Writing, they say is a good release; a great form of expressing your thoughts but writing also leaves behind a trail and makes you vulnerable to the world before you.
As a child, I remember obsessing over notebooks and diaries and writing out my thoughts in them only to rip out the pages and tear them into miniscule pieces to be tossed into the trash, never to be delved up and made whole again; for fear of them landing into the hands of someone who wouldn’t understand.
As a teenager, I did the same when it came to my personal life but poured a solid 3 years of my life as an undergraduate and graduate student writing for my universities newspaper. Being able to express myself in written form was always something I craved but the fear of being judged never allowed me to do anything with my writings…yet I wrote…
As a young adult, with the increasing advent of technology being at our beck and call, I constantly wrote, sending my words as emails only to myself; saving them behind sacred usernames and passwords and creating an indelible link into the mirage of thoughts and ideas and feelings that encompassed who I was and the life I lived and the ideas and notions and observations that became apparent to me; as I found myself in this beautiful realm we call life.
As a wife, I navigated hallmark aisles and read the flowery words written by someone else but how could they ever convey my thoughts if not written by myself and I found myself attracted to the plain cards which left much space for my own words.
And as a mother…I have filled memory boxes for each of my children with notes about their quirky selves and stories of their births which have undoubtedly carved me into the woman I am today. Each of them have helped to shape and mold me in much the way that I dare to try to shape their beautiful beings.
As a daughter, sister and friend; I cherish hand written cards and save them all.
This is my story, welcome to it.