I am back to write this post after a three-month hiatus. My motivation to write remains low. I am running on empty by the time I get to “me time” at 9 p.m. at night, after the kids are finally asleep and the kitchen is cleaned.
“Why bother?” I ‘m convinced there’s nothing I could write that someone else hasn’t eloquently covered somewhere else on the internet.
I wished I believed in my own value more.
The daily grind of caring for two young children wears me down. My mind needs to float, not focus, during any brief down-time.
But day after day passes and I am starting to realize that there is not much left of me outside of “mom.”
Lately, I’ve been thinking that I should just accept myself as I am, without needing to be a “writer.” It’s tempting to strive toward self-acceptance, but – in this case – it feels a little like complacency, or giving up on myself.
I used to travel the country and world, fearlessly, like a nomad. I catch a glimpse of the woman I am outside of motherhood every so often, when I do something daring or creatively productive.
But I feel I am morphing into someone new, as I am tugged at by my relationships with my children and husband. Someone who isn’t as ambitious, or maybe even as talented. I lay, spent at the end of the day, unable to muster the wherewithal to spit some words out on the screen – and I wonder “Where have I gone, and will I ever get ‘me’ back?”. I guess I can take the words here as some proof that I haven’t given up on me yet. I just hope I don’t wait so long before I meet up with my elusive inner self again.