a raw share from my journal
Reflections on joy, witnessing others, and the fragile beauty of being alive
When I write for Substack, I’m usually at my laptop, letting the words pour out of me carefully, measured, organized. Not to say they aren’t true or honest, but there’s a natural kind of self-censoring that happens. A quiet voice says, “I can’t really say that…”
But this week, I thought it might be nice to be a little more free. A little more real. A little more stream of consciousness. So I’m sharing an unedited entry from my journal—written this past weekend on a short getaway to Bodega Bay.
Sunday, May 18th, 2025
Bodega Bay
I’m sitting outside on a quaint little balcony taking in this perfect place and it just makes me want to cry. Who are we to deserve so much beauty?
The sound of the birds. The gentle breeze tickling my skin. Even the sprinklers watering the lawn sound nice. My eyes trace the marsh, the trees, the soft colors that exude peace, the late bloom of spring flowers. And tucked just past the marsh is the ocean— the California coast I love so much. Every deep breath I take feels more perfect than the one before.
I want to put this place and this moment into a snow globe and keep it forever. I’d place it up on my shelf, stare at it fondly, and transport back whenever I wanted with just a little shake. But I know I can’t. And even if I could, would I really want to? Wouldn’t that ruin the beauty? The perfection? If you could hold anything forever, it would lose its value. Its rareness.
Last night I watched a group of kids playing in the grass at sunset and I can’t stop thinking about it. The way they chased each other around, tackling, hugging, laughing, and so wholly embracing the moment. It made me emotional in a way I didn’t expect. It’s making me emotional even now as I write this. My tear drop melts into the page.
It was just so pure. And the fact that I had a front-row seat to such a sweet, innocent moment felt like the Universe was whispering a secret just to me. It was just a reminder— this is what life is really about. Play. Joy. Simple moments being wonderful.
It stirred something in me I can’t quite name. Is it envy for my own childhood days that are gone? Nostalgia for simpler times? Or maybe it’s a mirror showing me something I want but I’m afraid to claim. Maybe it’s a feeling without a name. Kind of like sonder, but deeper. The awe of realizing that there are all these people around you living their own beautiful lives, their own precious story, and you get to bear witness.
How could we ever need TV or entertainment when the most magnificent show is right in front of us? In just witnessing each other. Witnessing joy, heartache, even frustration. Raw, unfiltered feeling.
It’s truly amazing when you think about it— another person is having a whole emotional experience due to the unique combination of internal factors and lived experience. I guess that’s what makes art so compelling: it’s a reflection of someone’s unique, irreplicable inner world. Like my book (The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde) says: "Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter." When the artist pours emotion and intention into their work, the art becomes them. I see this now, and I get it. When I write poetry, I pour my blood into every line. Every word holds a piece of me.
It’s so incredible to be moved by things. And I can’t believe I stifled this part of myself for so long, only letting it rise in controlled, acceptable doses. What a shame. All the moments I could have felt more deeply. All the tears I didn’t let fall. Withheld out of fear that feeling deeply was my fatal flaw.
Why?
What made me this way?
Why do I sometimes still shrink?
When I start with these questions, I can’t help but ask more. I’m so curious about myself.
Like why do I feel safest when the people around me are happy, content, and okay? The desire to secure their oxygen mask before putting on mine. I guess I never listened to the airplane safety speech.
Maybe I’m giving myself too much credit. Maybe I’m not that selfless—just selfishness disguised as altruism. Am I really that concerned about others? Or am I just uncomfortable having needs at all? Sometimes I can’t tell whether I believe my needs matter less, or if I simply find peace in knowing those around me are okay. It feels like a kind of harmony I naturally seek—even as I learn to include myself in that equation.
And when I sit with that, I start to wonder: do I really value my own life? I think I do. But strangely I don’t always feel attached to it. Like I could give it away if someone else needed it more. I’m not a martyr, not a saint. But something about being willing to give it all up adds richness. I acknowledge that my life is not really mine to begin with. Not something I have but something I borrow.
Realizing this softens resistance, the need to cling to or control. It could all crumble at any moment. No one guaranteed a long life. I guess everything is fragile that way. And its fragility doesn’t make it any less beautiful, in fact it makes it moreso. A good reminder.
Society makes us believe we have to be tough, strong, unbreakable. But that’s not true. Lately I’ve been breaking every day. And I want to keep breaking. In every crack, I feel more real. More human. Like I was made to break— the beauty’s in the breaking.
walk boldly,
Caroline