Proof of Life
On Naming the Ache of Being Absent in Our Own Lives [Title Hat Tip to Maggie Smith]
The Ache of Absence + Proof of Life
I started the new year fresh with creative hopes, dreams, and plans. But life, as it often does, had other plans. Illness slowed me down, keeping me in bed for weeks, and my writing plans went dormant.
When I finally regained enough strength to get out of bed, I’d walk past my writing desk and glance at it the way you glance at something you love but don’t have the strength to reach for. The distance between us was only a few steps, but it felt impossibly far.
As my children and I healed from our sicknesses, life dealt other blows—ones that tore at my heart and demanded nearly all of my attention. My creative life and my writing plans were put on hold. I tried to make peace with the waiting, but the longer I stayed away, the more I felt the absence—not just from my writing, but from myself.
Sometimes, when I’m not “showing up” in my creative spaces, like here on Substack, I tell myself it’s because I’m tending to other important Life Things and Life Work, which is often true and was true in this case. But I’ve also noticed that sometimes my absence here translates to feeling absent from myself.1
Writing is a mirror—a way of seeing and being more fully ourselves. When I’m not writing, I feel disconnected from my voice, self, and place in the world—because writing is, in essence, about connection. When I’m not able to write or create, I can feel like I’m disappearing or becoming a ghost in my own life.
And I think that’s worth saying.
So many writers wrestle with the guilt or sadness that comes with being absent from their writing projects and their virtual spaces2 where they share both words and life—Instagram, Substack, email, etc. We feel the need to explain our absence, to account for our whereabouts, to apologize even. But over and over again, we’re told:
No one really notices your absence.
You don’t need to address it. People are too busy to notice that you didn’t post or publish this week or month. They’re following a thousand other accounts and subscribed to more than a handful of other email lists. They won’t really care if you stop posting on Instagram, pause writing on Substack, or aren’t sending emails.
And maybe that’s true. But maybe some people do care or notice.
More importantly, perhaps, even if others don’t—it’s clear that we do.
And that is worth naming.
Does this even matter? Do I even matter? These are questions I ask and questions I hear from almost every writer I’ve ever coached. The answer, of course, is yes. Yes, you matter. Yes, *this* matters.
In some ways, this is a longer iteration of me doing all of this—accounting for my absence, finding my way back (to myself and Substack), and showing up in a way that makes me feel more wholly alive. And maybe you’re like, Kristin, what absence? You haven’t seemed absent to me. What are you talking about? Maybe you didn’t even notice. :) That’s okay. Hang with me for a minute.
Even though it’s only mid-February, I had hoped to do so much more by now this year.3 I had wanted to write more, say more, and create more—to show up more frequently and fully in my online spaces, like here on Substack. But I haven’t. And there is grief and ache in that.
I want to name it.
And if you relate, I want to give you permission to name it, too.
When we write, post, or share, we are declaring: I’m here. This matters. I matter. You matter. When we aren’t able to create and share, to show up and be present, that absence aches.
Creativity is how we speak our hearts, minds, and spirits into existence. It is how we bear witness and share our light with the world. And when we can’t or don’t—for whatever reason—it’s as though a light within us is being covered.4 It’s painful when what wants to emerge from us is kept in the dark.5 This makes me think of something Brené Brown once shared with Oprah: “Unused creativity is not benign. It metastasizes. It turns into grief, rage, judgment, sorrow, shame.”
To recap: We create, write, and speak our way into being. When we can’t and don’t—when we’re absent—we ache, but it doesn’t mean we don’t matter—it doesn’t make our lives worth less.
We tend to what we can, when we can. We honor our limits. We know we can’t show up to everything, always. We give ourselves grace.
Not all absences are empty; some are filled with quiet tending, unseen mending. Sometimes, we are called to retreat. I penned these words in my notebook on January 28th:
“Your quiet retreat is not a threat to your existence or worth.”
Maybe you need this reminder.
I’m holding the tension of a life that calls us to retreat at times, return at others, stay present to what matters, and sometimes feel the ache of being somewhere in between.
In the last few months, I've noticed poet Maggie Smith sharing photos of her face on Instagram with the words “proof of life.” It felt refreshing to see how she was showing up and proclaiming, I’m here. I’m still here. And here is my real-life, fleshy face (my words, not hers). I’ve started to borrow this phrase and practice.
This is a “proof of life” for me.
This is me saying: Hi, hello. I’ve felt absent… from this space, from you, but mostly from myself. But I’m still here, and I’m glad to be here. Thank you for reading and being here with me.
What About You?
If you’ve been in a season of retreat, longing, or wondering whether your presence matters and you feel that ache of absence—I see you. Maybe take a moment today to honor the ways you are still here. I’d love to hear from you in the comments.
A Writing Invitation
If this resonates, I encourage you to take a moment to reflect and write:
Where have I felt the ache of absence in my life?
Have I been wrestling with the tension of retreating and returning?
What am I longing to return to?
What does my own ‘proof of life’ look like right now?
In case you missed it…
New Prose:
New Pastels:
Let me say this without immediately digressing or going down a rabbit hole. This feeling or narrative related to being absent from one’s self or life is one I must hold carefully and be curious about, and if it’s one you share, I encourage you to do the same. Some questions worth reflecting on: Is my attention and energy being poured into something healing, urgent, necessary, or even good? Am I absent from some things that matter because I’m present with other things that also matter? Is the absence related to tending or resting? Am I self-abandoning? What’s going on here?
This is true of in-person spaces, too. Please don’t throw shade at online spaces. Virtual spaces and communities can be vibrant, healing, and real. During my transient years as a military wife, they were a lifeline. And they still are.
For instance, I really wanted to write an essay about turning 40, but that hasn’t happened … yet.
Last year, I spent a session with my spiritual director about this, and we spent some time with Matthew 5:14-16: “You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.”
This darkness might not be a death or burial—perhaps the metaphor of being planted is more accurate. The metaphor that fits might be revealing something important to us.
This was so timely for me. Appreciate you❤️
This felt vulnerable - in a really empowering way. Thank you for sharing.