The Broken Vase Theory

— A creative’s messy, heartfelt take on grief, chaos, and finding beauty among the broken pieces.

Hey you.

It's been a minute. Or five. Okay, MAYBE a bit longer. (Look, I did warn you that I'd be unpredictable, and I feel like I just might have a valid excuse this time)

Life keeps hitting below the belt, but where is the ref?!

Life decided to play dirty this year, and has repeatedly punched below the belt, but I'm still here. Wobbly, highly caffeinated and yet still perpetually exhausted, but here.

I feel like I'm finally, slowly, coming out of the lowest part of the grief-trenches and starting to feel more like a human again.

(For anyone who missed what happened, click the button below to catch up. It's ok, I'll be here when you get back.)

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Lean in Closer

Can I be real for a sec? I’ve MISSED this! I love writing my Crazy Creative Chronicles newsletter, WAY more than I ever expected to.

For years, I was CONVINCED I wasn't a writer. That I had nothing remotely unique or worthwhile to say. (Gee, thanks a lot brain. That’s super unhelpful! Who let fear and self-doubt captain this crazy train?!)

But, once I started, writing became this wild, messy, deeply joyful (albeit unpredictable) way to connect. Which, let's be honest, is kind of my jam.

And then the tragedies just kept rolling in like some sadistic riptide, and I couldn’t seem to catch my breath.

So much time passed that I didn't know what to say anymore, or even what TONE to strike!

Do I go serious and gloomy? Do I go for heartfelt and introspective? Do I go for funny? Or maybe some kid-with-a-blender-concoction of all of those things, and just sort of hope that no one notices the emotional whiplash?

How do you write authentically between tears and laughter? Writing in this season of my life feels like trying to perform a standup set from the bottom of a well while a therapist awkwardly watches from behind a potted plant.

Unhinged, but…. relatable.

So here I am, with my rambling half-sensical stream-of-consciousness, desperately hoping that I make at least a sprinkling of sense.

*Source unknown

"Hey, how are you doing?"

Lately that question has felt like someone tossing a grenade my way.

My brain immediately goes into overdrive:

 Are they asking for real?

Do they know what we've been dealing with?

Quick- what answer will make us both the least uncomfortable?

What on earth do I say?!

"Fine" feels like a lie.

Because of COURSE I'm not fine. I've had three different meltdowns. TODAY.

But "Not okay" isn't quite right either- because my days also hold genuine moments of joy.

Like when I hear the sweet notes from a made-up song that my 3-year-old is singing and I ask her “Aww, are you singing a little song baby?”, to which she responds, fully deadpan, “No. I’m NOT singing, I’m talking- in song.”

Or when I’m teaching her the name of this random figurine we have, and I tell her, full sesame-street-mode, “That’s a capybara. Can you say cap-y-bar-a?”, to which she nods, knowingly, and replies “Ahh, yes. Coffee Bear”. You can’t stay sad when coffee bear exists. It is scientifically impossible.

So, in effect, it is somehow BOTH, which means my natural response anytime someone asks me how I'm doing is to freeze, deer-in-the-headlights style, and sort of shrug and splay my hands out in a sort of "meh?" pose, which confuses the person asking almost as much as it confuses me.

Highly effective communication.

*not the capybara in question

Overthinking as a Way of Life

Aside from painting, and consuming copious amounts of coffee (you know, from the beans, not from a "coffee bear"), my favorite pastime is overthinking things into oblivion. So, that's exactly what I've done. Late at night, when my brain irrationally shifts into illegal-street-racer mode, flipping channels incoherently between song excerpts, movie quotes and imaginary scenarios, I’ve given this topic some serious thought.

Here's where I landed:

Grief turned me into a broken vase.

Let me explain.

I feel as though I am a piece of pottery that was knocked over, shattered, and clumsily put back together. Sure, at a glance, I might look ok. I can maintain a decent conversation and a modicum of personal hygiene maintenance. But on the inside, I’m covered in cracks, and some of the pieces are missing.

Life, after such a traumatic experience, has left me feeling…altered. This beautiful vase, which was once filled with flowers, now struggles to keep the water from flowing right out through the cracks onto the floor.

But you know what? An imperfect vase is still a vase. It still has a special spot on the shelf, the cracks painstakingly super-glued back together, the imperfections lovingly gilded with gold.

There, fixed it.

So, the next time when someone asks you how you are doing, and you are feeling everything-everywhere-all-at-once, feel free to say:

"I'm a broken vase".

Of course, they still won't have a clue what you mean, and will probably stare at you a few beats longer than you are comfortable with, but it has to be better than shrugging, right? Right?!

*See? Looking pretty cute!

So Here We Are- coping with grief through creativity

My words aren’t polished. My metaphors might be a little cracked. But it's real.

If you are still reading this, then you are a real one- gold star for you.

And if you’ve ever felt like a broken vase too: I see you.

Life is messy, unpredictable, and downright cruel at times. But I say we're rocking the shattered-chic look.

Cracks, leaks, chaos—and somehow, we still make it look cool. Now THAT’S talent.

More paint-splattered, caffeine-fueled, chaotic stories coming your way soon. Probably. More than likely. Most definitely before the seasons change…

In all seriousness though, I have a lot of things I want to share because some pretty exciting things have happened lately and I want to tell you all about it! So, keep an eye out for that.

Until then, take care of yourself. Maybe go have a snack. A good one- the one you have squirreled away in that top-secret drawer where you keep the good stuff. I won't tell.

Inconsistent, often incoherent, but at least creatively committed, your honorary member of the Broken Vase Club,

-Briana

P.S. If you happen to know anyone who has been tossed recklessly onto the rocky shores of life, but who still manages to rock it, nonetheless, consider sharing this letter with them. Let’s normalize the hot-mess lifestyle together.