When I grow up.

Jill Smokler reflected on her blogging career in her article,
“How Blogging Has Changed Since 2008”, that:

“Then: You started a free blog on Blogger and hit publish. Now: You pay for a url. You pay… You curse Facebook for not showing your blog to enough people. You pay for wine because, dammit, you need a drink… You pay your therapist to talk about the stress…”

Jill, I can relate except I’m not getting courted by celebrities or treated to a book tour.


I started my blog back when I was pregnant with my eldest, Nora, and it’s gone through a few incantations but I’ve tried to be consistent in maintaining it throughout the last six years. I’m not a well-followed blog and I try to remind myself that I write for the joy of the process and to create an active memoir of sorts for my kids. But, lately, I’ve lost sight of most of my convictions and hopes.

“That’s your depression talking… I hear a lot of depression seeping through.”

My therapist’s words echo in my mind after every negative self-doubt and inward incrimination. I run myself down all too often as of late.

No one cares what you have to say.
You’re a joke, an embarrassment, a failure. You’re nothing.
Your only accomplishment is being a mom. You’re just a “mom”.
You’re treated badly because that’s what you deserve.

But I can’t give in to the thoughts because I have to be a model for my kids of how to treat themselves and others. As much as I try not to, I’m guilty of comparing myself to other writers and mothers only to fall short. There is no perfect way of doing either successfully and, if there were, I would be a poor example.

So, like most unknown writers, I continue to do so knowing that very few read or care for my work. That I most likely will remain so the remainder of my life but it doesn’t stop me. Because, much like motherhood, I try to improve and I’m committed to what I’ve created out of love and unwavering commitment to them. There’s a compulsion to not surrender since the result is unthinkable.

But, when the depressive voice returns, it creeps back into my hearing unbidden like an overhead announcement in a crowded station. The messages hurt but I keep trying.

Thank you to those that follow my writing and much compassion and empathy to those that sojourn on despite the lack of accolades or appreciation. That includes the other moms out there as well. You’re never just anything and always the center of those little people’s world.

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