of me I’ve let fly
fly away since childhood.
Since the four harsh walls of someone’s classroom told me to color within a set of lines.
Hmm, just hell no.
My strokes are meant to be big, bold, brash at times.
My words are meant to sucker punch you with the feels.
My tales are meant to engage your hidden spaces …
encourage you to think outside the box you say you hate yet are oh-so comfortable in.
Want to know how I know I’m no longer asking for permission to live my life?
To show up daily in utter JOY?
It’s really two-fold.
First, I’m owning my nicknamed title,
Snow White.
You know the Disney classic—a girl with dark short hair in a blue dress. Forever in a forest, butterflies and birds a-twirl around her head.
All the little furred, hoofed and pawed friends, at loving attention.
While my hair is more Viking blonde and recently braided to one side, I do have blue overalls that fit my role as lover of all the little creatures.
See, I’ve all but started a farmette.
A French word for a petite farm that I just love.
So my little cottage is now totally
The Farmette.
And I love it.
Rescuing all the little baby goats, some who make it, some who don’t. I’ve currently got nine and five girls still bottle feeding.
And just this weekend added two baby rabbits to the collection.
The week before an English Bulldog,
who at the time of me writing these words is still nameless.
Last month, a kitten who desperately needed a cheeseburger.
Ah, little Cricket Moss …
I could go on with more rescues both new and old. I mean I do have 9 not-so-baby-anymore rescue goats …
So here I am, a woman who values her freedom, her independence, collecting animals in need without asking the man in my life if it’s okay…
How will I travel?
How can I be free when tied down by all this…
love?
Hmm, rescuing animals brings me so much JOY…
And JOY is my number one way of showing up in this life.
My default setting.
When I rev my engine first in JOY, all flows freely, smoothly, perfectly.
When he says he wants me happy …
well, this too we shall see.
Because, let’s face it, rescuing all the little creatures makes me so bloody happy!
Which leads me to point two.
I’m calling the shots in my life.
I’m finally owning up to
what I need,
what I want
and if that doesn’t align with you or yours ….
So be it.
Walk away.
Turn the station.
Game over.
Even if that someone is my other half.
Because honestly, what does that mean?
My other half.
My better half.
Ppp-lease!
We need to stop repeating this shit and I’ll start right now.
No one completes me, Jerry Maguire, but me!
I am no one’s half.
My ribs are my own.
[ No disrespect ]
And I stand rooted, firmly, lovingly me.
To know myself, to own my frequency does not make me a bitch, as some might choose to see.
It means I have freedom
of choice.
And the responsibility to own all the shit I do.
A choice to live my life as I desire.
Even if that means, he, you, another won’t like what I have to say or do.
See I’ve done the people-pleasing route.
And lost myself in that mix,
feeling so not enough.
Can’t please them all.
No matter how hard one tries.
Believe me, it’s like beating yourself black and blue.
I’ve been the woman in the room,
studied behind a one-way mirror
as I put the puzzle pieces spread before me
together.
Forever coming up short.
Never questioning the actual game.
Never doubting the puzzle itself.
Never believing for one moment it might actually be intentionally flawed.
Instead, forever casting self-blame.
Until now.
That shit is tired, old and done.
And that puzzle, the one never in question, was at fault all along.
The point of that there game.
The one where 99% of women do exactly have done my entire life.
Until now...
Make it all about me.
Believe I was in the wrong.
Yet, when a man puts together that same puzzle, he does not sink into self-doubt. Time and time again, men got to the end and pushed back from the table declaring “something’s wrong with the puzzle.”
And never with he.
Fascinating, no?
Well, in this case, I’m pulling up my big girl panties and tapping into my own testosterone.
My inner knowing of me.
My new belief that it’s damn skippy straight to live my life exactly how I please.
I’m living my fucking life my way.
Do or die.
Because what else is there but regret?
And that’s a hard pass
for me.
What about you?
If you’re ready to live your own life and no longer seek permission outside yourself, let me know in a comment below.
And if you want more like this let me know.
