Claim your miracle. Give thanks for something you yearn for that you have not received yet. Imagine how it will feel to have this dream, goal, miracle happen and write your gratitude as if you have already received it. Put it into words before it comes to life. This is about believing in your miracle and writing it into existence.
We sat in the car in silence until she broke it with five words. Is that how you feel? My mother admitted to me she read my journal, the book in which I held secrets and hidden frustrations, resentment and all the things I wish I could say. I felt betrayed. Our bond was broken.
I stopped writing.
I wanted to write again – I started a blog. Uncertain of the direction I want to go, it was a mixture of Mommyhood and fashion, poetry pieces and pop-culture posts. It was an everyday thing, then a few times a week, to here and there during the month. I couldn’t find my niche. I thought the writing would help me find myself but the words on the screen really alluded to a girl lost with no guidance and no voice.
I stopped writing.
I came back and wrote with authority. Wrote freely and wrote the real. In the time away, I let life do with me as it willed and I said I’d come back and write it all – even if it hurt to recall the moments that made me cringe, made me break, made me form into a ball in the corner of my apartment with my kids hovering over me in wonder. I had to get it out. I had to document the lessons learned and I found that there were women who were in the midst of those same dilemmas, caught in the crossfire of who you are now and who you’re meant to be, too. They needed those stories. They related to those words. We – me and the women who read the blog – were freed from our struggles, our troubles, our worries and heartbreak, together.
I kept writing.
There’s a book with my name on it sitting in a bookstore. My children recognize me without looking up at me when we enter through the door and they smile. That’s what I always wanted to see most – that look on their face, the expression of pride in their mom, the head nod of approval of job well done, Mommy. Those nights I sat in the living room alone, the sound of the keyboard and the t-t-t-t that ran across my fingers, the creation of a beautiful song, typing words with my eyes closed sometimes and unwritten stories manifesting itself through tears – they understand what it all meant now. They don’t read the book, as they were there to see and hear it all firsthand, but yes, they are proud.
I run my fingers through the pages and I read my own story as if it were the first time, in the corner of a Barnes & Noble like I did as a teenager in the non-fiction section. The blog is still up, fifteen years and counting, but all I ever wanted was in that book… and it started from the journal that was read by my mother all those years ago.
All I know is writing.