Since November, I’ve been trying my damndest to return to the space where I felt most alive. Most at home. Most at peace. Most creative. Most liberated. Most inspired.
But life wasn’t slowing down, and neither were my responsibilities. In fact, they were tripled. So, while adjusting to the new norm and writing the sixth book of my eight-book series (start here), The Huffington Note suffered my absence. And, my heart felt it each Sunday when a post wasn’t written or drafted.
It’s the first day of a new year, and it feels like the perfect day to share what’s been on my mind lately. Welcome to Season 2 of The Huffington Note.
Last night, I sat in my beautiful garden tub, television replaying my favorite comfort show.
The night before, I stood in my shower, watching my favorite comfort show through fogged glass.
The night before, I sat in my garden tub, touching my breasts for signs of abnormalities while replaying my favorite comfort show.
The night before, I stood at my counter, flossing between every tooth, television replaying my favorite comfort show.
The night before, I slid my body down the vanity and onto the plush mat with a smile on my face, chuckling at a scene from my favorite comfort show.
The night before, I ran the multi-surface microfiber cloth across the beautiful marble tiles while listening to my comfort music —a playlist I curated that emphasized the words of artists like Sade, Pip Millet, Olivia Dean, Sza, Snoh, and Cleo Sol.
The night before, I sat in solitude on the toilet with the door to my bathroom and the door to my toilet room closed/locked. My pants were up. My bladder and bowels were both behaving.
The night before, I soaked. I needed to feel the calmness of the water surrounding me. Hugging me. Caressing me. Comforting me.
The night before…
The night before…
The night before…
It wasn’t until last night that I sat in my beautiful garden tub, television replaying my favorite comfort show, that the revelation punched me in the left region of my chest, temporarily disabling me. As I rubbed away the pain, tears pooled around my heart. It had become evidently clear that…
I’m not here for a soak. I’m here for my soul.
I’m not here for the perfect song. I’m here for my sanity.
I’m not here because I need soap. I’m here because I need a saving.
My naked body was suddenly clothed with my naked truth.
The.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
Shattering.
Debilitating.
Harsh.
Unrefined.
Yet, grounding truth.
I seek refuge in my bathroom.
I should’ve known it when I chose the home. It was the bathroom that had sold me. While swiping the images, back when I was searching, I was desperate to see the most important place in the beautiful dwelling. The place I’d need most. The place I’d see most. The place that would swallow me whole and spit out a new woman each night. A better woman.
It wasn’t clear then, but each night I run from the world, carving out space for my solitude, I land on my feet in the center of my bathroom.
Because—it recenters me.
In the bathroom…
I’ve cried my thickest tears.
I’ve screamed my deepest desires.
I’ve affirmed.
I’ve fallen.
I’ve won.
I’ve been my ‘hurtest’.
I’ve been my happiest.
I’ve been my weakest.
I’ve been my strongest.
I’ve unraveled.
I’ve collected myself.
I’ve longed.
I’ve lusted.
I’ve touched myself.
I’ve exposed myself.
I’ve hidden.
I’ve shrunk.
I’ve expanded.
I’ve grown.
My bathroom has witnessed every version of me. It’s where every part of me finds solace. Good. Bad. Ugly. Ungodly. Undiscovered.
It’s more than a toilet or a tub or a grand shower or a beautiful vanity or a gorgeous view.
It’s my soul’s landline. It’s my heart’s defibrillator. It’s my head’s beige couch. It’s my wound’s bandage. It’s my tears’ pillow. It’s my body’s cushion. It’s my pain’s medicine. It’s my future self’s saving grace.
I’m more intentional with my decisions and tasks and participation in the bathroom than I am anywhere else. I don’t try to make time for my moments in there. I demand time for my moments in there. They are a requirement.
No exceptions.
No interruptions.
Bathroom time is a hard boundary I’m not willing to bend. Moments there are too meaningful to the woman I am and the woman I am becoming. These moments can’t be disrupted.
Because not only do they recenter me.
They restore me.
They rewire me.
They reset me.
They are my stability on shaky grounds.
I will never sacrifice the hour-long beauty marathons or the soaks or the time on the toilet doing nothing or the foggy showers or the time on the cold floor or the cleaning sessions or the dedicated playlist or the reruns of Sex and the City or the silence or the solitude…
Because each night I step into my bathroom, I find parts of my soul that had gone missing.
I need them.
I need them badly.
Because without them, I am defenseless, and life assaults me too often to not carry my tools.
xo, grey
Happy New Year.
