I’ve always wanted to be a writer. From my days of Author of the Week to studying Shakespeare in England, I’ve dreamed of pouring over a typewriter, letting words flow onto paper, seeing my thoughts affect another person. Staying home with the kids right now, it seems I have a chance yet being the matriarch who keeps the family standing tall may be more important than fulfilling my dream. It’s a humbling conclusion to give up something so non-negotiable in my soul for another more encompassing and greater priority. Children are the future and a strong family keeps us all on the path for betterment. It is better to be selfless than selfish but I feel I am giving up myself at times, prepping dinner rather than hiding with my words. Writing is vying for my time right along with my children. They always win because the duty of a mother will always triumph in my mind. My mother was there, hindsight says I watched her go a little crazy, but she was always there for my sister and me so I spend my time trying to find the balance between a mother’s duty to her children and the duty of a mother to herself. One cannot lead others to health when she herself is not healthy. Yet when the children call, I come. There has to be a sometime that I let them be on the side so I can prop myself up on a stand with feather, inkwell and paper. Not oblivious but decidedly choosing not to do anything about the discord around me. Shoulda, woulda, coulda, sometimes even I have to say my time is now. How am I ever going to make it without first making the time for it? I fear I will let it slip by me, I fear I will procrastinate too long, I fear I will let everyone one else’s needs come before mine. I fear I will let myself down. Not allowing myself to be someone I want to be. I want to write, I want to read, I want to play. If I consistently do everything else for everyone else, I will be nothing but a shell of a person. Nothing inside, just filler. Filled with someone else’s desires.
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