Digging Through the Layers

Why you can't create from a self you've outgrown

The Earth doesn’t erase what came before.

It layers it. Seasons of growth and decay compact into soil.

What once lived becomes memory, and memory becomes nourishment.

The roots of everything new stretch down through what came before.

Your past selves live there, in the dark richness beneath the surface.

They are not obstacles to move beyond.

They are compost. Sediment. Archive. Support.

There may be a version of you who once thrived in urgency. In clarity. In constant motion.

Maybe she helped you get here.

Maybe she built the scaffolding.

But if you listen closely now, you may realize she has settled into the ground.

Not gone, but transformed.

You don’t owe consistency

You don’t owe the world consistency. You owe it honesty.

And sometimes, honesty requires dismantling what you once built, not because it was wrong, but because it has served its purpose.

Because it’s time to become someone new.

There is grief in that. Of course there is.

We grieve not just what didn’t work, but what did.

We grieve the container that once held us, even as we recognize it can no longer contain us.

That grief is part of the transformation. Part of the layering.

This space is better when more people speak up. You’re welcome to join the conversation, however big or small your thoughts feel.

Listening for the new voice

The work that wants to come through you now will not use the same voice, the same tools, or the same posture.

That can feel disorienting.

It can feel like silence.

Like stillness.

Like nothing.

But that nothing is full of roots.

This is the underworld of creativity. The place where seeds rupture.

Where worms churn. Where fungi weave unseen connections.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not shareable.

But it’s where life begins.

If you can allow your hands to stay in the dirt long enough, something unexpected will grow.

Layered, not Linear

We are not seamless beings.

We are accumulations.

Time has shaped us like layers of rock, compressed, weathered, shifted.

When we try to move forward without acknowledging these layers, we become brittle.

But when we honor what has settled within us, we become fertile.

Fertility isn’t always visible.

It doesn’t always announce itself with blooms and brightness.

Sometimes it looks like rotting mess. Like mud.

But the richness of the soil is built from what has broken down.

Digging

Growth doesn’t mean constant emergence.

It often begins in decomposition. In letting go of what no longer serves. In trusting the dark to do its quiet work.

And here’s the thing about digging: it takes effort.

It is easier to skim the surface, to produce what’s familiar, to perform what has already been proven.

But that ease can become a trap. If you never disrupt the surface, you never discover what you’re really made of.

So, what if you let your voice sounds strange for awhile? What if you let yourself disrupt? What if you trusted that you are not here to replicate, but to regenerate?

Becoming

This pause, the one that feels hollow or uncertain, is not actually empty.

It is preparation. The deeper you go, the more nourishment you will find.

When you dig, be patient. Let the soil soften you.

Let the layers speak.

I read every reply. You don’t need to say anything “profound”—just write what’s true for you. Hit 'reply' or send me a message below.

Author’s note:
I want to say a profound thank you for everyone who continues to show up for me, reading my articles and / or writing back in my comments section. I see you <3 <3 <3 and I am so grateful. I am presently navigating a particularly challenging phase of my long covid. What you are receiving from me the past few months (and now) are pre-scheduled writings from a time when I had lots more energy and inspiration. I am now resting and in the care of my friends, family, and soon my medical service dog. I will be back. <3 <3 Thank you for being here. Your presence is deeply felt.