I Thought I Was A Writer, I Knew I Was A Mom

I used to think I was a writer. In grade school I would fill my notebooks with short stories and pass them out to my friends to read. I was eager for their reactions to my latest teen drama. I was obsessed with the art of storytelling. I had to read everyday. My obsession was costly. My parents put me on a 1 new book a week diet. But it was never enough.

I would beg to be dropped off at Borders (long live the King) or the library and stay for hours. There was no greater feeling than getting lost in a good book. So lost that I’m either crying with the main character or screaming at them by the end. I dreamed of the day that I could tell a story that would touch someone in that same way. A story that could shape the entire projection of a young person’s life. In the same way that Junie B Jones, Walter Dean Myers, and Sister Souljah had shaped mine.

I used to really think I was a writer. Until I became a mom. Suddenly it was like everything I had ever believed to be true and everything I thought made me me became minuscule. Yes, I thought I was a writer, but I knew I was a mom. And with that realization a new obsession formed.

Over the years I could feel as little pieces of me went missing. Ripped away in the night so that I barely noticed. A gnawing feeling of an unrecognizable loss became a part of my existence. It was like losing a limb and thinking it’s still there, but knowing it’s not. I would proudly announce to a room that I had graduated college with a degree in creative writing. I would tell people that my goal in life was to be a published author. I was gnawing at a dream that was no longer there. In reality those pieces of me had floated away and were replaced by my daughters goals.

Her first steps, her first tooth, her first day of school. Kassidy had an endless amount of firsts stretched in front of her and they filled me whole. They filled me because every step she took was confirmation that we were succeeding. Success looked nothing like what I dreamed it would be. This wasn’t what I wrote about in my journal. This was far different. I was responsible for a life and I now measured my success by her happiness. It was in her smile and in her laugh. She was and is the very best part of me. I couldn’t even think about writing. My survival instincts were kicked into overdrive and the desire for stability and financial freedom was my only concern.

My baby who is not so much a baby anymore turned 9 this year. She is thriving. She is smart, she is beautiful, she’s an athlete, and an absolute drama Queen. I have now accomplished many of my career goals and I am finally in a place where I can just about touch what the future holds and I have nothing to be afraid of.

It took us 9 years to get here and I am forever grateful to Kassidy for being my partner on this journey. My hope is to one day be a writer again. To find room for lost dreams. To tell my adolescent self that she is not forgotten. That all of her hard work did not go in vain. Maybe it will take us until year 10 or 20 to get there, but I have to believe that it’s possible.

I am filled with optimism and this is a new feeling. There was always this daunting feeling that failure was just one wrong decision away. Like I was walking on a tight rope and the wind could blow me to either side. I just so desperately wanted to keep up. Standing on solid ground is warm and exciting. It’s motivating. It’s so all consuming that I had to write it down.