Why I write

I’m sitting in the glider in my daughter’s nursery, attempting to draft my first post. Naturally, the one day over Christmas break I have time to work on my blog, Jackie naps terribly thanks to a wretched cough. Jackie is still in her crib and I have stacked her favorite books beside her while I scramble to write some initial thoughts. I figured I better get used to this type of flexible writing as a new mom. Sometimes it will look like this. Not always. Not exactly the Room of One’s Own image I strive for.

I used to write a lot as a child and I loved to invent stories. I felt creative, intrinsically. I would daydream. I would sneak and watch soap operas. I’d play with dolls and create the most elaborate love affair dramas. I loved to read. I was a loner but paradoxically wanted to be around friends. Books were a safe haven for me. And they still are.

I heard once that what you enjoyed most as an 8-year-old (why 8, I have no idea), is what you still truly enjoy. I think about that a lot.

When I was 31, my father died suddenly. Along with intense therapy to help soothe my PTSD from the night he died, I discovered that writing helped the grief I carried feel a little lighter. I felt freer as if all the pain and loneliness wouldn’t swallow me whole. Instead, grief became a part of me. I felt it at a cellular level. I had no choice but to welcome it as a friend. Sometimes it would walk beside me, respectfully, at an arm’s distance; sometimes it was a guest who overstayed their welcome. Other times, it would rear its ugly head in my face, paralyzing me.

The new life without my father required me to move more slowly and be gentler with myself. I also began to prioritize my time differently. I decided to take a solo trip in the late fall to Maine to spread my dad’s ashes. It was the greatest gift I could give to myself. I stayed in a small artsy town my dad loved. I drove along the coast, I hiked, I watercolored, I cried. I also wrote ferociously for no one but me. It was freeing.

I became pregnant the summer following my father’s death. After I emerged from debilitating nausea, I felt on fire with stories to write. I would wake up before dawn and journal. I took writing workshops with my favorite writers and devoured novels and writing companions. I began to write poetry. I was consumed by the concept of matrescence - the developmental and spiritual transition into motherhood.

And then my daughter was born. I intend on reflecting, exploring, and writing a lot about this on my blog, but what I’ll say is this: it was and still is a journey - one that challenges my physical, emotional and spiritual being, every day. But like all great things in life, it has its peaks and deep valleys. Most importantly, motherhood has opened up my heart to the greatest love and compassion I never thought was possible. I will forever be tethered to my daughter and her soul. It’s one of the greatest gifts.

When my daughter was about five months, I traveled to Boone, NC to attend a writing workshop by the absolute greatest, Cheryl Strayed. Her memoir Wild was a balm for my soul shortly after my father died. It was there that I made a commitment to myself to share my writing. As I wrote in an Instagram post shortly after the trip, over that weekend I realized how much I had healed since my father’s death. Part of that is due to writing. It saved me and gave me a space to sort out my feelings and tell my story. It’s hard to share what I write yet it feels completely liberating to write with no one’s permission. It doesn’t have to be award-winning or perfect. It can be a solid draft or even just mediocre. It feels good to take the pressure off. To just create. To be more gentle on me.

And that’s why I am here. That’s why I write.

I write for myself so I feel free.

I’m fascinated by the concept of common, universal stories and experiences - motherhood, grief, faith, grace, rebirth - that connect us. Reading the stories we share makes me feel less alone. And I think many of us feel the same.

It is my intention to write about what makes us whole, free, and connected to each other.

And with that, I hope I see you around.