We were walking down the street when we spotted this sign:
“Write down your goals and dreams for 2021”
The first two didn’t take me long: forward progress for my kids and health for my husband.
I was going to end it there, but something felt incomplete. I had forgotten myself. It had asked for my goals and dreams, not just theirs.
This is quintessential motherhood: you’re always last in line.
This generation of mothers has gotten the memo that in order to be “good moms” we have to be selfless. And while selflessness is a wonderfully endearing quality, it’s also a slippery slope to be “less of your self.”
And when I narrow my focus, that’s not what I want my children to see and then one day feel compelled to emulate. I don’t want them to view motherhood as martyrdom, I want to model what a full and complete life looks like for a woman. And part of that is actualizing—and achieving—my dreams too.
So I paused for a second, before writing down my biggest, boldest dream. The one I’ve had with me for nearly three decades since my mother borrowed a big Macintosh computer from her school during the summer of 1992 and I spent my seven-year-old year learning to type:
I want to write a book.
I almost can’t speak it out loud because it seems so impossible. Like I’m an imposter or something. But this year, if any, is the year I claim it.
I am a writer. I have a story to tell.
What’s yours? It’s time we change the rule that our dreams are for safekeeping. They deserve to be spoken aloud.
There’s always room for us to write down our dreams too.
To More Love,
Stephanie
