I have written a lot over the years but I’ve not written even more. I have a habit of throwing myself into a blog and working so hard on it that my voice looses authenticity. I focused so much on grammar that my words became distorted and heartless. I can’t even read most of what I wrote last year. Honestly it is boring. I was writing for someone else. An imaginary audience, a made up idea that I was going to somehow make money as a blogger. An audience that probably couldn’t even get through a full post without wondering what was happening to the passionate writer I once was.

As a writer, I don’t fit into a certain niche. Travel, food, or home design — I don’t know enough about those topics. Beauty products, fashion or technology; I don’t care enough to write about them every day. What I do know about is my life. My normal everyday (often filled with some type of chaos) life. And when I’m laying in bed at 3 am thinking about writing, the imaginary words are forming the stories of regular every day life.

The truth is though when I love blogging it’s because I am doing it for myself. That’s where this project is going to come in. Attempt number 45. This time I want to write for me and the nagging thoughts occupying my mind. Maybe I’ll write about my dinner menu for the week, maybe I’ll write about the newest project I’ve completed around the house. I’ll probably just write about the aggravation my two teenagers cause and how challenging it is to get them on the right track.

My goal with this project is that I just write. A day-to-day diary. To serve as an outlet and progress tracker. I’m not going to try to impress anyone. I’m not going to try and be someone I’m not.

I’m not a super writer but I enjoy writing. I’m not an all-star chef but I get pleasure out of cooking. I’m not an interior designer or a crafty person but I love working on my home. I’m not an outstanding mother but I do the best I can. My life isn’t all that interesting and I’m not anyone special — not any more than the woman in front of me at the supermarket. I carried that idea around in my head long enough. Accepting that I am just a regular lady and letting go of the idea I was destined to be something great has given me some sort of relief.

I’ll just be me.

I’m a mother of three and I’m tired. I’m happy but constantly worried. I am a peacemaker and a referee. I try hard to make everyone happy, especially my family and usually at the expense of my sanity. I’m working on that though. I have many flaws and a ton of guilt but I also have a lot of hope and ton of faith.


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