It’s been two weeks since my last email, and I hardly ever miss a weekly email.
I have written thousands of emails in the last seven years. Only a cataclysm of events such as the last two weeks could possibly keep me from your inbox.
Someone should probably write a country song about it, so I can play it backwards.
First I let go of my Land Rover LR3 after two mechanics declared it scrap metal. I was grateful to get $2000 from a friend who says she’ll use it for parts.
Next I let go of a wonderful man I love so dearly that being without him feels like being murdered in slow motion. I didn’t know it was even possible to feel this heartbroken. And as a divorcing person, that’s really saying something.
A few days later I went to a lawyer’s office and signed over my house to my soon-to-be ex-husband. I took my kids to Swiss Chalet after and spilled a full glass of Shirley Temple all over my dress, my kid, and the booth we were eating in. Its worn-out fabric was full of awful-looking holes that the soda just kind of seeped into. I walked out with a sticky leg, feeling grosser than gross.
Finally, on Tuesday, I let go of all of my employees.
I have been carrying so much for so long. It was time to put something down.
Letting go of my team is the most difficult decision I’ve ever made in my business. Building it is one of the things I’m most proud of. We supported and cared for each other like no job I’ve ever been at. They had my back, always. Our systems were tight and they worked. Everyone loved their jobs and told me so often.
I wanted it to be forever. I wanted us to ride off into the sunset together with duffel bags full of money. I wanted a lot of things I don’t get to have.
“You won’t always have to row the boat alone,” my bestie told me while we sat together in the faded plastic Adirondack chairs in my backyard. I was still in the middle of it. I’d made the decision but I’d only just said it out loud for the first time.
There we were in the eye of the hurricane, my face all splotchy and red, feeling like I’d just lost everything I’d ever loved.
The truth is that I have been rowing the boat alone for a long time. It’s time to put the oars down for a little while, so that I can take care of Tarzan.
I’m teaching myself how to camp.
I’m learning sprint canoe.
I’m giving myself time to become whole again.
Not for my children, not for my employees, not for my customers, not for anyone but me.
I’m doing it for Tarzan.
What does that mean for you, as my subscribers and customers? I’m not sure yet. It might not look that different. Whatever comes next, email is one hundred percent my thing.
What I know for sure is that I’ll be here continuing to show up in your inbox, because writing is how I get through the sticky parts of life.
This chapter happens to be sticker than pine sap, so there’s a lot to write about. (Right here, and also on Substack where my stories are more personal.)
It means a lot to me to have you here as a subscriber, reading my work. Many of you will hit “reply” and offer me a warm hug this week, that I know for sure.
Thank you for that, btw. I really need those.
The best way you can support me is by continuing to read my work, by forwarding it with a friend who might like to read it, or – and this would be my absolute dream – reading it aloud in bed to someone you love.
I have done so much letting go I wonder what little of me will be left when this is all over.
But I will not be letting go of you, NAME. (Or at least, not your email address. Not unless you unsubscribe.)
There’s one thing I really, like, really really want to do right now, and that’s write. Knowing there will be eyes waiting to read those words, to grow with me, to learn from my mistakes, to bear the weight of it all with me, and honestly, just to witness me…
It means everything to me.
Thank you again and as always
Tarzan
P.S.
We’d been planning to open a writing group for anyone who’s ever said, “I wish I wrote more.” Many subscribers were excited about that.
That’s on hold for now.
In the meantime a fellow copywriter, Zafira Rajan, sent me a sneak peek of an offer that’s just a baby, but which she apparently birthed fully formed. I can’t even believe how beautiful it is.
It’s called the tide pool and honestly, it’s just what I would’ve *wished* for my people. Her sales page took my breath away. I told Zafira, “It pulses like the beat of my heart. May I share it?”
This is not an affiliate offer. It’s just a beautiful something I thought you might want to see.
Because beautiful writing is meant to be shared. Yours included.
