It’s dark here, as the light of the moon casts shadows over the bed.
Toddler breathing and cat purrs form the soundtrack for this particular scene of my life.
It’s a nightly occurrence, the glow of the moon through white cotton curtains, the steady breath of my beautiful boy, and the contented purrs of a cat beside me.
The clock ticks, warning me of the dangerous hour it is approaching and my impending duties of mommy in the morning that will be made so much harder if I don’t surrender to sleep.
But it is here, always here, that my mind becomes alive.
I remember my past, present and future as they all intertwine into a current conversation lulling me away from rest and restoration and into questionings and ponderings.
Sometimes, I revel in this time. This time of me. Sometimes, I dread it. Often, I feel alone.
One night, in this time of me, I stumbled upon a blog. I read posts by a woman who had struggled with her birth experience. For the very first time, I knew I wasn’t the only woman who felt this way.
I spent that night, and many more, pouring over her words and allowing tears to stream down my face as I motionlessly jumped up and down and silently screamed, “I am not alone.”
So I started writing. Writing thoughts more composed than just scribbles in notebooks or notes in the memo section of my phone. I started putting thoughts on paper and screen instead of just narrating them in my mind. I started to open my heart to the vulnerability and bravery that comes with hitting the publish button.
Sometimes, I write stories about my son. I try to capture memories that I want to hold on to forever. I would like for my son to read those one day. I hope they will mean as much to him as they do to me.
But mostly, I write to sort out the collisions of past, present and future that occur at my most fragile time; when I am in the midst of myself.
One day, maybe someone will read these words and they will mean something to them. Maybe one day I will understand them all myself.
And so I write for my vulnerability, my process of grief and self discovery, and my hope that one day these words resonate with someone so that they might say, “I am not alone.”
I started writing to find myself. I continue writing to find you.