What’s Left Is Space
Memoirs of a Lash Artist launched Tuesday, April 21 at the Beech Tree on Kingston Road, and it was a great turnout.
I had no idea what to expect. I remember saying to Faith at cardiac rehab the day before that I’d be happy if only six people showed up—because I knew they’d be the right six people—but that room was full—maximum capacity. Wall-to-wall love, joy, good vibes, and positivity. Everybody who was supposed to be there was there.
I drank more than I should’ve that night—more than I have in years—and yep, I had a hangover the next day. I beat myself up real good about it for a couple days. But something else was also happening—
I had seen my cardiologist the Friday before. She told me I was in great shape—that I didn’t have to come back for a year. A whole year. That threw me, because for the last three years I’ve been in and out of the hospital every four to six months—sometimes sooner.
The reality is… this heart chapter has come to a halt. The story—the process that consumed me for three years—is done. And I’m still catching up to that.
I felt lost, scared, empty. Immediately, I started thinking, what am I gonna do now? Which is ridiculous, because I’ve known what’s next for the last year. I know my path, I know what’s coming. But there I was, coming down off the adrenaline from the book launch, going straight into panic mode. I started spiraling and couldn’t figure out why, because I had just accomplished something big—extraordinary. So I looked it up, and it’s a real thing—“post book blues.” After an author drops a book or an artist releases a project, there’s this drop, this emptiness. My situation, though, was deeper than a project.
That feeling grabbed hold of me for a good four days. Friday afternoon, I started crying and freaking out, thinking about getting a job and wondering what I was gonna do now—I was having a full-on panic attack. Trent came out and asked why I was crying, and it all just came pouring out.
Then I remembered my own words—the ones I had written while sorting through my PTSD over the past few years—and realized that jobs, my many jobs, were part of it. My natural instinct since I was fourteen was to get a job, get another job, don’t stop. The fear of being—or being labelled—lazy has haunted me my entire life. Nothing was ever good enough. Not for me, or anybody else.
But I don’t live that life anymore. There will be no more jobs for me. I’ve left that rat race psychologically—even though I’m still physically in it, mentally I am not. I won’t be lazy—I’ve never been lazy. I don’t know how to be lazy. I’ll still be productive, but my projects won’t be driven by fear or anxiety. I went back there for a moment, but I caught it quick—that’s not my life anymore.
Saturday, I woke up, prepared some food, and cleaned my house. I’ve got a small project at home I’m working on, so I shifted my focus to that instead of what’s gonna happen in September. I could literally feel my central nervous system recalibrating, because I’ve already unlearned the hustle. I know how to hustle—I’ve proven that time and time again—but I also know how to live in the now. I had a moment where I caught myself focusing on the emptiness instead of what I have and what I’ve accomplished.
That day, four days later, I did a 180—right back to feeling grounded, fulfilled, and at ease. I realized what I was feeling wasn’t emptiness at all—it was space.
After excavating my body and soul for the last three years, putting it down on paper, turning it into something tangible—something I could give back to the universe—it was removed from my central nervous system. It no longer lives in my body. All I was left with was space. Space for what’s new, space for what’s next, space for what’s about to come.
I went to cardiac rehab on Monday, and for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—I felt fully there. The monkey was off my back. I was able to focus on my cardio and my breathing. The only silly thing I thought about, aside from being there, was the journey my hair is about to embark on.
When I left my cardiologist appointment on Friday and was on my way home, the first thing I said to myself was—this hair’s gotta go. It’s my “heart hair.” That’s what I call it, because it’s been two and a half years since it’s been cut. I’ve just been dying my roots and letting it grow, which has pretty much turned me into a full-on brunette with hair down the middle of my back.
My hair has witnessed it all and holds all the trauma. Leaving that appointment, knowing right then and there it was time to cut my heart hair, made total sense. Time to let it go.
I didn’t come out of that launch empty—I came out with space. For a long time, my system’s baseline was survival mode, hypervigilance, pressure, and noise. That was my normal. Writing the book, living through everything I did, and then standing up and speaking it out loud moved something out of me. So when it was over, what I felt wasn’t loss—it was the absence of constant pressure I was always carrying so it translated it as emptiness, even though it wasn’t.
It’s not emptiness. It’s space. It’s what’s left now that my system isn’t bracing anymore. It’s the space between who I had to be to survive and who I’m becoming now that I don’t have to live that way. That in-between, at times, feels disorienting as fuck because there’s no urgency, no chaos pushing me forward, no identity built around handling something. It’s quieter, slower, more open—and I’m not used to that yet.
Where I am right now is integration—I’ve been here for some time, and I’m still in it. My nervous system has come down, my body is regulating, and my mind isn’t working the same way it used to. I’m not reacting—I’m noticing. I’m not chasing—I’m present. That’s why things like cleaning, cooking, being outside, and just moving through my day feel grounding instead of meaningless. That’s not me doing nothing—that’s me living differently.
I don’t need to rush to fill this space or figure out my entire next chapter. This is the part where I let things come to me instead of forcing them. The old me was built in survival. The person I’m becoming now will be built in awareness. That takes a different pace—a quieter one. I didn’t lose my way, I made room. And now, for the first time in my life, I actually have the space to choose what comes next.
If you’re interested in reading the full story, the book’s out—digital and paperback on Amazon (link below)—or at Book City.
To everyone who showed up last Tuesday—I saw you. I felt it. I won’t forget it.
—Jaye 🖤
