2015 Me Knew What Was Up

Writing my way to the next chapter
Originally appeared in the beautiful (closed) Mabel Magazine, 2015

The last time I definitively knew who I was, I was staring into the minute-old face of my first son. At just fourteen, I knew very little about life itself, but the one thing I did know is that I was going to love being a mom. That was over 25 years ago.

Just exactly half a second after writing those words, I burst into tears. I actually cry a lot now. Part of that is due to The Breakthrough of 2012 (known previously to me as “the breakdown”), wherein I finally sought a counselor to help me process my abusive past and learn to stop stuffing down my emotions, and part of that is due to the fact that my last child, my baby girl, is flying the coop soon. The nest will be empty and I have no idea who I am if not that woman who has been parenting for what feels like forever.

Several people have mentioned this as a new season of life, but I don’t think they understand that my whole world has shifted. I’m supposed to be excited and overjoyed about all the freedom I now have, but the truth is, it’s incredibly scary to look in the mirror at my 40-year-old self and ask, “What’s next?” I’ve always been a mom, so who am I now?

What will my life be like without carpool, papers to sign, curfew, fretting about driving and grades and the opposite sex? 

When I was a little girl, I found power in writing. I was voiceless through the struggles of abuse at home, but when I took to writing, I could be anyone, create any new story, and change my life for the better. I found that I was good enough at it to garner responses, sometimes winning classroom essay contests, sometimes placing in school-wide speech contests. I wrote truths out with happier endings, and I quickly learned that my efforts led to positive attention.

I continued to write throughout my growing-up years, even landing my first real, paid byline at age 17, but as I got older, I questioned my choice. Was I a writer because everyone said I was good at it, or did I love it and choose it myself? In my mid-20s, on a steady climb to writing success, I quit. The world was telling me it was time to be a grown-up, to get a real job, to stop living with my head in the clouds because I have three children, for heaven’s sake, so be responsible!

I tried many things, but without a college degree, my choices were limited. Yet, as I attempted to return to school, I was met with more negativity when it came to figuring out what I wanted. Counselors spoke as if I should already know what to do, what I like, etc. My advisors gave conflicting information, some going so far as to mention that if I really just wanted to be an artist, I didn’t need school. 

Floundering, and still dealing with unresolved issues from my painful past, I quit, returned, quit, returned, and quit again. The final quitting came at the university level, where I found myself paralyzed with fear that I couldn’t explain. I kept trying to do everything the way other grown-ups told me I should, and each time, I seemed to fall flat on my face. I tried to emulate my younger best friend, who excelled and loved academia, and that too failed. No matter which way I turned, nothing seemed to be for me, what I wanted. 

Essentially, I couldn’t figure out how to carve out the perfect career. With so many different pieces of advice conflicting and giving me mixed messages, I just couldn’t grasp my own dream. Every direction was a short road to a dead end. I u-turned so many times, I stopped trying anything.

Recently, when my baby girl crossed the stage to accept her high school diploma, I was sure that was the moment I’d lose it. But I was fine. And even when we sat through college orientation, I held it together. It was not until she stood before the great big sea at the edge of the world and joked that she didn’t know how to ocean that it all set it. What hadn’t I taught her? Was she even ready for the world? How much had I messed up?

But I realized I wasn’t really worried about her. I knew I had done that job well. Parenting has been my gig, and I am good at it. I was really worried about myself. What didn’t I know how to do yet? Was I even ready for the world? How much had I already messed up?

To be honest, I don’t exactly know what’s next for me or who I am yet. But what I do know is, I’m writing the next chapters. I am the author, no one else. And like my daughter, I don’t know how to ocean either, but I do know that I’m ready to go into the water. My time has arrived, and at just 40, I still have a lifetime ahead of me. The change is hard, but the future is mine. [end]

Or Maybe 2014 Me Knew What Was Up

OK, But 2020 Me Definitely
Knows What’s Up!

Let’s do this, Me!