I regret to inform you that I have started a substack. Something I was not sure would ever eventuate, instead to haunt me as another abandoned third line enthusiastic venture never to see the light of day.
(I technically launched this publication over eight months ago1 and have been patiently waiting to genuinely have something to say since. I am not sure this cuts it but we are rolling with it because it’s 3am and I have insomnia and nothing better to do.)
In truth, I got all pretentious because suddenly everyone was launching a substack and I didn’t want to be just another one to join the trend. Yes, I was the stubborn teenager who refused to like Justin Bieber or One Direction or buy a pair of vans just because they were popular (we all know that bitch from high school). Yet here I am. Pretending to be original is overrated anyway. Shoutout to Esther for making me see what a lame mental excuse this was (and also for being my writing muse—if I inadvertently start to sound like her don’t blame me. I’m just inspired).
The longer story is I have been in a major writers block. I have barely been able to write a coherent paragraph over the last several months. Well, actually I have written many things and stared at them long enough to convince myself that the words are garbage and too cringe and I couldn’t possibly embarrass myself by putting them on the internet.
Writing seems to be the one thing I continue to come back to over and over again. It cycles like the seasons; there are long stretches of time where I do not have anything to say which sends me into a panic that perhaps I will never write again. I have learnt to treat every piece of writing like it could be my last, because who knows when or if the muse will ever return. Creativity is choiceless and writing is something that happens to me, or not.
Where I’ve Been (dying in the infernos of hell)
Does anybody care? Not really, but I shall digress anyway. I returned from the High Desert Human Design conference last year and promptly entered into a period of…. internal chaos. Mass destruction. Hopeless despair. Deep depression. A quarter life crisis, so they say.
There were a few things that hit me all at once:
The experiment was not turning out how I thought it would. It had been over a year of being “self-employed” (unemployed) and my mind had been furious that nothing was happening for me and I had made next to no income. It (mind) was convinced I needed to pivot, get a real job, because this experiment thing was clearly not working out for me.
I was incredibly depressed living in Sydney and I needed to get out of there pronto. I was knocked over by this extreme heaviness upon arriving back home and realised the heaviness had always been lingering, however unconscious. I had just gotten used to it and was trying to cope as best I could, despite knowing in my bones this was not my environment and nothing was ever going to happen for me if I stayed in Sydney long term. Yet I had no idea how I was going to move because I had no invitation to leave (at that time).
I confronted my “human design persona/identity/ego” and realised I no longer cared about being an influencer, a reader, or any kind an expert on human design, which I was clearly trying to project online. I had to deconstruct it. I came to terms with the fact that nothing really mattered except my own process of deconditioning and awareness. Trying to get social clout or attention or be “recognised” through likes or followers was truly a distraction from the real experiment. Who gives a shit about discussing and arguing about human design online (not me anymore). This is was a profound revelation.
I was so convinced I had to do something after coming home. My mind was in a tailspin because it was freaked out that I had been doing nothing for so long. I needed to get back into the world. I couldn’t possibly wait any longer. How could I continue to stall questions about when I was getting a job when I no longer had a future event to use as an excuse or delay tactic?
I was 25 (well I still am - shut up I know I am still young!) and felt I had quite literally nothing to show for myself except some passport stamps, a history of retail work, and littered abandoned blogs across the internet. My peers were buying houses and climbing career ladders and getting salary promotions that made both my parents jaws drop. Instead I was rotting away in my childhood bedroom in full goblin mode, feeling like I may indeed be stuck in this depressing purgatory forever.
I cried every other day during the month of October until suddenly, something shattered. I realised I was fine. I realised I had no real problem. I realised that my mind was creating an entire narrative around why I had to do something now, and then when I didn’t do anything, and saw that I was okay, it was like…. holy shit. It unlocked this whole other level of awareness.
