A Pocket Full of Fucks

Reclaiming the bone deep faith of the girl I used to be. (This post is a curated experience; press play on the tracks as they appear.)

I am already self-censoring.

Even as I type this, I am jumping to conclusions, imagining the repercussions of being too transparent. I am calculating the cost of my own voice. How do I articulate the truth without some mighty happenstance interrupting the life I’ve built? What about my kids? My husband? My mother with Alzheimer’s? The mortgage?

I feel like a dog with an electric collar, the kind that shocks you when you get too close to the imaginary fence where freedom lives.

But I’m looking for a sliver between the slats. An unguarded space where I can say this out loud without choking.

From the time I was 14, my life was an experiment in agency. My operating system was built on three questions:

• What happens if?

• What could be?

• What does it look like when?

Every now and then, I threw in a “fuck it” when the odds looked slim. For the record: the “fuck it” times never worked out. But the red thread, the thing that held me together, was an unwavering belief that whatever happened, I would be fine. I had a total, bone deep faith in my ability to endure, adapt, and move on to the next level.

Life was a Super Mario game. I knew the rules. I knew I could jump. I knew there were stars that made me go faster. Even if I didn’t beat the level on the first try, I’d tuck the lesson into my Gap green canvas messenger bag and try again.

I lived this way for twenty five years. I crossed every road in the middle of the street, no matter how heavy the traffic, with the firm belief that the cars wouldn’t hit me.

And they never did.

So it is with shame that I confess: somewhere along the way, I put down that belief. I replaced it with fear.

It happened drop by drop. I poured out the wine and replaced it with water. On the outside, the bottle looks exactly the same. But when you pour it out, it’s clear as day: there is no substance left.

Now, I look through the fence slats at the things I’m too afraid to name.

I am afraid of the threats others hold over me. The way my income is leveraged against my sanity just to pay the bills. I am afraid of my children being swallowed by government tyranny or illegal drugs. I am afraid of my husband’s health and the thought of being a widow with three kids, knowing I am not the fun parent and that their world will dim without him.

Most of all, I am afraid that I have lost my power. My miracles have become minor: my cookies don’t stick to the baking sheet; my skincare routine is consistent.

I am so afraid that I’ve turned to the machines for help. Gemini, ChatGPT, and Perplexity have become my new best friends. They reassure me that what I’m feeling is “okay”; and then reframe it until it is palatable to my ego.

But who am I really dimming my light for? Who am I so afraid of offending?

Is it too late to take risks? Why does it seem so impossible now? Where did the girl with the green messenger bag go?

I am standing here with my pockets full of fucks that I’ve bunched up over the years, wondering how to get rid of them. I’m looking for the road back to salvation.

I’m looking for the girl who knew the cars would never hit her.