Mom called. Now what?

Finding a new voice post-trauma. I'm in my merry era.

In November of 2020 I published my first Cashmere posting, mom hasn't called, but The Whitney is open. The posting introduced a series of personal non-essays that both acknowledge my losing one of the most important people in my life and also celebrate the moments in life that remind me I am whole. Since then I’ve written about that trauma and friends and dates and sex. Every word I’ve written has contributed to my healing. Your reading these words has been the greatest source of encouragement and I thank you for that, earnestly.

Last month I bumped into an old coworker at Chapel Bar in Gramercy. In our brief catch up he commented on my column; saying he enjoyed reading it and recalled the name being, “mom hasn’t called, and I’m still crying about that”—he was (presumably) near-drunk and I laughed. Mainly because he read me for filth and, coincidentally, mom did “call” (read: text) just two weeks prior, saying she wanted to reconnect, rebuild. The details of that conversation, the subsequent phone call, and surrounding feelings are probably the one thing I won’t write about publicly (for now, anyway), but it did leave me with a puzzle I’m trying to solve:

A man launches a writing platform hinged on his mother not speaking to him. 
His mother now wants to speak to him. 
What does he write about now?
What is his ✨brand✨—once defined as person healing from trauma—now?

My life, thankfully, is not nearly as impossible as it was/felt in November 2020. That is not to say I am healed of past trauma. But I have shared a significant piece of it—in therapy, with friends, on Substack, TikTok, and occasionally, Instagram—and feel I’ve exhausted (for now) trauma as a topic, both as a writer and to my readers. My writing is always meant to be a reflection of what I’m feeling and doing. These days, as I told a good friend recently, I’m feeling happy. I suppose that’s growth, and I’m excited to find a way to feel as inspired to write while happy as I was when I was irreparably depressed, or so I thought. I have to make that work. It is still my wholehearted intention to be a full time writer in three-to-five years’ time. 

Which leads me to the question I chewed on over holiday break: what do I want to write about now? And by extension, who do I want to be?

Carrie Bradshaw if I’m kidding. Carrie Bradshaw if I’m being serious.

My good friends jokingly call me an influencer (and I realize between the TikToks, sponsored posts, PR gifts and brand events of 2021, this is less of a joke and more of a fact; I apologize), but the word doesn’t sit well with me, mainly because I’m not a very visual person. And so much of “influencing” in 2022 is visual—outfit checks, get-ready-with-me’s, and more. Against my best efforts, the visual aspects of this gig still feel forced. I like words more than pictures. I have never liked a photo of myself.

So, like late-90s/early-2000s Carrie, I’m going to try to build a brand for myself from written content, firstly. That feels very wrong for the times we live in, but very right for me and the topics I want to explore, like:

The curious case of my vanishing twenties. 
Good clothes.
Good dates.
Good sex. 
Good friends.
Not-so-good friends. 
Food.
Career.
Self-discovery.
Self-loathing.
New York.
Los Angeles.
& more, I’m sure. 

What does that mean for you? Not much, apart from increased posting on this Substack. We’re going weekly, kittens. Every Tuesday at 10am eastern. Trauma will not be the soup du jour, but I’m sure you’ll find something that suits your taste. If not, let me know what you want to hear about @cashmeretote. I answer all DMs and if I don’t, DM again please. 

Happy new year.

BIG X BIG O—
Cashmere

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