Friends. It is 2026. I am 44 years old.
It has been a long time.
Five minutes ago I was lying on my bed, with my thirteen (THIRTEEN) year old baby girl nuzzling against my shoulder watching game shows on my bedroom TV because I forgot to sign into an streaming services. I had a notebook open next to me as well as a book of writing exercises that I kept opening and closing. Nothing felt right. Nothing spoke to me or inspired me.
I was certain that I was out of words. That there was nothing left in me that had any meaning.
My girls are big now, teens, with their own lives and worlds. My little one told her therapist the other day "Sometimes I like my friends more than i like my parents. Sorry mom." And I said, no, baby, you're thirteen. You're supposed to. That's the way it's supposed to be.
I'm 44. I don't know how that's supposed to be.
I'm a teacher, and I've always been a teacher, through all those years when I was "just a mom." But here I am now with two girls who don't need me all the time, who are busy with their own worlds, and I always thought that when I was ready I would step back into the classroom without skipping a beat.
It's been years that I've been trying.
I apply for contract jobs and they hire 22 year olds.
I'm feeling like the world doesn't have much use left for me.
So I'm lying on my bed, snuggling my teenage baby girl, and searching my library webpage for books on writer's block, for books on how to get unstuck, for books on how to find my words when I don't believe I have any anymore.
The only way out is through, friends. The only way to write is to write.
I'd forgotten.
So hello, old friends. I missed you. I know I'm probably speaking and writing into a void right now, I know there's probably no one listening anymore, but I'm not certain that that matters.
I don't know where next is. I don't know who there is left for me to be. But I think this is the only place I'll start to find it.
