50 Days Later

I am 51 days into my post-Twitter life.

I can’t say my skin is noticeably clearer or that my ass is any fatter, but I can hear myself think. For a woman who lives in her head, that is a marked improvement.

I’m developing patience for putting my thoughts on (metaphorical) paper. Before, I’d get bored mid-sentence, reasoning that if I didn’t care enough to get to the end of my thought, no one else would care to read it. That works for a “content creator,” but I write to figure myself out. Some times that means meandering — no matter how unsexy that is. How else will I get to the truth?

I was headed down this road before I quit Twitter, but leaving the app has solidified my commitment to selective public engagement with the news. I consume news as much as I did before, but I don’t comment on every headline because I’m a civilian, not a pundit. The Internet is run amok with opinions — it doesn’t need mine.

We’d all do better if we stopped treating our thoughts like gems that must be captured and shared. Our brains throw a million things at us a day, some (I’d argue most) of which should just fly by.

My final thought* — and this goes back to my original point about being able to hear myself think — is that it’s no wonder so many people have difficulty connecting with their intuition when we’re filling our brains with other people’s garbage all day long.

[*] My “final thought” for now. Obviously, my Twitter recovery will be a recurring theme.

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a girl named rob

I used to be "skinny black girl." I'm now a slender woman on the other side of 35 with no new moniker who is not quite interested in writing under her given name. Still writing my life, a day (or some months) at a time. Also, still black.

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