It’s weird, this writing this. This saying out loud to you that I want to write. Somewhere between the diapers and the sticky counters and the piles of backpacks dropped and swapped for activity duffels, that there could be space to write about that family life and the inner life of a mid-thirties-something mom breaking and expanding in a million different ways.
“But, you’ve already been blogging for like, yeeeeeaaaarrrs,” you say.
Yes. I have.
“But, you’ve already been posting your heart and thoughts on social media fairly candidly,” you point out.
“But, you’ve already been publishing stuff on parenting websites,” you offer.
That’s me!(Like this most current one here:https://herviewfromhome.com/good-wives-dont-complain-and-other-lies/)
And I want more.
Writing is a ridiculously audacious act produced by some fairly down-to-earth people. I’m glad to be in that company.
Writing has always been with me. Writing will remain a part of me no matter what happens in social media numbers or stats or the next new thing we haven’t dreamt of yet. But for now, there will be blog posts when I can, and essays to online publications, and fighting back the feelings of being a fraud or ridiculous or redundant as I move forward in steps that look a lot like what I’ve already been doing, just owning the desire a little bit more.
I want to let you know that I think it’s worth it. Thank you for joining me.
I want to let you know that I think all our stories are worth sharing. We are better together.
I want to let you know that, perhaps, you have your own thing to claim. You don’t have to wait for the feelings of being a poser leave before gaining legitimacy. You don’t have to wait for that post to go viral. You don’t need our permission before beginning.
We just, begin.