The Writer

I was never one of those kids who knew what they wanted to be when they grew up. I wasn’t the girl who knew she wanted to be a doctor one day, strutting around in her kid-sized lab coat, a plastic stethoscope draped from her neck. Whether she actually became a doctor or not, there was a time in her life when she knew what she wanted to become. Not me.

One of my favorite childhood relics that my mom saved is my “Wishes and Future Plans” list from kindergarten. Word for word, this was my answer:

“I wish that I had a lamb. I wish that I was a flower girl. I wish that I had a job at McDonald’s so I could do the cash register. Or at Taco Bell. I wish to go to Disneyland right now. I’d like to be a tight rope walker in the circus when I grow up. I’d like to be a star on stage. Or go to outer space. Or be a ballerina. Or milk a cow.”

My teacher must have been laughing to herself as she transcribed this themeless list of dreams that pinballed from one field to the next. Yes, okay, I was in kindergarten. And maybe that’s what some of my other classmates’ lists looked like, too. But even as I got older, my list never narrowed.

Was this because I was passionate about a lot of different things and couldn’t decide on one? Or was it because I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and was just spitballing through life, throwing career spaghetti at the wall and seeing what stuck?

I’m sure it was the latter. And that’s why I kept going back to school. Going to school delayed the need to finally pick a direction. I could be aimless but still look like I was on a clear path to the rest of the world. Instead of hunkering down into a job, I could just keep studying, keep searching for the answer.

That’s how I wound up with a master’s degree from NYU.

I got my master’s in arts administration because I’d worked in this then-unknown to me field right out of college. And I applied to this random job in Randomville, Kentucky because I had majored in theatre at Vanderbilt. I chosen Vanderbilt because I’d gone to Bonnaroo music festival and thought Tennessee was fun (and I met a guy who lived there). And I majored in theatre just because I’d liked acting in high school plays. I didn’t want to be an actor, I didn’t know how to sew, I didn’t have a passion for lighting. But none of that mattered. In the moment, it just seemed like the right thing to do.

Clearly, I didn’t make big decisions based on long-term outcomes. I was myopic and impulsive. And I’m not necessarily saying there’s anything wrong with living that way. I was flying by the seat of my pants, ready for adventure, moving to different places out of sheer whim… or to pursue relationships… or get away from soured ones… or because I’d had too many drunken episodes and needed a fresh start.

Looking back, I think it’s actually kind of cool that I let myself wing it in this “che sera sera” sort of way. But it would have been a lot cooler if I hadn’t felt so lost the whole time.

As I got older and hopped from job to job, I thought that my lack of a career path had to do with wanting to get married and have children—that that was my life goal all along. And when I finally got sober and met my husband, I was sure it would lead to the fulfillment I’d been searching for all my life. Settling down would make the past make sense. It would crystallize my impulsive decisions into something that mattered—a family.

You can imagine how disappointed I was when this didn’t turn out to be true.

While becoming a mother was (and is) the greatest thing that had ever happened to me, it wasn’t the solution to all my problems. And that was an extremely painful pill to swallow. Not just because I still didn’t know what would fill this mysterious hole in my heart—a hole that I had otherwise tried to fill by dating, getting degrees, moving around the country, planning the perfect wedding, buying the perfect house, decorating and redecorating the house, going to AA meetings, going to church, exercising, getting better sleep, losing weight, cooking, baking, eating sugar, not eating sugar…

Motherhood not being the solution was especially hard to accept because it meant that I was a bad mother. Children make good mothers feel whole. But I didn’t feel whole. So, therefore, I was a bad mother.

Before having kids, I had a clear picture of what I would be like as a mother, like the girl who wanted to be a doctor. Instead of a lab coat, I was wearing a papoose, my baby nestled and calm within. Or I was laying on the floor, shaking a rattle over my cooing baby for hours on end. I was devoted and unfailing. I spent every moment of every day in pure bliss at home with my baby, staring into his eyes, never reaching for my phone or the TV remote out of boredom. His eyes alone would fuel my soul all day long.

But that’s not what happened. I didn’t enjoy every minute of every day with my baby. In fact, a lot of the time, especially in the beginning… I hated being a mom. (Yes, I said it.)

Listen. I love my children with all my heart. I would literally die for my children. Before having kids, I rolled my eyes when parents said stuff like this. “I would take a bullet for my child.” And in my head, I’d think… “Yeah, okay… but would you, really, though?”

