Sighhhh. I’m here. I’m typing. I’m at my computer and I’m typing my thoughts.

Feeling fully frustrated by today and the “too many things” on my mind and needing to be accomplished this week. And how to break those down in a way that they’ll actually get done without me losing it (ever-so-slightly).

I’m here writing because… how can I ever expect to be A WRITER if I do not write. Writing isn’t difficult. Not the act of just writing. It’s no more than this: doing it, just to check the box.

Wake Up, Brush Teeth, Hug dog, Coffee, Write, Etc.

I’m am committing to writing in this new cycle, this new year. I will be here even when I don’t want to, in the days when it’s not part of my routine/habit, when it doesn’t come naturally to me. I will be here today, tomorrow, and every day possible to ensure that I am fulfilling my own personal dream…to write.

I’ve always seen myself as a writer and, yet, not written very much at all.

But that’s how things are when you had a childhood like mine. And then committed the next portion of your life to being a wife and mother. Your dreams become something else…they feel like “days gone by” that you never really lived. Like, a side quest you didn’t pursue. And you see them in your head occasionally and remember, “that’s was my goal” and “it was a good life” but…not for you. Not ever really meant for you. And that’s bullshit!

For me, being able to see something in my head always made me feel like it was going to be, could be! That it was plausible and possible. And I’ve always been able to see myself as a writer. Since I was young. And even today.

But not if I am not writing.

Always been told I was good at writing. And that I should.

So, I need to do this for myself. Give the gift of the dream. For me. Not for anyone but me.

And maybe my mom. Not that she wanted me to be a writer. But she wanted me to be happy.

That’s all she ever wanted me to be…myself and happy.

And I cannot be happy leaving that part of my life in the “make believe.”

Because right now it just feels like that part of me is missing and lost and abandoned and I am not whole without it.

We, my family of three plus a dog, moved (again) from a place where I spent most days in clinical depression and could not find enough light. Despite the sunny, beach location, I could not shake the darkness.

And I told myself that, here in the new place, I was going to grow and find the light that my heart and soul needs so desperately to keep the shadows from consuming me. And to do that, I’m feeding myself all the things I always wanted to be: art, writing, therapy, wellness, learning, peace. Love.

I’ve always been “creative” but never given myself that life.

Here, I am making “creative” my life, taking art classes 2-3 days per week. Pursuing creative work. Giving time to causes that need volunteers. Allowing myself to buy the things I need for these ventures. Writing. Learning about the things I love and value, the things that feel like me.

And here I am—writing today. And reminding myself that the life of a writer is mine to own. It’s available to me, just right here… at this keyboard, on this page. And that’s all I need. (Plus me.)

žCJEž