For as long as I was able to hold a pen, writing has been my therapy. I have always loved putting a pen to paper and jotting down all of my thoughts. I love the effort it takes to organize my thoughts before writing them. When I type, I am all over the place, but actual pen and paper makes me slow down. It makes me pause and reflect. It is my equivalent of taking a deep breath. When I would journal, it was only for me, so I never had to worry about saying the right thing or offending anyone.
I stopped writing and journaling for close to a decade and only started again when I was pregnant with my daughter. It was fun to experience pregnancy and write it down in the hopes that she would read it when she was older. Then I had a few complications and writing helped me process it. It was once again my therapy.
After I had my daughter, I loved writing in her baby book every month. It was so fun to watch her develop and grow and I wanted to memorialize it. I had notes scrawled on every calendar, so I never missed an important date. Then, I started a journal for her so she would know everything that I was feeling and thinking. I wanted to share the good and also the moments that felt like they were going to swallow me whole. I wanted her to know that being a mom changed my entire being. She gave my life such an important purpose. I was her mom. I started it as a journal for me to organize my thoughts and remind myself that I am made for this. Now, almost 7 years later, I want to give it to her.
It’s messy.
It’s not always positive.
But it’s honest.
This is motherhood.
I have journals for all three of my kids, and I love them. Writing them letters. Writing about big moments that will make up their history. I especially love writing about these early years and what they think is cool because they won’t remember these little years. But they are years that I never want to forget. I want to be able to tell their grandchildren about the silly things that their mommy and daddy said.
I love being the keeper of their stories.
