A Cologuard box sits on my bathroom counter, waiting for my body to end its strike so I can complete the test. I’m scheduled for a mammogram in a few weeks. I’ve recently run through a bunch of tests—a complete physical—where I’ve been deemed overall healthy. Even got a “keep it up!” about my cardiovascular health.
But I’m on blood pressure meds, despite a lifetime of running chill (low blood pressure), and I’ve started antidepressants to help with the extreme perimenopause symptoms that are trying to drive me insane (note: it’s working). Oh, and I just finished a pretty heavy dose of antibiotics for a bacterial infection I didn’t know I had (but no doubt was part of my low, low energy issues). And I’m slightly anemic. But otherwise, I’m healthy.
And old…er.
Gone are the days of the shiny new internet and all the wonders of being a first in many places, being a top 101 website for writers (it’s true—The Writing Parent made that Writer’s Digest list a few times!), and the knowing that I could get published if I only just sat and wrote words. And I did. I wrote so many and I racked up those credits. Nothing huge, really, but it was enough to help me stay home with my babies and keep being a writing parent.
During that time, I helped many writers find time to write with their littles underfoot, and so many started achieving their dreams and goals. But I was slowly burning out in the background, still living in an unhealed version of myself; pent-up anger that I wasn’t even aware of was growing and growing, and then…I just burned it all down.
My regret was deep but I did little to correct the matter. Soon, the domain name was owned by a “squatter” who offered to sell it back to me for a lot of money, and I declined and moved on. A lot of life happened. More attempted returns to writing as a career. I even indie published my memoir. But at no point did I ever get SERIOUS serious. I just talked about being serious, dabbling here and there, making a million notes that went nowhere. I was always wrapped up in something else, a different career or the lie that I didn’t want it.
Then I turned 50. The young mama who started The Writing Parent back in 1999 is now almost 51 taking middle-aged lady medical tests. With 11 grandchildren. Ummm…what even happened??? Anyway, I really started doing that thing where we look back at our lives and wonder. I don’t have parental regrets, but I am sad about the time I lost not doing the things I love to do.
Now I have all the time I need to write (mostly) but I have realized my writing parent problem has shifted—now I am in full censoring mode. Those tiny humans are grown, and they can read. Even though they have read my memoir and know lots and lots of everything, it still is…different? Weird? I don’t know.
It’s one of the topics I plan to explore on this site and in our podcast. Yup, a podcast!
The Writing Parent is back and here to explore some of the same topics from back then for writing parents who are currently navigating the chapters of life with littles, but also to explore life with grown-up kids, successes and failures, and even (hopefully) an update with some of the writing parents who used to write for and/or read The Writing Parent between 1999 and 2006.
Right alongside, I am re-launching my own writing career and will be sharing the journey from this side of life.
Who’s ready?
