Clarity
On glimmers that come with a regular writing practice
When I was 24, I got a pen tattooed onto my back. It was my first tattoo, so unlike the ones that often follow, it carries a sense of being wildly deep and important. I’ve become a little more tatt-happy over the years. Yet this is the only splash of ink on my vessel who’s meaning never surrendered itself to the natural fading process in the years that went by. So, when I stop to think I have hardly written since I first published here I stand to correct myself.
I have written.
Every day. In journals, on scraps of paper, on my phone, on my GP portfolio- the place hardly matters. I derive purpose from the catharsis, the character arc, the creative process and just sometimes: the intensely resonant clarity. Writing is like breathing, which is why when I found Substack, I suddenly felt surrounded by my people.
Where I am writing today: outside the local bakery with an almond croissant and a cappuccino, breathing in some classic South London pollution trying to remind myself that my weight is the least interesting thing about me as I demolish pastry
The intensely resonant clarity I speak of are glimmers. Twinkles of intuition that spark through the stream of consciousness on the summer evening walk, on the exhale, in the minutes of contemplation where you sit in the car after work before unlocking the door to get home, in the last sweaty-ass minute on the Stairmaster before it automatically drops to “resistance 1”. Clarity hits in the quiet spaces.
Allow me to share some glimmery, twinkly, intuitively sparkly clarity here today. I’d love for it to inspire you to drain some pens onto trees and feel better.
In journals:-
Ever since unmasking PMDD several months ago, I took the opportunity of my final exam being over to really sit down and track my cycle in a menstrual diary which is just a day planner, page to date with the day of my cycle on it. The result: fascinating. From my day 17 post ovulatory dip to how surprisingly little sleep I need in my “summer”, actually tuning into my body has continued to surprise and delight. This kind of intentional journaling isn’t the kind I have engaged in before. Not only do I recommend it to you, dear reader, but I have become a huge advocate for preaching it in my women’s health consultations at work.
On scraps of paper:-
Full disclosure: I don’t do scraps of paper. It’s much too disorganised for this elder, Indian daughter of immigrants with intergenerational trauma who needs to control every tiny thing in her life. What I do have and what my partner and family constantly make fun of me for is a “List Book”. It comes everywhere with me. Because you just never know when you’ll need to write a list. Shopping? Cooking? Packing? Planning? List. List Book came to India with me last month and I was lucky enough to get my grandmother to sit down and write her name on its back page for me in Malayalam. Now, as the list book comes everywhere with me, so does she. And so will she, when I take the book to the tattoo parlour and show the artist in front of me. Say hello, reader, to the next piece of body-art, whose meaning, I also believe will never surrender to the natural fading process of the ink that holds it.
On my phone:-
On the subject of my grandmother, the woman who takes up a large proportion of my thought activity, I have taken to writing, entirely for myself, a series of iPhone notes I have named “Flight Thoughts”. Flight Thoughts Chapter 3 was intense because the trip to India I just had was intense. As my grandmother’s memory deteriorates to such heartbreaking levels that her vulnerability pierces and shatters my heart, the only way I can even contemplate moving forward is to write. So write, I do, through hot tears, through crashing waves of unfathomable sadness and smoking, flaming anger at the injustice of it all. The piece I wrote is called “No Face”. I can’t even read it back now because it hurts too much. I can only process that pain in piecemeal in quiet and safe spaces I continually build around me.
On my GP Portfolio:-
Plagued with shockingly low self-esteem from a dreadfully young age, despite working through it in years of therapy, my inner critic is still just a harsh bitch. It’s a rare and beautiful day where I’ll admit to being proud of myself and even that pride is cloaked in humility. I truly believe that we are all just part of a picture much greater than us so to take too much credit for one’s karma is to lose that bigger picture. This being said, when I busted out fifteen clinical case reviews the week before my portfolio submission was due, I was able to take a moment to really see how far I’ve come in the career-o-sphere of my life. And not just clinically. I realised, reader, that I have grit. It takes grit to overcome an injury that set me back by 4 months in just the first few weeks of GP training. It takes grit still, to continue working full-time through burnout, PMDD and massive overwhelm, to pass two exams first time and still have seven months left of GP training before being fully qualified to relax and allow the work to integrate. This is exactly what I wanted for myself and whilst I am privileged in so many ways, I can acknowledge that my grit, resilience and hard work have allowed me to set myself up for the future I endeavoured to manifest.
Friends: writing is not just about Painting With Words, is it? For so many of us, it’s the thing that reels us in, holds us in place and propels us forwards. So let’s forget everything for those moments and just take to the page and write. Write with reckless abandon and let that process change us.