Personal Essays
Why I Write
I have wanted to be a writer since at least elementary school. English was always my favorite subject, be it writing stories, essays, or papers. I just wanted to write. Throughout high school writing was cathartic. I was often depressed as a teenager and writing helped me, at the very least, express the emotions I didn’t know what else to do with. I used writing in this way off and on during my one year of collage and the early part of my marriage. I was much happier by then, and I didn’t write as often. I wrote when I had too much time on my hands, but I would often put down my projects and not pick them back up for months, maybe even years. Always the desire to write was there, but I let laziness overtake my desire to fulfill my dreams. So many stories left unfinished, so many ideas written down and never fleshed out.
Then in 2008 I had my epiphany. My son, Devlin, was born in June and for several months he had been the center of my universe. I was supremely happy and loved my family more than ever. My child was the light of my life, despite the exhaustion and stress of being a first time mommy. While looking into the eyes of my perfect little man, I realized that now more than ever I wanted to write. It occurred to me that I was well on my way to falling headfirst into mommyhood, on the cusp of leaving the things that made me, me behind in the process. I thought about a world in which I was simply labeled “Devlin’s Mom,” and I didn’t like what I saw.
Some women wish for nothing more than to be someone’s mother, or a bunch of someone’s mother. That is fantastic, if it is what makes you happy. I don’t think that’s me though. I have the one and only child I want, and eighteen years seems like a long time now, but really in the scheme of my entire life it’s not all that long. What will I do when those eighteen years are up, my son goes on to college or whatever he decides to do? I will sit at home, an empty nester, who no longer knows herself outside the role of mommy or her husband outside of daddy. To me, that was a terrifying thought. I want to be the best mother I can be, but I do not want to lose myself in the process.
I realized that I wanted my son to be proud of me for more than just having been his mommy. I wanted him to see his mom for the creative, driven person she truly is. How can I teach him to shoot for the stars and never give up on his dreams, if I left my own dreams behind? Every day is now a juggling act, trying to fit my craft into our day, but it’s worth it. When I feel myself waver or getting lazy, I look at my son and remember why I write.
I have wanted to be a writer since at least elementary school. English was always my favorite subject, be it writing stories, essays, or papers. I just wanted to write. Throughout high school writing was cathartic. I was often depressed as a teenager and writing helped me, at the very least, express the emotions I didn’t know what else to do with. I used writing in this way off and on during my one year of collage and the early part of my marriage. I was much happier by then, and I didn’t write as often. I wrote when I had too much time on my hands, but I would often put down my projects and not pick them back up for months, maybe even years. Always the desire to write was there, but I let laziness overtake my desire to fulfill my dreams. So many stories left unfinished, so many ideas written down and never fleshed out.
Then in 2008 I had my epiphany. My son, Devlin, was born in June and for several months he had been the center of my universe. I was supremely happy and loved my family more than ever. My child was the light of my life, despite the exhaustion and stress of being a first time mommy. While looking into the eyes of my perfect little man, I realized that now more than ever I wanted to write. It occurred to me that I was well on my way to falling headfirst into mommyhood, on the cusp of leaving the things that made me, me behind in the process. I thought about a world in which I was simply labeled “Devlin’s Mom,” and I didn’t like what I saw.
Some women wish for nothing more than to be someone’s mother, or a bunch of someone’s mother. That is fantastic, if it is what makes you happy. I don’t think that’s me though. I have the one and only child I want, and eighteen years seems like a long time now, but really in the scheme of my entire life it’s not all that long. What will I do when those eighteen years are up, my son goes on to college or whatever he decides to do? I will sit at home, an empty nester, who no longer knows herself outside the role of mommy or her husband outside of daddy. To me, that was a terrifying thought. I want to be the best mother I can be, but I do not want to lose myself in the process.
I realized that I wanted my son to be proud of me for more than just having been his mommy. I wanted him to see his mom for the creative, driven person she truly is. How can I teach him to shoot for the stars and never give up on his dreams, if I left my own dreams behind? Every day is now a juggling act, trying to fit my craft into our day, but it’s worth it. When I feel myself waver or getting lazy, I look at my son and remember why I write.
