It’s one of those nights where if I don’t write now I’ll probably burst into a million letters and commas—and especially em dashes.
So often I feel like a writer without a home. Not without a literal home because we live in an adorable little rental (emphasis on the “little”) in my favorite part of town (hence the reason why we might not ever leave). As a writer though, I don’t always know where I best fit.
My writing floats throughout the internet searching for meaningful pages to land on and hopefully, for eyeballs to read it and hearts to connect with. I work with publications who print articles featuring my very own byline and clients who want some ghost writing with their names at the top—both of which enable me to type away and even earn a few bucks on the side. But it doesn’t always feel like mine. Then this blog, this space, is technically my own. But I can get caught up in who my audience is or which friend, family member, or potential client might misinterpret my spilled out thoughts or carefully crafted post. My inhibitions take over, and I quarantine my words and expressive phrases to my mind or perhaps a google doc.
Almost seven years ago when I first started this blog called Moving Peaces it was to document a potential cross-country move. “Moving” was obviously for the literal move at the time. Then “Peaces” was my ever-so-clever play on words while also giving a nod to a desire to live peacefully despite my fears of the unknowns. Now, I can’t imagine moving away from this house, let alone across state lines anytime soon. Instead my movement is small but constant as I chase around a toddler and tend to a newborn. And peace? Well sometimes it’s found in the mere moments when both kids are sleeping…before I remember I need to do more laundry or finally take a shower.
Some days I feel the thoughts rearranging into complete sentences or concepts in my head, but my hands are too full to type. Other days my mind feels so numb and tired that by the time I have the opportunity to write, nothing comes to mind. Yet if asked what I do for work or where my core creativity lies, my reply comes swiftly, “I’m a writer.”
Life is full of different seasons, and I try to live in the season I’m in at the moment. Sometimes seasons last a few months, while sometimes they last a few years. Right now I’m unmistakably in the season of littles. Little hearts, little hands, little (and big) messes. Which also means little time, little opportunity, and little energy left at the end of the day. At times, it feels like only a little bit of me as I wrestle with what I prioritize and what I let go of when facing my current limitations and obligations.
Writing is one of those things that feels so innate to me, yet in this season it also feels fleeting. As I strive toward a better understanding of where my writing belongs, I also have a few little hearts to care for—hearts belonging to littles, who belong to me. So perhaps I’m the writer currently in between assignments, or in a different season, or caught somewhere in between the lines. Yet somehow I know—deep in my bones—that one day this writing will find its proper home.
