I’m a freelancer. I’m free.
I have spent my whole life trying to find time to write. To write well, to write honestly, to write for myself.
Not for distracted social media or with someone else’s voice. To write to express myself, to see in black and white that I exist and have thoughts. Yet, it was never the right moment: there was always some work to finish or something more important to do. I could write not even during the pandemic, trapped in a house besieged by Covid.
Then, a few days ago, while reading a book about news content design, I thought I couldn’t chase a dream my whole life, hoping that someone would eventually give me the time to realize it.
I’m 43 years old, raised two children, and struggled for a freelance job that allows me to be independent, but I don’t have time anymore. I no longer have time to give to others; I no longer have time to sell to clients; I no longer have time to mortgage for a hypothetical future.
I take my time. My future is today.
Creating a habit is difficult, but learning to give a suitable space for oneself — after a lifetime of thinking about others’ needs — is perhaps even more challenging. So, I don’t know if I can keep my resolution and write regularly on this blog. But somewhere, I have to start.
And I start from here today.
What will I write about? I still don’t know. About what I like, what I read, what happens, about my world. Maybe they will be interesting stories, tales of distant countries; maybe they will be just black marks on a white sheet, small anchors thrown into still waters, as negligible to the reader as fundamental to me.
If you are curious to know if I can keep this commitment to myself, keep following me. If, instead, you decide to abandon this blog, have a good journey. Thank you for accompanying me until the end of this text. Now, you are free.
Just like me.