Yes. Without question. I would take a hundred bullets for my children. Walk through fire. Get eaten alive by a pit of snakes. Do a real-life version of any scene from the Saw movies. You name it. (Although, having to take one of them to the doctor for a runny nose on my day off. Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…)

No amount of love changes the fact that being mom wasn’t what I expected. I wasn’t fawning over my baby with endless patience. I wasn’t shaking a rattle over my baby’s cooing head for hours on end. Sometimes I’d even scroll on my phone while I breastfed! And I hated breastfeeding! I made the switch to formula long before I planned or was advised to by the board of pediatrics. And I wasn’t good at reading my baby’s cues and knowing what he needed. And I hated that my baby fussed in my arms but slept in the arms of others. And I resented the fact that he had colic and wasn’t an easy baby. And I resented myself for not being a better mother.

But how could I feel this way?? Being a mother was supposed to be my calling, wasn’t it??

When I decided to put Winston in daycare at five months old, I spent all my energy voraciously justifying this decision, desperate to ease the guilt that coursed through my veins.

“We have no family here in Tennessee and need help”

“He has colic”

“Daycare is good for a baby’s development and helps strengthen their immune system”

“He won’t go to daycare every day. I’ll make sure that the number of hours he’s at daycare is less than or equal to the hours that he is home. No exceptions!”

Whether these were excuses or truths, at the end of the day, I just needed help. I felt like I was losing my mind. It didn’t help that I also had undiagnosed post-partum anxiety, something I didn’t know was a thing until way later.   

For needing help, I felt like a failure. And in asking for it, I felt no relief, only more guilt…

This summer, after giving birth to Peter, I had to start cancer treatment right away. And I realized very quickly that taking care of Peter while also taking care of myself was going to be an incredible feat. So, once again, I had to suffer the guilt that came from putting Peter in daycare, from getting help.

And, once again, I felt like a failure. A cancerous failure.

I really wish I could say that I feel better now about my decisions than I did. That the guilt has passed and I now believe I made all the right decisions. I wish I could say that I’m proud I got the help I needed, that I’m glad my kids are in daycare because it makes me a better and more patient mother. That having my kids in daycare makes me stronger and has given me the time I need to fight this hostile cancer from every angle. And that having this time allowed me to kick cancer’s backside with only four rounds of chemotherapy…

While all these thoughts are true, they don’t completely eradicate the guilt from my system. If there was chemo for mom-guilt, I’d certainly need more than four rounds.  

However.

Something pretty amazing happened while I was too busy battling mom-guilt and cancer to notice. Somewhere along the way, this long-felt empty hole inside me had started to fill.

When I wrote the first email to my family telling them that I had been diagnosed with breast cancer, I remember how much I enjoyed writing it, despite the dark subject matter. There was something cathartic about it.

And when I started the blog to keep people updated on my cancer journey, that cathartic feeling kept coming back. At first, I thought writing gave me this feeling of liberation because it provided an outlet for me to talk about the cancer—it allowed me to take charge of my disease and make some sense out of this otherwise mysterious experience.

But over time, I realized it had nothing to do with the cancer. The act of writing itself was fulfilling. And I kept getting drawn back to my laptop, excited to write. Over and over, I felt compelled to put my thoughts on the page and spend the hours it would take to mold them into something informative, yes, but also artistic and rhythmic. And when my writing started resonating with other people, that’s when it really hit me…

Maybe writing wasn’t a fleeting hobby that would fade away once my cancer story got stale and boring—which it probably has now that the drama has died down. (Don’t worry, I’m sure it will pick back up again soon!)

Maybe writing—something I enjoyed greatly when I was younger but never thought to pursue—is the piece of my puzzled life that I’ve been missing.

Writing gives me purpose. It makes me feel good about myself. It gives me confidence and eases my anxiety. And writing is creative, creativity being something that I now see so clearly was missing from my life. I was born of two wildly creative parents, so it’s only natural that I have buckets of creative energy pent up inside me.

Becoming a musician is probably the closest thing I ever had a to a life goal. But it never felt right. It didn’t make me feel good. Performing made me anxious. And I never thought I was good enough. Whether others thought I was good enough or not was irrelevent—I didn’t feel good enough. But writing is different. Writing gives me a confidence music never did.

So. Here we are again. Once more, this pesky cancer of mine has bestowed more gifts upon me… Writing. Creativity. Joy. Dedication. Confidence. Peace.

If I’d never gotten cancer, maybe I would have kept searching for fulfillment in all the wrong places… I would have kept reorganizing the pantry. Switching out area rugs. Purging my closet. Buying new clothes. Reading every book on how to not feel like a bad parent. Or a bad wife. Finding a different therapist. Finding a different AA meeting. Losing weight. Getting Botox. Exercising more. Starting Yoga. Meditating…

I would have been on an endless quest to keep searching for the answer, when all I needed to do was write it.

So that’s why I’ve decided to write a book.   

I want to be a writer.