Notes to Self

What we have here is an accidental diary, friends.  I really do have to marvel and shake my head in absolute embarrassment at the old posts here on Joy the Baker.  It turns out being human together, and on the internet together for so long is both mortifying and comforting.  

We’ve been at this Joy the Baker-ing together for nearly 13 years now and just about every post I ever thought to write still exists here.  It’s comedy. It’s a disaster. 

Recently for Camp Joy, my friend Whitney was deep-diving my site looking for old pictures of my ten year old cat, Tron.  She ran across a post that I had completely erased from my brainspace.  

Dear ThirtyNine Year Old Joy.  

EXCUSE ME WHAT? My 29 year-old-self wrote a letter to my 39-year-old-self and here I am – MY THIRTY NINE YEAR OLD SELF. 

Oh, this glimpse back is priceless. There is a surety back there that I recognize and also want to add a dash of humility too.  There’s a pride I admire but also recognize as fragile. I died my hair with henna – I mean of course I did.  Now I don’t dye my hair at all. 

Ten years ago I didn’t think the words global pandemic would apply to me in my lifetime. I didn’t know I’d live in New Orleans.  I thought I’d be married with children. I don’t know why I thought I wanted to be a spy – I was probably watching a lot of Alias at the time. 

Ten years ago I wanted a kitten. I got one. His name was Curtis, then Jules, now Tron.  He’s sitting next to me with a blue cone around his head, trying to heal from a few health troubles this week because ten years comes at all of us one way or another. 

I feel like I have more capacity for gratitude in this ten year space. I feel like I understand better how wild and precious life is. I’ve learned how to steady myself and speak up for what I think is right. I take deeper breaths. I think I thought I was good and grown ten years ago. Now I feel like growing should never stop. 

I just thought I’d pop in and share this with you today. I know you can relate.  Maybe just give it all a minute and think about how far you’ve come in ten years.  

Thank you for holding space for this tender spot.  What a trip. 

xo Joy

Pictured above: me @ 39: camping / cooking / smitten/ really very happy.