Into The Void
I subsequently fell deep and fast into the void. Arguably, I was already there all year but had been resisting it with all the mental force I could muster, coming up with strategies and things to do so I could avoid the inevitable gaping whole of the black abyss. Clearly it did not work.
Entering into the void is to float in deep empty space. The path in front of you, which once was so clear, has evaporated and now you are left alone with no one to guide you except for your own authority. It’s disorientating, lonely, and fucking terrifying. I am a madwoman who has lost their mind. I am unhinged. Send help. I would love to be plugged back into the world but for some reason I can’t find the damn wall socket. Tell me it’s not gone forever.
But maybe it is. Perhaps I have now relegated myself to a life in which I have no choice but to learn to trust myself because no one else can show me how. To be a 51-25 is to be designed to leap into the void, to be shocked and empowered into discovering my own direction, unique to me. This is the definition of self love. This is the only way I can be centred in who I am.
An Evolution
I wrote this well over a month ago now and whilst I still stand by everything I’ve said, circumstances have changed. Shocker, they always do. The process of writing something out, translating thoughts into form, is such a temporal act—the moment I write about an experience or feeling, it mutates into the next phase which is entirely different. Likewise, as an emotional being, when the wave moves, the filter changes. The passage of time means that what was once true for me is constantly shifting, as new layers of depth and meaning are added.
I have repeatedly used the phrase “into the void” the last eight or nine months and was convinced it would be the name of this substack. And whilst I don’t think I’m technically *out* of the void, the void feels different now. It doesn’t feel as heavy or dense anymore—there is light creeping through the cracks and crevices. This may be a new era in my experiment. An era which seems to be renewing my enthusiasm for creativity, self-expression, and…. life itself.
As such, the name of this publication has changed. A hark back to my roots, to where this all began two years ago, an anonymous place for me to process and self-reflect. This is A Third Line Story, filled with messes, ups and downs, trial and error, and ultimately, discovery. Discovery of myself, of others, of what works and what doesn’t, of what is true from my own experiences.
Writing has always been a selfish pursuit; I tend to find much comfort in the fact that no one will ever read my words. Hence, it was a horrifying day when eventually, people started to read my words. It is a strange internal contradiction of mine to both desire to be recognised but also want to live in obscurity in my quiet corner on the internet. Ah, such is to be a 5th line.
After deliberating for what felt like eternity on how to “announce” this substack to the world, I realised, fuck it, I would rather have people serendipitously stumble upon it by accident than garner an audience2. For some reason—and I don’t know how others reckon with this—when I am aware of others observing me, it can distort my message and purity of self-expression. I am attempting to return back to that place of writing for the joy of writing, of writing not because I think anyone will care, but because I know they don’t.
So if you are here, welcome to my new (public) private space online. What you may find here is a mix of polished and unpolished pieces of writing that may or may not hold any relevance to you. I would tell you what to expect, but I don’t even know what I can expect. However, there is a likelihood I will share:
meandering essays on random human design topics
personal anecdotes and reflections from my experiment
journal entries plus discarded IG posts I have decided to repurpose and exploit for public consumption
an exploration of my obscure obsessions I’m usually too embarrassed to admit (e.g. that time last year where I didn’t listen to anything but Nirvana for three months straight)
whatever else I may write about (who tf knows lol)
none of the above. rip.
Some of my writing will be paywalled. To what extent, is yet to be determined. If you decide to pay me for my words, I am eternally grateful. If you do not, I will not be offended and will likely be publishing many cross-posts.
Okay well there you have it. My first substack post. Looking forward to exposing myself—my guts blistering in the sun for open display—in the future on here.
Until then, enjoy the void. Or whatever phase of the experiment you’re currently in.
Nine months now. whoops.
If I have now announced this publicly on IG, please ignore this because I obviously do want people to read my writing.
I am ready
As a fellow quad-right, it makes sense that shifting to being observed is challenging for the Observer... Even when I want to put myself out there its deeply uncomfy.