In second grade, my teacher told me that writers have names like Hyacynth upon reading a story I wrote when she'd only asked for a sentence.
And a seed was planted.
Growing up I defined myself first and foremost as a writer, and out of that definition I bloomed.
I drank words like greenery gulps rain; I feasted on sentences like the garden does sunshine.
None of that changed when I married or when I birthed my boys.
None of that except my heart.
Motherhood grabbed me by the shoulders and gave me a new name: mommy.
A name given by the two little pieces of my heart that now walk around beating outside of my body.
And in that name of mother, I discovered another identity, too -- one seen clearly in the reflection of motherhood: daughter.
Beloved by my Creator and made to be a writer, yes, but a mother, yes, just as much in this season.
And so goes the tug of war on my heart, centered around who I am.
I am always daughter; I am always beloved.
But right now, I am very mother. And in motherhood, I feel writer slipping away from me.
Because writers, well,
should write books.
And submit pieces to magazines.
They should carve out a few hours per day to lay down stories into print.
Keep up their clips and skill and hone their art.
But where are the hours for that in motherhood?
Time? Yes, there is time to sneak a few thoughts onto paper, time to write a mini manifesto about why feeding spaghetti to the small ones on a stressful day never actually ends in waves of calm, time to pour out small gleaned moments into black on white.
And that's it.
That's all I'm willing to give it right now.
Because while I have to keep reminding myself that, yes, I will always be a writer and, yes, I will always be mother.
I will never be a mother in this season again.
And the most important story I'm writing right now is the one we live out everyday.
This piece was written live at Saturday's Creative Soul even during our Writing Circles. Want to sign up for a virtual one? Click here!