PROUD TO BE A WORK IN PROGRESS

Disclaimer: I wrote the below as a feature for a local organization called Women’s Work in Progress. Before getting into it, I would just like to say a heartfelt *thank you* for reading and supporting my blog. I am overjoyed by the amount of feedback I have received from people sharing similar experiences. And I am humbled by the writers, far more experienced than I, who have commented, followed, and encouraged along the way. You keep this tired mom going!🌺

In 2019 I moved to the suburbs with my husband, infant son, and two dogs. I had a successful yet uninspiring career in accounting, and thought this was what my life would be until I retired. Then 2020 happened.

Betweeen meeting work deadlines during toddler naps, and struggling to gain the trust of a manager who reluctantly approved remote work, I was burning the candle, not just at both ends, but in the middle and all around.

Overanxious and underslept, writing was my salvation. Through writing, I was able to cope with an unrelenting year, and eventually, reconnect with a community similarly in need of healing.

With empathy-promotion in mind, I created BelievableShe.com. A blog where I write to encourage women (and myself) to discover their rightful identity by confronting and sharing difficult truths. Over several weeks and sleepness nights, the support of readers energized my passion project and I became hooked.

My creative outlet brought inspiration back into my life, and there was no going back. Deciding to commit more of my life to writing, I made the leap, shelved my “successful” day job, and took an evening position as a restaurant server. In short, I am a post-pandemic work in progress, and proud.

SO I STARTED WRITING…

I have been gifted a journal three times in my life. Once as a girl, once as a wife, and once as a mother.

As a girl, it was a pale pink Precious Moments diary (complete with lock!) and it was from my mom. I was still a lonely only child when I got it. So I addressed it as a “friend” named Samantha. And I told that girl everything.

Long story short, diary locks do not really lock. And it only took one evening of parental shaming for me to never touch it again.

Fast forward to about 25 years later, and my husband gave me a journal for my birthday. We were beginning IVF treatments, and he thought it would be amusing to have a chronicle of our path to becoming parents.

Well, it became more than amusing. When IVF turned into a complicated pregnancy, and I ended up on hospitalized bed rest, it was my sanity. Not feeling up for many visitors, it was how I processed my fear of losing our baby, along with my grief from not having the pregnancy of my dreams.

But thank goodness, I eventually left that damn hospital. (And with a beautiful baby boy!) Needless to say, once our little guy arrived, and I stopped sleeping, that journal didn’t cross my mind once.

And finally, the third time I received a journal, it was from my sister during a pandemic. (Maybe you remember it?) And I remember thinking to myself, “How sweet… My baby sister thinks that I have time to journal while working from home, taking care of my out-of-daycare toddler, and watching the world as we know it crumble apart.”

What I didn’t immediately realize was the fact that I was once again isolated from the world, and the timing was actually perfect. My inner monologue was making me crazy and I needed an outlet.

So I started writing…

At this point, I think it’s safe to say out loud that writing is phase one of my “Discovery” project. And if writing keeps filling my days with the same purpose and ambition that I’ve been feeling over the past several weeks, maybe it’s also safe to say, I have discovered a piece of my identity.