What's Holding Me Back

I've been really sporadic about blogging. Since the creation of this blog, I've had so many ideas come to me, and just as quickly get lost in the mess of life. As I sit here today, my children are upstairs, sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the utter relief that I call the "synchronized nap." The windows are open next to me, the warm spring breeze is softly blowing in, and I can hear the birds singing to each other outside. And for the first time today, I can take a slow, deep breath. I can hear myself think. I have a moment to write.

Since I was young, I have always felt a calling on my life to write. I know that's not a unique or especially rare dream. I can easily think of ten people that have told me they want to write a book someday.  I think perhaps it is part of human nature to want to express our unique set of adventures, to publish them into a sort of collective experience that allows others to feel with us, dream with us, connect with us. But for me, it's not just a pipe dream. It's what deep down in my soul I feel like I was created to do.

Write. Something beautiful. Something meaningful. Something that will connect my soul to my reader's soul and move them.

And yet, I don't know what I am supposed to write about. Or what exactly I am supposed to write. I keep waiting for it to "come to me." I keep hoping that one day, I will wake up, and I will know exactly what it is I am supposed to write about, and how I am going to do it.

But every morning, I wake up, and instead of feeling inspired, I feel tired. At 5am I sleepily change my son's diaper, feed him a bottle, and lay him back down in his crib, tiptoeing softly out the door, praying fervently that he will sleep for another hour. Most days, though, as soon as I lay my head on the pillow again, I hear my door creak open, and my daughter comes in to tell me good morning demand breakfast.  Her brother's cries have woken her up, and there's no convincing her that going back to sleep would be better for everyone. Because, while she may have inherited her looks from my husband, she most definitely inherited her morning disposition from me. Which means a lot of scowling and grumpiness until food makes its way to her belly.

And so my day begins, and continues, with diaper changes, and meals, and cleaning, and the overall feeling that I'm really a waitress and servant instead of some glorious Mother figure.

And then the writing gets lost. By the time the whirlwind of playdates, nap times, zoo trips, time outs, and cleanup is finished, I've got nothing left.

I don't want you to think I am complaining. I love my children with a deeper love than I could have ever imagined existed. I would not trade one second that I have with them. They are funny, warm hearted, generous, loving and kind.

But the twenty four hour on-call nature of parenting is exhausting. And it leaves little energy for creativity.

I'm not sure what the writing process is supposed to look like. I'm not sure how to get there. I'm not sure I'll ever have any more energy than I have right now. And when I start thinking like that I begin to wonder if I'll ever really write something. Something of significance. Something that will mean something to someone.  I'm afraid that I won't. That at the end of it all, I'll just be another person with a dream that never came true.

I suppose that's what's at the heart of all of this. Fear of failure. Fear of never living up to my potential. Fear of not using the talents that I have been given to create something of meaning. Fear that being a stay at home parent will be the sum total of my contribution to this world.

And, if I'm honest, that's probably what keeps me from writing more often. My role as a stay at home mom to two young, vivacious children is certainly an obstacle. At times a towering obstacle. But that's not the real reason I'm not writing. I'm afraid that I'll give it my everything, and it will come to nothing.

I'm not sure how to work through that. But as the old cliche says, "Admitting it is the first step". So here goes. I'm admitting it. I'm afraid to fail.

Now what?