I’ve had a hard time coming up with material for this blog over the past (almost) year. I’m not sure why. Life feels very, very full . The twinkies turn five in two months. And acknowledging that fact, literally knocks the wind out of me. If only I could sink my fingernails deeper into our time together, I could hold on. I could keep it, own it, put it in my pocket forever. But I can’t. I think motherhood feels like your heart breaking in half at the same time it explodes with pride. I know this fact. I love them so so so, so much.

But that’s not why I haven’t been writing.

If I’m being honest, and I’ve alluded to this before, it’s been a challenging year for me. I changed jobs-something that was desperately needed-and I’ve taken proactive steps to take better care of myself. Not just my diabetes, or my physical health. My mental health. Something that I am self- conscious about. Something that I very easily let fall to the back of a very long and demanding line. It’s easy to see when you are physically unwell. The symptoms are visible, noticeable. When your mental state is sick, it’s trickier. It shows itself briefly throughout the day in unreasonable outbursts. In hours staring aimlessly out a window. Or in darker moments, all alone. People think it’s a “phase” or a “mood”. And frankly, it’s easy to pretend it’s nothing more than that. At some point I think I will be ready to write about the last year, to really be open about all that happened. But as I began to write it today, I see I am still far from ready.

Perhaps to start writing more, I need to start writing more. You know what I mean? Maybe forcing the words out of my body will serve as the catalyst I need to get back into the flow of things. I find myself wanting to write about the world, the political climate, where the fuck we are right now. But what can I say? I am gutted by this presidency. I am terrified, I mean wake-in-the-night terrified for my children’s future. For the planet. I feel helpless and weak and hopeless. I feel lost-with no direction as to where I should devote myself, what I should work on or care about. Because it’s all devastating. So perhaps that’s part of the writer’s block. And I know it’s a luxury, as I’ve said previously, to have writer’s block. I’m a white, middle class woman, and while he-who-shall-not-be-named feels comfortable grabbing my p#*%y without asking, he is not actively passing laws to undermine my rights. Not yet at least.

Of all the things floating around in my mind right now, perhaps what I’m struggling with most is figuring out who I am. Time has flown by in the last decade. I swear to god I turned 27 yesterday. And today I’m 34.

I feel a deep fulfillment as a mother. Making a healthy dinner, while drawing pictures and working on letters and cleaning up the house, makes me feel good about myself. I feel like I’m in the right place. Like I was made for this job. And yet, my heart yearns for more. Being a mother isn’t enough for me. I want a crack at it all. But hand to god, I have no idea how to have that. I am barely breathing-barely staying afloat as is. I am so profoundly exhausted at the end of the day that I could throw up. So right now, I’m wrestling with who I am at 34. What I want in the world, what I feel constitutes a well lived life. And at the same time, I’m gripping with all my might trying to hold on to my parents, my babies, my family, my friends, my speeding train life.

And that’s where my brain has been.