When I was a teenager, I wrote a letter to myself in the future. Do not open until you're 25! I scrawled on the envelope. Its girlish secrets are stuffed in a box somewhere in my parents' house, but I remember the general gist of it.
I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be published. When I discovered it years later, I felt like a big, fat failure because I hadn't realized that dream.
As time went on, I moved across the pond and got lots of bylines in health, food and beauty magazines. But somehow I still felt lacking. I wasn't writing my story.
When I moved back to Canada in 2007, my career took more of a marketing turn and I shelved my writerly aspirations. They gathered dust under romance books and I eventually forgot they existed. I attended a local poetry group once a month that forced me to put pen to paper, but other than that, I hid the storyteller in my soul from the world.
Motherhood has cracked me open in so many ways. I never imagined it would be my portal to publication. I never realized how much I needed to get out and onto the page in order to survive. Having Eve has made me face myself at long last. It's made me admit what I want and what I don't. I'm not a natural nine-to-fiver. I don't belong in an office. The corporate world just leaves me cold.
Scraping time together for myself is tough with a toddler, but I love being alone with the cursor. The screen may be empty when I start, but my mind is crammed full of cognition. Writing is how I process my life, how I make sense of the scramble.
My blog posts are a direct passageway to my brain. They help heal my heart. Sometimes I need the gift of a little time and distance to understand the truth hidden amidst the tumult.
Nurturing my creativity is new to me. I'm learning to respect my craft and take it seriously. Now I set aside time to create. I write for myself, but I also write for anyone who needs to hear they are normal in their struggle. It's taken me thirty-eight years, but I'm finally starting to accept myself and love the way I'm made.
I still devour books that I enjoy, but I'm also consuming stories that inspire me, that make me want to be better. With every page I turn, I learn. I've started to seek out biographies of people who have chased their passions and made peace with their vocation. They give me the courage to believe I can dare to dream, too.
Thank you for coming along on this this journey with me, for taking my words to heart and giving me back some of your own. There is magic in the exchange, and I wouldn't trade that blessing for anything.
I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be published. When I discovered it years later, I felt like a big, fat failure because I hadn't realized that dream.
As time went on, I moved across the pond and got lots of bylines in health, food and beauty magazines. But somehow I still felt lacking. I wasn't writing my story.
When I moved back to Canada in 2007, my career took more of a marketing turn and I shelved my writerly aspirations. They gathered dust under romance books and I eventually forgot they existed. I attended a local poetry group once a month that forced me to put pen to paper, but other than that, I hid the storyteller in my soul from the world.
Motherhood has cracked me open in so many ways. I never imagined it would be my portal to publication. I never realized how much I needed to get out and onto the page in order to survive. Having Eve has made me face myself at long last. It's made me admit what I want and what I don't. I'm not a natural nine-to-fiver. I don't belong in an office. The corporate world just leaves me cold.
Scraping time together for myself is tough with a toddler, but I love being alone with the cursor. The screen may be empty when I start, but my mind is crammed full of cognition. Writing is how I process my life, how I make sense of the scramble.
My blog posts are a direct passageway to my brain. They help heal my heart. Sometimes I need the gift of a little time and distance to understand the truth hidden amidst the tumult.
Nurturing my creativity is new to me. I'm learning to respect my craft and take it seriously. Now I set aside time to create. I write for myself, but I also write for anyone who needs to hear they are normal in their struggle. It's taken me thirty-eight years, but I'm finally starting to accept myself and love the way I'm made.
I still devour books that I enjoy, but I'm also consuming stories that inspire me, that make me want to be better. With every page I turn, I learn. I've started to seek out biographies of people who have chased their passions and made peace with their vocation. They give me the courage to believe I can dare to dream, too.
Thank you for coming along on this this journey with me, for taking my words to heart and giving me back some of your own. There is magic in the exchange, and I wouldn't trade that blessing for anything.
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