I’m finally living the thing… But I stopped writing about it. Why?
The publisher in me has fallen off her chair. Me, the writer who needed to post and print everything, finally enjoying banana bread and berries for breakfast without brainstorming an article about it.
It’s been like this for months now. Safe to say, being pregnant has radically changed my life. I eat better, dress with influencer-level intention (EDIT: when I’m not wearing pajamas), and somehow started living the life I spent years writing books about… But, to my surprise, none of it is actually on paper.
‘If you didn’t post it, did it really happen?’ Yes, Stacy… It did. And I enjoyed every second of it too. So, I’m trying to untangle the contradiction of finally becoming the woman I once dreamed of… and realizing that living it and branding it were two very conflicting experiences.
I think what confuses me most is that I organically live the kind of life people try to curate online. Traveling, baking, a closet full of Link-to-Shop-able items. But every time I try to step into the role of ‘publisher’ or ‘influencer’ again, it suddenly feels empty. And so, I feel stuck somewhere between the writer who spent years dreaming of a beautiful life she hadn’t lived yet and the woman who is finally living it but can’t seem to write about it.
The strangest part is that the fuller my life becomes, the less I want to send it to print. The most beautiful parts of my life now exist entirely undrafted.
Here I am… baking like Nara Smith, dressing like Alix Earle, and living like Becca Bloom. So, tell me… How is it that the moment I stopped publishing, I finally wrote my best story yet?
I admit I still fall into the trap of wanting to turn everything I do, eat, and wear into an Instagram carousel. But the second I pull myself out of the moment, I lose interest in the algorithm altogether.
Because the truth is… I would like to write again. And perhaps influence a little more. I’d love to talk about the Skin1004 Centella Ampoule and La Roche-Posay Cicaplast Baume B5 I slather all over my growing belly after a shower. It would honestly be nice to write about how absurdly good these new mommy-boobs look in a Lexi Rivera bikini. And can’t I just post a piece on banana bread and how the trick is mashing the vanilla and cinnamon directly into the butter and bananas first?
None of that feels fake to me. That’s the confusing part. I don’t think I’m afraid of sharing my life. I think I’m afraid of accidentally starting to live for posting it again while losing that deeper substance, you know?
I look at every corner of my life and somehow see an editorial. My breakfast. The coffee shop. My silk kimono draped over the leather chair. My prenatal vitamins beside a half-drank cup of coffee. My brain doesn’t just see life, it sees book layouts. Magazine covers. Substack titles. I visualize entire book concepts while I shampoo with Kérastase Gloss Absolu. So, you see, I already am the editorial woman I have in mind. And that’s what makes this paralysis so bizarre.
When I actually sit down to write, everything suddenly feels fraudulent. I’ll spend hours scrolling other writers and influencers. Meanwhile, I’m overthinking a sentence about which Skims undies have been my armor through the sneezes of this pregnancy (IYKYK). And I think the irony is, if someone simply asked me what I did five minutes ago, I could accidentally write a #1 Rising Substack.
But instead, I’ve been making Pinterest-perfect salmon bowls in creative silence and keeping my love for Aritzia Nightside Silk Pajamas to myself because the only pictures I take in them are too unhinged for the internet.
Maybe I’ve struggled with my drafts because I’m too scared of sacrificing this season to actually write about it. Here I am once again, trying so hard to write—nothing being typed because I’m more concerned with what should be published than what I really want to say. Maybe that’s why these throwaway sentences read better than my perfectly edited articles. Because you… like me… can sense the difference between when someone is living the thing versus when they’re just writing about it.
So, no… I haven’t figured out what I’ll do about the situation yet. Maybe you’ll hear from me, maybe you won’t… for a while, at least.
Should I muster up the bandwidth to pass on the little lessons I’m learning, run an editorial on my pregnancy skincare routine (Atmosphera, I’m coming for you), or finally write down my banana bread recipe—I’m going to do it from a lived-first vantage point and probably not a second sooner.
Notes from the pregnant lady x
Sarah Elle
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