I never planned to be a writer. I always planned to be a reader. Stories, whether in books or on the internet, have always been able to transport me to another world and offer front row seats to other people’s lives. They feed my introverted desire to learn about other humans without engaging actually with any humans.
I didn’t start writing until I ran out of stories to read. Or rather, I ran out of the right stories for me. This happened when I became a mother. It happened somewhat later in life than I expected, adding “mom” to my already long and diverse set of identities. Naturally, I sought the stories of others experiencing the same transition.
It turns out that there are lots of mommy blogs. Many of them do a beautiful job of capturing the joyful chaos of motherhood. Sometimes I want to read about this. Other times I want to read anything but. Becoming a mother has been the greatest gift of my life. It’s also only one piece of who I am and what I think about.
I realized I was searching for a blog that resonated with every part of me: the nerdy kid, the ansty teenage feminist, the wayward 20-something, the ambitious career woman, the writer, the traveler, the wife, and yes, the mother. I couldn’t find that blog, so I wrote it.