Finding Myself with a Baby Strapped to My Chest

It’s the early hours of the day. No one is up, not even the sun and I’m trying to figure out what to write to all of you. To be honest, I don’t feel like I have anything critical to say. Nothing that hasn’t already been said on the interwebs ad nauseam already. Yet, there is so much I haven’t said here.  I’ve been compartmentalizing on this blog, trying to keep parts of myself separate. I want to be professional and I want to appeal to many different women without offending any, which is freakin impossible.

I should get personal here, I should reconcile all sides of myself in this space, it’s my space after all.  I should be able to share all parts of myself in my writing. It’s like a leap of faith though. It’s a scary thing to put yourself out on a ledge during high winds. It’s really tough to be vulnerable and at the mercy of creeping trolls that will revel in trying to take me down a peg. I want to get political and social here but I’ve been afraid to push y’all away. Really though if we are friends, you are going to love me even when we disagree.

There are big changes happening in my life and in the world and I want to explore every bit of it. I want to call out bad behavior, especially from the media (I’m looking at you Fox News) and I want to celebrate smart people doing smart things in the world. I want you to know me, warts and all. I want to know myself, warts and all. I’ve had some writer’s block, which really isn’t about having trouble finding words and all about me having trouble finding myself.

Finding oneself through a decade of change feels impossible.

Me, finding myself
Me, finding myself

In the first year of my thirties I welcomed my son into the world. I buried his grandmother that year too. Death is like a long, cold, and desolate winter and birth is like the first bud on the tree in spring. When winter and spring happen inside you at the same time, it’s exquisitely painful, literally bittersweet and even the best laid plans couldn’t survive it. My thirties churned with turmoil and change. It would take me an entire decade to finally calm the fuck down.

I ended my thirties, the way I started it, swollen with life and promise and shadowed by death. As we awaited the life of our little girl we said goodbye to her grandfather. There’s something poetic in it, something poignantly cyclical about ending a decade of my life the same exact way I began it, inside my own body, nurturing life, and mourning death.

I’ll be forty next month, a new decade but the same me. I’m approaching it with little regret and a whole lot of hope. Hope that things stay the way they are right now, at least for a little while. I hope for success with my writing. I hope the people who have been in my life, all my life stay for the rest of it and my new friends become old friends.

I don’t know what to expect exactly but I know there will be change. My daughter is a wee bit over two months old now. I can expect her to grow fast and I can expect that I’ll lament over where the time is going. I’ll be sending my eldest two to college and my baby to kindergarten around the same time. I’ll be growing too and my greatest hope is that I’ll stay growing with all of you.



2 thoughts on “Finding Myself with a Baby Strapped to My Chest

    1. I’m trying my absolute best to be me even when it’s contradictory or harsh or too soft! I think we owe that to ourselves! I’m not sure we could ever keep our hearts truly safe and still write worth shit! Here’s to 40! *chugs wine*


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