I want to write.
I want to write what I’m learning about God. About the good things He is bringing us in and through and to. About how He is so faithful it makes my eyes well as I talk with Him in the car, in the bathroom, anytime it’s semi-quiet in my head. About how He’s refining me and I fight, then collapse and He covers me with His wing. About how I see Him at work in my son and it’s the most beautiful goodness I’ve ever witnessed.
I want to write real. About the overflowing laundry and lists that don’t quit and keep me up at night. About the kids I can’t seem to keep up with, and the way my heart literally aches with love for them. About the guilt I’m struggling with because every night, I collapse in a heap on the couch with the remote and my three-year-old says, “Have good watching, mommy!” as he plays with daddy. About the guilt that comes with not being able to be the household CEO right now because I’m still so sick with baby, the way I can see all the things piled on my husbands shoulders and knowing that it’s my ‘fault’ they’re there. About how yesterday I put work and my phone aside, and played for hours with my kids, listened to old stories on older vinyl with them and making snacks and laughing deep from our bellies together, and how I want to make that choice more often because it was so good.
I want to write friendships. How I’m grieving the seeming loss of a friendship that I’m not sure can be repaired. How my heart races and my people-pleasing is doing overtime because it seems like I don’t please any of the people. How it’s damn hard to make friends in your 30’s, and it’s harder to keep them and cultivate real relationships and depth of conversation. How everytime someone mentions a book club they’re in, my stomach clenches because I’m so jealous. How grateful I am for the friends who live in my phone, and the ones I only see on occasion but who have my heart. How I can’t wait for fall so we can start back up with our MOPS group because those women are my people and I already miss them. How friendships in my 30’s are difficult but real, and that makes them so deeply good.
I want to write about the struggle to live in the between – between work, between personal, between all the things that get in the way of both. About how the selfishness that sometimes drives me and the shame that chases it. About how on the surface, it looks like no other mothers share this struggle. About the dreams I have that are painfully on hold because other things are bigger, and I’m finally old enough to make good decisions for myself about what comes first.
I want to write the hard. That I’m terrified to mother a girl because though I choose not to watch the news, the headlines find me and my own past can haunt me and women are victims. That I don’t know how to go there because I’m white but I know I can’t – won’t – look the other way. That it’s time we had some hard conversations that lead to clean slates. That I’m questioning what I know of the church because of what I know of the goodness of God.
I want to write simple. Pregnancy updates. What I’m into this month. My version of pregnant-summer-mom-fashion. Stories about my kids. Stories about being a work-at-home mom and sharing an office with my work-at-home husband. Stories about mothering, the latest tips & tricks and silly things that have worked for me. Recipes we’ve recently loved. Our favorite local ice cream shops and parks and recaps of good days.
I want to write all these things and more, and it’s the slew of words that renders me silent. It makes me feel unfocused, will never lead to a book contract or millions of pageviews, and it keeps me quiet. It’s reflective of the state of my heart: a little frazzled, a lot tired, filled with questions, yet still, there is a peace that doesn’t make any sense. There is a joy that grounds me. There is a love that is all-encompassing and bigger than any rough parts. There is a calm that gently reminds me to breathe. There is so much good, in and through it all, and I just don’t have enough words for what it’s doing to my life, my heart, but the good – the good is what I want to write.