Déjà blog
A few years ago, I found myself at home with three babies under the age of two. I had resigned from my job where I had worked for a decade and was ready to take a break and focus on full time parenting for the first three years of the kids’ lives. I had read about the importance of the first 1000 plus days of a child’s life, when attachment and development are crucial, requiring attention and support. I hadn’t planned on my second pregnancy being twins or it happening so soon after the first, but I was at a place in my life that I thought I could handle it, and I did.
It wasn’t easy. It was isolating, exhausting, scary and transformational. But parenting had been done to death and I learned from what others had done before me, what others were doing around me, and focused on how I wanted to do things in my own unique way.
One of the things that kept me sane during that time was writing. I had begun writing a novel many years prior, which was still sitting on my laptop begging to be finished. I wasn’t under any delusion that I was going to be a successful author that could monetise my writing as a professional. I understood how industries work, how pathways need to be forged and that it would take a combination of grit, networking, privilege, talent and luck to drive that success, time for which was scarce. None of that mattered at the time. I just wanted to finish that damn book. I ended up writing three. You can still buy them online.
Writing was the one thing that took me away from the immense responsibility of child rearing. It was a lone task that wasn’t lonely, I had my characters to keep me company. And while it wasn’t paid work, it was a creative, organisational, educational and task oriented pursuit that fulfilled my intellectual needs. It was also a place to explore my emotions, my feelings, my values and ideals. A place that helped me to remember, process, dream and create. It was my internal world, but it sometimes felt separate to and bigger than me. That is the magic of writing, I believe. And, by extension, of reading. It’s not something we do, it’s a place we go to.
I also started blogging. My personal blog was a series of vents and observations that helped me to make sense of my experiences, both past and present. It was irreverent, tongue in cheek, and extremely therapeutic. It’s still up if you want to read it - you can find it here. Don’t judge me too harshly. I was a tired new mum with lots of opinions that had never been given a space for expression before, and blogging was a new platform to rant on. If anything, it reads more like a journal of events and memories with a memoir quality than anything that resembles journalism.
I also did make money from writing for a short time. On one of those click bait sites that tells you the benefits of tomatoes and such called Lifehack. It was a good opportunity to practice the craft of writing, continue my creative and mindfulness outlet away from child rearing, and I got paid a small amount per article which was useful. I got to write about what I wanted sometimes and it was wonderful for my self-esteem after becoming a full-time stay-at-home mum to three kids at once so unexpectedly, having worked for most of my life up until then. You can find that body of work here.
Again, I wasn’t under any illusion that I was going to become a professional writer, but I dipped my toe in the water just in case, it was enjoyable and productive. A wonderful distraction. Maybe even a legacy for the kids. A snapshot of their mum when they entered my life.
Fast forward to post-Covid, return-to-normal land. My kids were older and more independent and after a false start returning to work before lockdowns hit and I had to homeschool, I again found myself at home and unemployed. But more importantly, unoccupied! Sure I could crochet, clean the house, have coffees, go to the beach, read books and live a life of leisure, waiting for the kids to come home, but that life was not enough for me. I wasn’t ready to retire and knew I had something more to offer. Which is why I decided to go back to Uni and embark on post-graduate studies to get my Masters in Counselling. The inevitable accumulation of years of support work.
So here we are. Believe me, all that blogging, article and novel writing came in handy when I had to churn out 3 essays per unit, for 10 units within two years to complete my Graduate Certificate and Masters. My research and word limit skills were finely honed and I got to flex that muscle for something acknowledged resulting in my Counselling business. I feel like I am here, doing exactly what I am meant to be doing and what I worked so hard towards for so many years.
And like life going full circle, here I am blogging again!
It feels like a continuation for me, another chapter of my life in a new space, but for those of you joining me for the first time, welcome and I hope I can be of service in some way.
I will continue to write about my experiences and observations, but through a Counselling and therapy lens, from a new perspective, with a better understanding of my purpose and intention. I haven’t changed that much, or maybe I have. I’ll let you be the judge of that. But strap in. Fasten your seat belt and come along for the ride anyway.
