I am not a writer.
I don’t weave my words with eloquence, I don’t use 10 dollar words.
I can’t say something without really saying it.
I am just not a writer.
I have wanted to be one. I have pretended it was my passion. I have come to this space over and over and over again trying to find my voice…through writing.
I have forgotten that I have a voice that I used to use all the time.
When I was in college I spent hours upon hours playing my guitar. I would sing the words others put to music, entertain my friends and even write my own songs.
It was my outlet. It was my passion.
Fast forward many years, a marriage and 5 children later and I barely remember who that girl was.
Who was that girl that could pick up her guitar at any moment and crank out a song? Where did that girl go who would write her feelings into beautiful poetry set to the music in her head? Who was that girl with such dreams that she thought she could go to Nashville and be the next Faith Hill?
She is still here – buried deep inside this woman who has responsibilities, children that need and love her, and a home to keep.
The songs she sings are no longer about unrequited love, the desire for freedom, or wondering where her life is going to take her.
Now she sings silly songs to get her children to clean, lullabyes to soothe them to sleep and loving ballads to ease their tears.
She is here – itching to get out.
And I think it’s time I let her.
But I guess I am a writer in my own way and it is time I honored that part of myself.