One Thing I Regretted About Writing
I should have never stopped
As I sip my black coffee while sitting under the water apple tree and feeling the gentle breeze of the morning, (thanks to the rain last night), I think about what I want to achieve in 5 years.
It’s like asking myself, “What am I going to do at 40?”
Then I answered, “Surely, I am just writing.” Marco will be 18 and Solielle will be 6 — maybe I’ll be able to have a lot of time for myself, right? I could sit and write for hours and hours and hit publish after a day, right?
Tell me, I am right. Right?
I realized I had never been under a time constraint after I had Solielle (my second born). Every day I feel like I need to hurry about everything, thinking I must be there for her all the time.
And to be honest, this kind of pressure I’m putting on myself, wore me out more than it needs to be.
For the first 6 months, I couldn’t feel the joy of parenting. I know that sounds selfish, but that’s how I truly felt. All I knew was the obligation and expectations to be a perfect mom.
After all, I had her in my 30s, she was right on time. Her Dad and I were financially and emotionally ready, or so we thought.
I am getting mad day by day. I was annoyed with everyone. Even for nonsensical reasons, I was always ready to start a war.
And the worst? I felt alone. But I wasn’t. I had helped with my family and my partner did his part. Just why am I losing myself? I needed someplace to shout.
But none. There’s no place for that.
So I bought books. A lot of them. I thought reading should help, after all, it’s my escape. But no. Just another pile of unread books and added clutter on my desk.
Then let’s opt for the last remedy, WRITE.
Oh. yeah, — made me think, when was the last time I wrote for myself?
I checked my writing profiles and realized it was before my 30th birthday.
That was freaking 5 years ago!
(Don’t get me wrong, I wrote love poems and other prose about life, but they weren’t for myself)
So, I reflected on why I stopped writing when it used to be my only outlet. When it was the only tool for me to process my emotions and embrace the confusion, fears, and uncertainty I felt about life.
Then I found the answer. I was ashamed.
I was so ashamed to write my truth. Because when you write for yourself, you should be honest with how you feel, or else there’s no point in doing it.
I was ashamed to write about my failures and my regrets.
And I was also afraid to dig deeper and see those monsters I tried to bury. Like they were there, waiting to devour me once again.
I was ashamed to write about myself and see how I messed up my life.
And while I was caught by all the chaos, years passed by. I didn’t write, I didn’t bother to ask where I was in the process.
And now, this is my regret.
I was stuck.
If only I continued writing even when it was uncomfortable.
If only I was brave enough to write everything.
If only I focus on getting better at writing my thoughts.
I should have been 35 steps away from where I am right now.
How I regretted those times that I wasted worrying about other people’s opinions about me.
How I regretted not writing when I had all the time in the world.
Isn’t it a tragedy that I write for my clients for 4 years but don’t write for myself and my brand?
