Me & Writing Through the Years - 11/2/21
During the early years of parenting, I dabbled with writing. I wrote a few poems that were published and many more that weren’t. But that was okay because I had a few other things to preoccupy my time … say about 6 more – my kids.
In short succession, I found myself being the mother of six children. This was simultaneously miraculous and hilarious because for the longest time, I had been told I wouldn’t have any. Hint, hint – this will be a future blog post.
As you can imagine…or not, perhaps … time for writing was elusive. It was done either in the wee hours of the night when I couldn’t sleep or not at all. Mostly not at all. And, a lot of times, I only wrote when inspired. You can imagine how often that was when your brain is fried from caretaking. I wrote a lot of poetry because it was quick and easy. At some point in time, I discovered a love for the art form of haiku, which is still my favorite type of poetry today. Listmaking was another type of writing I did.
As my children grew, I began thinking about returning to the workforce and soon started wracking my brain about options. I knew journalism as I had known it was not an option. I needed something with a flexible schedule … and a very understanding boss … to accommodate my role as firefighter for the fires a gaggle of kids ages 2 to 9 could start.
I managed to find a part-time position with a nonprofit organization that offered a fairly flexible schedule. Unfortunately, there was hardly any writing involved with this job except to write thank-you letters to donors etc. I used what I could from my experience and after a year, I moved on to another nonprofit agency for which I became the executive director.
In that position, I wrote a lot – grants, donor letters, fundraising campaigns, and newsletters. I especially enjoyed writing the newsletters because it took me back to my newspaper days. I felt in the zone – helping people while using my talents and abilities. I worked there for nearly a decade and loved nearly every minute of it.
Writing re-entered my life in a new way when I decided to return to school to become a mental health counselor. Much of the writing I did was self-reflection pieces and I discovered so much about myself and my ability to write. Writing became more than a means to information. It became a portal to myself and things I thought I had healed.
I also learned that writing was actually recognized as a particular therapeutic approach. I had always known how cathartic writing was, but to have it validated and used by mental health professionals took that knowledge to a new level.
Writing continued to play a large role in my life as I began my career as a counselor. Creating progress notes, evaluation letters and an industry article about mental health were some of the ways I engaged in writing. Yet, I was thirsty to do more with my writing. An idea to create a meditation book for trauma survivors began percolating in graduate school, but I had yet to actually flesh it out on paper. Long days in the office and on the road kept the muse away.
The idea kept gnawing at me, so I finally gave in and drafted an outline. Then, I put it away for several weeks at a time. When inspired, I would write one or two entries. This lackadaisical attitude toward writing continued until two things occurred – a client death and COVID.
Early 2020, something occurred that every counselor will eventually experience if they’re in the field long enough – the death of a client. The client – and from this point on, I will use the pronoun they for privacy reasons – was someone who had led a colorful life, one that could be made into a blockbuster movie. They had been through a lot and had made significant progress prior to their sudden death. They were motivated and just a pleasure to be around. I was privileged to serve them. I still grieve the loss.
Then, the COVID-19 Pandemic happened. Feeling like a real-life character in a horror movie was beyond surreal. It seemed more urgent not to put off things I had wanted to do such as write a book. I was cooped up at home for most of this period so what better time to write. Or so I thought.
Two incidents of loss occurring nearly simultaneously kept me from writing. I felt like I was back in 2013-2014, a nearly two-year period of my life when I experienced back-to-back losses. I was numb for much of that time and just went through the motions of living. Regarding the pandemic, I gained little consolation from the fact that 7.5 billion people were also going through the same thing. To me though, my grief felt unique and raw. The numbness settled in.
As time wore on, I was able to ground myself to a safe place where I could reflect. The client’s death plus the tragedy of COVID drove home the fact that life is unpredictable and short. There’s nothing like grief to make you further appreciate what you have and reevaluate what you want to do next. And that was to finish my book. I had to grapple with the whys of me not finishing the book I had started and the answer that came back to me repeatedly was fear. Fear of failure, fear of judgement, fear of disappointment. I was battling voices in my head that told me I couldn’t do it and if I did, what I’d write would be trash.
Counselor, heal thyself.
So, applying the tools I use for my clients, I set about changing my mindset. Yes, I definitely fear the what ifs but what about the flipside? What if I flew? What if I not only did that but soared? So what if I failed? That’s happened so many times before and yet … I am still here.
I spent much of the pandemic digging deep and writing about what scared me. A lot of it wound up in the book that’s being produced now, Be Still and Be Bold.
None of this occurred overnight. It took me many, many times of walking to the edge of the cliff and looking down, staring fear, failure, doubt, anxiety and feelings of unworthiness right in the face. Then, one day, I jumped.
I am still here. So, now that you know a little bit about me and my writing journey, it’s time to start the real work.
Write & Rise, my friends.
