The green vine gently snaking up the rust-colored bricks.
The raindrops creating a ripple in the puddle.
The flickering candlelight floating above hardened streams of wax on wooden restaurant tables.
I love romanticizing.
This love feels new, and yet, I don’t think it is. It’s the awareness of this love that is new. It is the permission to love that is new.
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Taptaptap. Enter.
I scanned each result’s little preview.
I clicked the second result. Merriam-Webster. She’s well respected.
“1: to hold romantic ideas
2: to present details, incidents, or people in a romantic way”1
Unsatisfying. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because it doesn’t unpack the essence of “romantic.”
Back. I scanned the results again.
Cambridge Dictionary. Another well respected source.
“to talk about something in a way that makes it sound better than it really is*, or to believe that something is better than it really is”2
Satisfying. But upsetting.
I felt like water had been thrown on my fiery, excited awareness of my love of romanticization.
My stomach clenched. My shoulders rose. My breathing grew shallow. It’s that familiar feeling of physical defense against emotional attack. I shrink inside a fortress.
This is fear.
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Is romanticization akin to being out of touch with reality?
Am I out of touch with reality?
Why am I so scared of being out of touch with reality?
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Taptaptap.
I wrote and rewrote about this experience, each sentence peeling back one more wall of the fortress, until I saw it: the belief that I absorbed but is not mine.
To view the world beyond what is tangible and provable is to be vulnerable to ignorance.
To be ignorant is not safe.
Therefore, to view the world beyond what is tangible is not safe.
Romanticization is not safe.
Flowers are nice, but they don’t do anything. They are purposeless.
My silk kerchief is pretty, but it doesn’t keep me warm. It is purposeless.
The bricks matter more than the vines. The table matters more than the candles. The rain is just downright inconvenient.
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I’ve been back in Amsterdam for just over three weeks since a month-long stay in the U.S., most of which was spent in New York City, where I grew up.
My first week back in Amsterdam was mentally tough. I felt out of sorts. I questioned my purpose. I got clear on where my inner compass was pointing, in part because of the exercise I shared, but taking steps forward felt hard.
Where did my flow go?
Then, last week, I stopped mid-walk to smell a flower on the street. I played piano regularly. I fixed my knitted pillowcase. I set up and enjoyed coffee chats. I started practicing Dutch daily.
I felt a current.
Two days ago, I made my favorite peanut butter cups in the afternoon.
Was I flowing?
Yesterday, I dreamt up my next group coaching offering in my My Neighbor Totoro journal in a coffee shop.
I was flowing.
Today, I noticed a heart-covered bicycle, flaming-red leaf-covered trees, and a planter filled with crimson, magenta, and orange flowers outside a red brick home. I walked around the park with my camera. I messaged somebody who I’ve been procrastinating reaching out to for a month. I got the facial toner I’ve been procrastinating picking up for three weeks.
I’m flowing. I’m romanticizing. I’m creating. I’m expanding.
It feels natural, like breathing air back into an old habit and watching color return to its face. Delicious, like there are butterflies in my heart and hope for the world, even as I listen to a podcast about all the violence occurring.
I wonder about the role New York and Amsterdam play in the life of my inner romantic. It’s not until writing this that I noticed a parallel. Does my body and mind associate New York with a time when being “realistic” felt like safety, an association I can rewire with intention? Or am I responding to the more uncontrollable elements of cultures, vibrations, and aesthetics?
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Being present with how a thing makes one feel–to experience what may not be immediately apparent–and to allow and trust that feeling, even when it flies in the face of how good (or bad) the thing “really is*” is a superpower.
And to vulnerably share that feeling with others is magic.
This is where hope, gratitude, connection, and love stem from. This is where art is born.
Romanticization sparks my inner creator. When I create, I manifest my aliveness.
In other words, romanticization is stimulation for the communication of my aliveness. It is essential to my flourishing life.
Maybe yours too.
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I am destined to continue romanticizing. To continue seeking and sharing the beauty in all things–even what does not appear traditionally beautiful or wonderful.
My heart and the world around me began to glow when I began romanticizing.
Call it all silly. Call me silly. I am quite silly! (In a rather beautiful way.)
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Romanticize (verb)
To see the beauty in what is.
There. That’s better.
You’re reading a newsletter from Syd, an NYC-born Self-trust & Well-being Coach for high achievers, who quit her “golden handcuffs” job and moved to Amsterdam to follow her heart’s calls for something different. I share the challenges and wins of my journey from people pleasing & perfectionism to balance, joy, peace, & freedom. You may find comfort, empowerment, inspiration, and/or community. Welcome 🫶🏻
*Who is to say how good something “really is”?
There is a societal perception of how good anything is, and should one conform to those beliefs instead of questioning how they–a beautiful individual soul made up of a unique cocktail of millions of experiences and genes–really feel about said thing, they confirm the societal perception. This is how the quality of a thing is determined and becomes “fact.”
Sending you lots of love and sunshiney vibes for the weekend ahead. & if you’re not feeling so sunshiney, don’t hesitate to reply to this email with a hello or sign up for a free 30 minute chat. We’ll talk about what’s blocking you and your best next step <3
Love,
Syd
https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/romanticize
https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/romanticize