There’s a huge blank in my life, wherein I ceased to be much else, other than Mom. At the time, those days felt like forever, the seconds of my days ticking away with joy and exhaustion, in the alternate reality I was sure was to be my permanent universe. 

This conundrum is a privilege, of course, made more privileged because it was my choice. My experience with motherhood before becoming a mother myself was a mom whose work was me, my siblings, our home. It was an experience I cherished and therefore wanted to recreate for my own children. My husband, recognizing the decision as mine, supported me as I processed and ultimately chose to leave my career in NPO’s and communications and stay home with our daughter. 

Being surprised into motherhood, and therefore surprised into the end of my very novice career, I was aware of what I was giving up, probably more so than I was aware of what I was getting in return. I decided on the name Mom but I still struggled with a loss of identity, even feelings of guilt for trying to be or wanting to be anything other than that. It was the beginning of the blog boom, and suddenly, where I was once a side-hustlin’ freelancer, I was now a gigging writer. It served many purposes, because not only was I able to process in a medium that means something to me, writing for digital magazines and blogging peers gave me a greater sense of Who I Am. I was Mom and a I was a Writer.