Inspiration

Writing has always been important to me.  When I was a little girl, I found solace writing in my personal diaries.  I recall sitting on my bedroom floor, with music in the background, divulging every thought I had that I didn’t feel comfortable, or perhaps more accurately, didn’t have the courage to share aloud.  Later when I started college, I felt protected when I wrote in my journals.  Laying on my bed, not yet feeling comfortable in my own skin, or having my tribe to rely on, my journal became a trusted friend that I could say anything to, at any time.  Later still, I turned to writing as I grieved my grandparents and when I celebrated my parents’ milestone anniversaries.  I wrote to my future husband, documenting layers of emotion throughout our fairytale courtship. I wrote when I miscarried.  I wrote to my babies’ future selves, and I wrote to reflect and oftentimes reconcile what can be in direct conflict working both in and outside of the home.  

I wrote days after my dad passed away — not from his two-year battle with lung cancer, but instead because of tragic and unexpected complications from pneumonia.  I co-wrote his obituary with my family, and words of remembrance that I delivered at his funeral.  It was the most pressing pose, yet most difficult to denote.

And I write now – with candor, vulnerability and honesty.  I write for myself, I write so my young children have insight into who I am.  I write to give voice to my personal thoughts.  Most importantly, I write so I can quiet the deafening thoughts in my head.  

I’m not asking for permission.  I’m not asking for acknowledgment.  I’m not asking for praise. 

I’m writing because I crave closure.  It’s part of the fabric of my soul.  Writing helps me close one thought, one chapter, one moment and move to the next. Without it, I feel trapped, unable to move forward with intention or purpose.