This is a post from my journal entry dated 7.29.14.  Yep.  And the date is actually not completely telling.  This has been brewing in my heart for years.  Fears creep in and before I know it absolutely EVERYTHING has taken precedent over this.  Laundry… more important. Making meals… more important.  Surfing the internet… more important.  Wha-What?!?!? You heard it.  Ridiculous, I know.  And it all boils down to fear.  Fear of failing.  Fear of starting something and it not being perfect.  Fear of putting myself out there, being vulnerable.  The list goes on and on.

This morning I was chatting with my 3 year old about the importance of “doing hard things.” She has a tough time at preschool toward the end of the day.  She cried every day about a month ago because she no longer wanted to nap and she wanted to join the other kids in enrichment time.  So, we talked to the teachers and made the leap.  Now, she cries because she wants to be napping.  She said, on the verge of tears, “Mommy,  I want to be in enrichment.  It’s just a hard time for me.”

OK.  So baby girl and I talked.  We talked about doing hard things.  We talked about how sometimes every other choice seems like it will be better and easier and make things more comfortable.  We talked about how we are brave and strong and when we hit those hard moments, we can power through and almost always come out on the other side, happy and proud and triumphant.  We gave each other fist bumps at the door and she walked boldly into her preschool classroom.  I walked out to the car, swallowed the lump in my throat and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that TODAY was the day.

Time to do hard things Momma.  Fist bump with self.  Let’s do this… And so, we begin.


Terrified. That is the word.

It’s where I am and it’s what I’m feeling.  I rolled out of bed this morning at 6 am to nurse the baby with the best intentions of immediately escaping to my basement “retreat” area to sit and write.  But the fluffy comforter, mounds of pillows, sleeping husband and the hazy morning light peeking through our windows drew me back in once again.  I collapsed into a pile, curled up and welcomed a few more sacred moments of glorious sleep.

But, there it was again.  That nagging desire.  The one that never goes away.  The message that is whispered far and wide, across the days, months, years and entire landscape of my life.  You were made to do this.  You must write.

So, I started the coffee quietly in hopes that my slumbering bears would stay asleep a bit longer and I crept downstairs.  Coffee, phone, baby monitor and journal in hand to do this.  To write.  Knowing that taking 15 minutes to scrawl some words on a page would likely mean that I’d be the “messy mom” in pj’s dropping her kids off at day camp.  Because time is THAT scheduled these days.

]The voices in my head tell me, “You have nothing important to say.  No one really wants to know.  This is not your reality right now.”  Even though I’ve heard from many (friends and perfect strangers) that this is the direction, the journey, I am to embrace, my heart fears that they are all wrong and this is another dream unfulfilled… a disappointment… a “remember when I tried my hand at writing” story that is told in laughter around a table years from now while deep inside, a bit of my heart secretly dies.

And I’m terrified.  Partially because I don’t know what I’ll write about, but mostly because I do know what I’ll write about and I’m afraid of what you’ll say.  I fear your judgement most of all.  I fear not getting it right.  I fear my messy, imperfect self.

And yet, that is the main reason WHY I write.  Because I want to embrace her, in all her messy imperfection and learn that she is beautiful.  Right now.  No regrets.  No, “I’ll do that once I get this in order.” No, “This just isn’t the right stage of life for me to do this.” Now. In the thick of it.  Because I have 3 daughters and I want them to know that indeed, they can have both… motherhood and following their dreams.  It may not be glamorous, but possible?  Hell, yes.  And oh, so beautiful in the mess.  In the pj’s at the drop off line.

It’s 7:31… the bears are rousing and it’s time to start our day.


And… we begin.

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