So here I am. One year later. At my computer — searching for the words.
So much has happened. So much has changed.
Last year when I first started my blog, I wrote about my husband and kids, my mom & dad and their level of crazy…and stories of parenthood, old flames, new friends, hard times, and love…lots about love. I wrote daily, grew a little following, and really came to love my blog. Until I didn’t.
My stories were super personal. I wrote about my survival of abuse in my 20s. I wrote about all the lessons learned during my years of dating, running away from love, and finally, finding love and marrying at 34-years old. I wrote about my miscarriages and overcoming that hurt. And my three blessings…two boys and a girl, that I love more than life itself. And yes, I even wrote about the times I wanted to run from them, from my husband, and just hide away somewhere, and be the girl I used to be with dreams of living in New York and singing on Broadway.
It was real. It was raw. And it hit a nerve — my family didn’t think I should be sharing such personal information about myself and my life. They didn’t think anyone needed to know my business. And while I disagreed with them, in the end, I deleted my blog and all 147 stories.
Now, exactly one year later, I’m drawn to the empty page again. It’s like a calling that I can’t explain. I need to write. I need to get these feelings out or I’ll explode. Or implode? I don’t know but I know something is definitely gonna happen if I don’t start writing again.
So here I am. Back again. I’m not sure what the 2nd time around will bring. But I look forward to the journey.