The Start

I have made a decision.

I will no longer assume the role of “passive, helpless, spectator” to my own life.

I have remained here for some time now, in a position of static observation, largely unmoving. It is almost as though I have subconsciously been assembling layers of eggshells, upon which I perched myself. But why?

Was it so I could have something to gesture to whenever I need a reason for my apathy? The longer I’ve stayed here, atop my bed of eggshells, I have become more and more comfortable. I learned how to accommodate their restrictions, the warnings they gave: ‘don’t do that’, ‘don’t move’, ‘just stay still’, ‘remain helpless’, ‘it’s safe here’.

But, is it safe here? As days, weeks, months go by, and I walk through life with perpetual trepidation, waiting to be rescued from my own choices… I sense that my body, mind, and soul yearn for more. My anxiety disorder built what it thought was a protective shield against the ever-present ‘scary’ dangers; but in place of a life fully lived, I’ve become more like the very shells I’ve learned to live upon.

One year.

I’m giving myself one year to become a writer.

And that means I will have to work at it every day, whether in a larger sense, or in the small windows of in-between mom life.

I am shifting myself off this mountain of tentativeness. As much as I’d love to take a sledgehammer to it all at once, I know in my heart it’s not realistic. My anxious brain slaved over this creation piece by piece for years, thinking it was safeguarding me. And maybe that’s what I needed to survive until now. But it is no longer serving me, and it needs to go.

So thank you, my protective brain, for getting us through the hardest times this way. I see why you thought it was necessary. It was as though you created a cocoon for us, so that we could hide, grieve, transform, and grow without being consumed by deeper traumas.

And it took me this long to truly see that, perhaps by design.

And now, I feel ready to take back control. I feel like I can reassume the driver’s position, if only in a transitional way for now. I am ready to make changes, to truly be in my own body and mind.

I’m ready to finally bet on myself, and put in the work required to do so.

I’m ready to pursue the dream I’ve had since I first learned to scribble words on paper. The deep rooted yearning I have felt since I picked up my first book as a young, curious child.

I want to be a writer.

One year.

Mark these words. I hope one-year-from-now Sondra will be smiling reading this.

This is for future me.

This is for Scott, who is my anchor in life.

This is for my kids, who deserve a mom who is her authentic self, who fights for who she knows she is meant to be.

And it is for me, right now, sitting here, knowing I am worth this.

One year. Let’s do this.