I’m lost. I’ve spent this year trying to reposition my future and navigate the present. I have tried new things, met new people, considered a million and one possible permutations of the next 30 years. I remain astray.
I’ve always had a goal to strive for. I had one non-negotiable role.
Motherhood was at the centre of all my plans. It was a reason to do better and the motivation to persevere. I worked so hard on building a safe, comfortable nest. I fixed all the parts of me that could be corrected. Found a way to accept the parts that couldn’t. I believed I had a purpose.
I wanted children powerfully enough to force myself into viability. When it became clear that it wasn’t going to happen, I was destroyed. I knew I’d have to fight hard to create some other life. I was aware it would be painful, but I really did believe I could lay a new path.
Life’s been a fucking journey so far, but I somehow eventually arrived at ok. I thought I could do it again. I told myself I needed time to grieve, to heal, to process.
Then I decided I must push a little. Or a lot. Get to the next step professionally. Say yes to things that scare me. Date fun people, keep an open mind, pay attention to what makes me feel good. If I keep moving, I’ll stumble upon my new direction, right? Wrong.
Eleven months of forcing myself to breath. Smiling, rascalling, writing, resting, networking, researching, grabbing hold of anything that sparks any kind of anything. Honestly, it is getting harder. There is no deeper meaning to my efforts. I’m proud of work success. I am grateful for all my gorgeous people. I have love and opportunity. My life is mostly in colour. It’s just very hard to keep the grey from seeping in. Even harder to convince myself it adds up to a reason for being.
I’m hollow with zero ideas of what I should be full of. I’m still at the reminding myself of reality stage. Checking myself daily. I don’t need to remember that gorgeous Swedish name because I won’t be naming anyone. Reading that piece on delayed cord cutting is futile. I should get rid of the paint for the spare room. Forget all my child rearing dreams and schemes. Thinking of this stuff only causes pain, but I have nothing to replace it with.
I don’t know what to do. I’m not entirely sure I even know who I am anymore. One day at a time is good and well temporarily. It does not hold up as a long-term protocol. When everyone else takes their children home there must be something that makes my life feel significant. I need a reason. I need more.
