The Cleaning can wait, Mama...
/Monday March 25th
I read a quote the other day by Clarissa Pinkola Estés about how if we prioritize cleaning up our homes over sitting down to write, we will never actually end up writing… because there will always be cleaning to be done… ooof. Reading her words was an emotional punch to my gut. A wake-up call.
Cleaning had become my drug of choice… a subconscious way to stay busy, to feel like I was making progress, but really it was a way to avoid the more important work. I would sweep my anxiety and my pain under the rug, while vacuuming up life’s meaningless crumbs that had collected on the surface instead. My cleaning disguised itself as a feeling of being in control during times when my life felt fully out of control. My brain despises clutter. My brain likes things neat and orderly. My brain also likes checking off the to-do list. I have always put the cleaning first.
Sure my house is clean, but what about my aching soul? What about my feelings under the surface longing to be felt.
I’m a 34-year-old woman who has spent what feels like a life-time neglecting herself, neglecting her passions, neglecting what truly lights her up and sets her soul on fire!
I’ve been on a long journey of learning how to not only notice and acknowledge my needs, but to listen to them, to tend to them, to actually honor them.
I spent years and years meeting everyone else’s needs all while ignoring my own. In January of 2020, after a brutal soul crushing 30th birthday filled with a beyond heartbreaking experience, I finally chose myself. Ignoring myself and my pain was no longer an option anymore.
I finally made a choice to put my needs at the forefront, while gently reminding myself that it wasn’t a selfish thing to do. (Despite years of conditioning telling me otherwise.) And although I’m very proud of the many bold changes I’ve made in my life by finally choosing myself, I still have so much work to do. I still haven’t yet learned the art of making time and space for my writing.
That changes today. (Chills all over my body as I declare that truth!)
And so here I am, in devotion to myself and my dreams. There’s years worth of pain, heartache, love, joy, and beauty that’s been dancing around in my mind, eagerly awaiting the chance to be poured out into the world.
There’s books to be written, stories to be told, songs to be sung.
As I sit here on my couch sharing my heart with you all, there’s a half-folded pile of laundry by my side... a sink full of dishes from our family of five’s breakfast feast and morning rush…and my six-month-old baby, Willow, is sleeping soundly in our bedroom….
I would typically use her nap time to get caught up on the house. I would be ferociously scrubbing a counter down right now… and not in a slow, present, mindful kind of way, but in a hurried and irritated kind of way. Cleaning filled with resentment. Resentment because I had more important things I really wanted to get to… and every morning, by the time I’d almost be done cleaning… so close to my writing that I could taste it… my sweet baby would wake and start cooing from the other room.
My heart would sink a little with each wake up. Not because I had to go tend to my beautiful baby girl, but because I didn’t get to what really lit me up while she slept. I, again, let the chance of writing pass me by. Another day passed. Another opportunity missed.
I am so beyond needed at this phase in my life. My days are full to the brim. I’ve got three children depending on me. There’s laundry to be folded, meals to be made, appointments to be scheduled, a home to be kept. But I refuse to get stuck in the victimhood of it all. I refuse to be another burnt out mama. I refuse to spend my energy venting and complaining about how hard this is.
Yes, it’s hard.
It’s hard AND it’s an opportunity to grow.
It’s hard AND it’s beautiful.
It’s hard AND it’s my life’s work.
It’s hard AND it’s a continual work in progress.
It’s hard AND we don’t have to get stuck in the hardness.
It’s hard AND we can do it.
We can soften. We can learn to bring joy in, we can learn to choose ourselves, we can embody the woman and mama we long to be… we can choose to bring play in, to bring beauty in. We can dig deep and do the hard work. That’s what it’s all about, after all, isn’t it?
All I know is that time is precious… and at any given moment we have a choice.
Today I choose to write. I will no longer be putting my heart’s desire on the backburner.
I will write.
I will write for my seven year old self whose father was shot and murdered. For the little girl whose innocence was taken from her far too young.
For my thirteen year old self who felt so very alone in her grieving process. Who saw other father-daughter relationships and longed for a love like that. A girl who had anger roaring within her, but heard time and time again that she was too much, so she stuffed it down instead.
For my eighteen year old self who got wrapped up in a passionate yet dysfunctional relationship, and lost touch with her inner compass, her truth within.
For my twenty seven year old self who was shook by her initiation into motherhood… when the years worth of pain she had buried came pouring out of her being in the form of rage.
For my thirty year old self who googled “where is the quickest and least painful place to shoot yourself”… learning that through the roof of my mouth into my brain would be the way. Desperate for a quick escape from the pain I was stuck in.
For my current thirty four year old self who is now free from that dark and heavy place. Who knows now how to befriend her pain, how to FEEL her pain. Who is whole heartedly in touch with herself, her love, her joy, and is fully lit up to be alive.
I will write. In hopes that there is someone out there who can relate with my pain, who has stories just like mine … who will feel less alone in their heartache ... who will read my words and breathe a deep sigh of relief… who will feel the warm loving hug that I am sending out into the world.
I want my words to feel like a healing balm for someone who is in the midst of their own pain and sorrow. I want my words to inspire women to finally choose themselves. I want my words to shake you to your core… to remind you of your true essence, your brilliance, and your worth!
I will not lie on my death bed wishing I wrote more… wishing I had prioritized my love of writing and sharing my heart with the world.
And so here I am. Writing. And it’s only the beginning…
Every fiber of my being is lit up and buzzing right now.
I’m scared shitless, but I’m doing it.
I’m going to do it scared.
I’m going to do it even though there’s a million others out there doing it.
I’m going to write.
It won’t be perfect, but it will be real. It will be mine.
And by sharing my story and my heart with you, maybe it will inspire you to tell yours.
Together we will heal. Together we will grow. Together we will change the world.
Hello March twenty fifth, the day I finally chose to write instead of clean. I love you, I love you, I love you.
And I guess I’ll go clean up my house now… but in a mindful, present, grateful kind-a-way… cleaning with a smile on my face… while blasting some Shania Twain, singing my heart out.
Please share my work if you feel called to, and please subscribe if you’re excited to hear more!
Oh, and a heartfelt thank you to Clarissa Pinkola Etés for helping me to make a different choice for myself today: