Ever since I was a teenager, I dreamed of being a writer. Published. Books in the store, on the library shelf.
Four years ago, my dreams came true, and I not only fell in love and got married, but I moved to a foreign country and didn’t have to work. I could finally write full time.
Now, as we get ready to return to the US, I have almost nothing to show for it.
That weighs heavy on me. Not simply because I had my dream and did nothing with it, but because I had the dream that so many other people have and did nothing with it. I not only feel disappointed in myself, I feel ashamed. I feel like I wasted this dream, a dream that others would have killed to have realized.
I wish I could say new dreams have replaced old ones, but that’s not the case. In fact, I feel almost as if I have no dreams anymore.
I’ve been suffering a bit of an identity crisis lately. I often feel like I don’t know who I am anymore, and I have these random moments where I stop and think, “Who am I?” A lot of it has to do with being a mom now. I was stuffing Baby J into his outerware the other day and really had this “This is me?!” moment. It’s made more difficult because I don’t really feel like I’ve been “ME” in quite a while, so when I have these “Who am I?” moments, and I think back to who I was before, it’s a very distant memory.
I’m struggling to find myself again, and I hope that in doing so, I’ll find that spark of creativity I used to have, and the drive to do something with it.