I’m going to write more. I’m going to write in here, and in the notes app on my phone and in the old abandoned Word documents in the caverns of my files.
I am going to worry less about editing perfection and more about telling the truth.
This is an experiment of sorts.
I am going to write and I am going to exercise and I am going to eat enough and I am going to chase away the guilty teeth that gnaw my stomach lining when I do these things. I am going to touch things with my bare hands and fill my lungs up to the brim. And because I do these things, I will be happier and clearer and better able to give the way I want to.
That’s the plan.
I am going to write the good. My husband and my boys and my girls and my gingham curtains. The family and the garden and my professional things and my Bible study and my people. The silly and the delicious, the soaring and the snuggly, the warm and the soft.
I am going to write the bad, or the not-so-good. My insecurities and sadnesses and side eyes. The pressure and the guilt and the falling-shorts; the bugs and the sweat and the crying over spilt milk.
I’m going to write the ugly. I want to say “I’ll try” here, but I’m just going to do it. I’m going to write the lumps in my throat, like what happened when the doctors took the twins away while I was in the operating room. The scar tissue, like my divorce. The leaks on my soul, like what it sounded like to hear my sister die.
My life is absolutely perfect, and sometimes I cry myself to sleep.
Coming soon: Here’s Why.