A Place to Start

Writing has never been my strong suit. In school, English was always my lowest grade. I would always turn in essays that I was proud of, or thought, “surely this time I will get a good grade,” only to be let down with pages scribbled with red notations. I learned to rely heavily on my mom’s stellar editing skills to keep my English grade close to my other subjects.

I love to talk though, and think through ideas with friends, so please bear with me as I set out on my journey to start blogging. I have always been intrigued by the idea, and follow plenty of girls on Instagram who have made their living doing just that. I have brainstormed ideas, even trying brand new hobbies to try to find something I could write about. However, I always end up losing interest or just feeling like I don’t have the time. I have always heard people say, “Find what you are passionate about, and make it your job, then work won’t feel like work.” Now for all of us out there who feel like they don’t have a hard and fast “passion” like making beautiful table scapes or testing millions of beauty products, this can be a defeating sentiment. What is wrong with me that I don’t know what my passion is?! I love problem solving, working with people and learning. All of these things have lead me to a career in Information Technology. I really do enjoy what I do, but to call writing code to monitor systems for anomalies my passion, seems silly. I just don’t feel that way.

The first time I think I truly felt a spark of “passion” or “purpose” was when I became a mother. Not in the ooey-gooey way a lot of women describe meeting their babies for the first time, because that wasn’t my story. I may write another day about the details of my first daughter, Genevieve’s birth, but not today. Long story short, we had a rough entry and the first time I held her, I ooed and awwed and snuggled her up, but my inside was screaming, “Who are you?!” I have since spoke with a few other women that experienced this. Something my mom has always told me is that “expectation - reality = disappointment”. Now, disappointment isn’t the correct term to use here, but the sentiment is the same. My expectations were that I would hold my daughter for the first time and instantly be flooded with Motherly instincts. Music would be playing in my ears and I would instantly fall in love. Reality came crashing in with exhaustion, frustration and fear. I knew I was holding a sweet angel baby that I would take care of so intentionally, but I felt no connection. That separation of my expectations and the reality of that day caused me to be really confused.

I still felt like me.

I still felt like the girl who barely felt old enough to be out of high school, even though I was 25. I still felt like a child myself, and that I would be calling my mom for everything. I didn’t feel like the know-it-all instinctual mom I thought I was going to be. However, in this space is where the feeling of being unprepared lead me to what I would now label as my passion. Becoming a new mom was work for me. I have been around lots of babies so it wasn’t difficulty in learning how to change a diaper or when it is ok to start giving them puréed foods. The work came in having expectations for myself. It came in giving myself grace. It came in tears the first and only time I have clipped my daughter’s finger nails because I got the end of her finger; she cried for less than a minute, while I cried for an hour. The work came in the first nights that she could sleep long enough that when I woke up it felt like I had concrete on my chest because I needed to pump so badly. The work came when I felt like I had poured out all I had, and more was still required.

Becoming a new mom is, without a doubt in my mind, the hardest thing I have ever done. When people say it is the most rewarding thing they are have ever done, it isn’t an exaggeration. I have done well in my career so far, getting promotions before the allotted time span you are supposed to have worked before getting them. I graduated Magna Cum Laude in three years from university when my college preparation courses and testing told me I would struggle through school and not be able to take a full course load. I have had many “measures of success”, but none of them compare to when your child says the word you have been working on for the past several months, or when they take their first step, or when they run to you because you are the only person they want.

That is purpose.

Being Genevieve’s mom has given me more passion than anything I have ever done. While I have more to say in my upcoming posts about many other things that have come into my life in more recent weeks, this is an important place to start. Being a mother, is my greatest calling, my greatest joy, and my greatest accomplishment.