Hard to believe it’s been almost two years since I last paid a visit to My 3D Life. Of course, I suppose that was the intent of the whole experiment in the first place – find a way to slowly wean myself from my online reliance in order to find a more three dimensional life (or a boob job, considering my URL – sorry, mom!). I never meant to go cold turkey on y’all, but I suppose you could say I met my goal.

Or, I just did what I tend to do – commit → forget.

In reality, I always had a three dimensional life. I was never starved for adventure. For love. For risks and rewards. But, two years ago, I felt this overwhelming need to find validation of that life through social media, and that was unhealthy. And so became I. My journey two years ago was the start of a remarkable mental, physical and emotional overhaul that left me the happiest and healthiest I had been.

Until it wasn’t. Though I didn’t realize it until now, writing is the fuel that runs this little ol’ engine of mine. It’s the cheapest therapist and the healthiest, most addictive drug. When I found what I thought was my happiness two years ago, I stopped writing (for myself). I saw it as a means to an end, instead of the journey that it is. When I stop writing, I tend to lose my way. It’s as if I don’t write it down, it never happened. And not in the sense that I need external validation for my life to have dimension and meaning. But in the sense that I’m not able to process what’s happening in my life – good and bad – unless I compartmentalize it somehow. In my case: words.

It’s taken me awhile to realize that, but here we find ourselves again: at an impasse, with an almost violent need to find my way back. To what? Time will tell.

If we’re friends in real life or online, I don’t need to catch you up on the past two years. If we’re not, let me catch you up: I got a new job, I moved into a home, and I got engaged to the love of my life. And a lot of stuff in between. Too much, I sometimes wonder. In fact, so much change has happened in such a short period of time that I’ve had a hard time catching my breathe. In fact, I think I’m still gasping for air.

I’m not entirely sure in what direction this blog will once again take me. It may be a landmine of thoughts or ideas. A laid-bare look at my struggle with “the sads,” as I like to call them. My hunt for the best wedding cake. My habits, good and bad. My interests, good and bad. It may become an ongoing love letter to a city that’s meant so much to me in the past five years. It may be a place where I wax poetic about leggings as pants or why I cannot, for whatever reason, ever stomach the idea that Taylor Swift is a genuine human. You guys – I just…I can’t.

Whatever it will be, I welcome the ambiguity. But this time, I promise, no selfies.

Love,

Megan