I often joke about how tired I am.
About how I love my naps.
About how the dark under-eye circles are just my face now.
It’s funny because it’s true, and I know many can relate to those sentiments.
What I don’t share is the guilt I feel about being so freaking exhausted all the time.
Babies are squishy and adorable and endorphin-producing.
Babies are cuddly.
Young children are curious and enthusiastic and silly.
Young children are cuddly.
Tweens are often uncooperative and sharp-tongued and easily annoyed.
Tweens are NOT cuddly.
I am an empath raising an empath, and it’s hard.
This little guy feels all the feelings. He is hilarious and loud and energetic, and he is surprisingly sensitive. He is self-described as “emotionable”.
His eyes fill up with tears at moving moments in conversation or while listening to touching music.
He feels actual heartache for fictional characters in movies or books, sometimes to the point of crying.
I was in a store the other day when I saw this greeting card, and it grabbed my attention with a surprising intensity. It’s simple question, printed in a bold script font, felt incredibly powerful.
“What if?” it read.
What if you took the chance you have been too scared to take?
The past few nights I’ve been sitting down to write with some ideas in mind, but nothing happens.
Well, something happens. I freeze. Then I get sucked down the rabbit hole of Instagram Reels for an embarrassing amount of time. Then I freeze again. It’s incredibly frustrating.
The good news about this is that I think I have figured out why this is happening. I’ve realized that I put an enormous amount of pressure on myself to write something here that is inspiring or hilarious or profound. I feel like my posts need to be polished and perfect, and that my stories need to tie themselves up into little bows with some poignant life lesson. I feel this so much that when I sit down to actually write something, I pull back because I feel like my words won’t live up to my own expectations.