I’ve been wanting to write this for a while because I feel like I owe some of my older readers an explanation. Explaining why this blog isn’t anything like the old There’s a Lionheart in our Bath Tub. If that name doesn’t mean anything to you, you can go ahead and skip this post.
The old Stacey used to write gut-wrenching, soulful posts about raising a child with special needs. She was sarcastic, she was sad and lonely, and she spilled her guts all over the internet. People loved this spilling of guts. It made them feel like it was okay to spill their guts. And so Stacey would hit “publish” and watch the comments roll in and feel like her life wasn’t quite that shitty after all.
I miss that Stacey, she was the closest to the real Stacey I’ve ever come. She was rambunctious.
Things only got tougher for her, though. She made another baby. And another baby. And suddenly she needed to support a family of five on her income and so she started her own company. Her company is in the kind of industry where your personal brand is directly proportional to your professional brand, and your clients Google the shit out of you before signing anything. Some really crazy posts come up when you Google “Stacey Vee”. Probably some of my proudest, most authentic writing I have ever done in my career – pour-your-heart-out kind of stuff that I secretly dust off from the archives late at night and marvel at and wonder “was that really me?”.
But it also made me uncomfortable. Suddenly I had clients – major brands signing largish retainers with my agency – and it didn’t feel so good to know they were reading about that one time I accidentally swapped urine samples with another lady at the gynae. Or to know they’d read about my devastation at my miscarriage. Or the eternal heartache and madness of raising our Lionheart. I felt exposed. Like I was a fizzing, ticking timebomb just waiting to explode all over the expensive carpets in their reception area.
When in reality, real-life, sitting-in-your-reception-area Stacey is a rock of dependability. She is rational.
So I toned it down. And it’s a good thing I did, because now I have 10 employees and there are not enough hours in the day to write about my feelings about baby name tattoos and that one mom who wore see-through leggings at the kiddie party (spoiler: it was me, I was that mom).
Now I blog for love and money. But never for therapy. Now I am Responsible with a capital ‘R.
I wish I was other ‘r’ words: like rebellious, raunchy, radio-freaking-active.
Rapturous, rawboned and raffish.
Am I the only blogger that this has happened to? Who was forced to trade in their bright pink hotpants for something a little more practical, and a little more “appropriate”. I think about the term “sell-out” and I feel neither here nor there about it. When I make decisions that directly affect my family’s future and well-being, the end always justifies the means. But I miss having a space where I can cut loose without worrying about how it reflects on me.
I miss letting my crazy hang out.*
Adulting gives me a wedgie.
Dear future clients: I promise that this “crazy” is entirely hypothetical.