When I blogged regularly, I don’t think I even fully realized what it did in my life. I may have articulated parts of it, here and there, and even since I’ve let it slip away, it wasn’t until the absence crept up on me that I saw the whole picture. I have found it frustrating to start again, writing without any kind of an audience – even though I had a very very small one on the best of days back when I was a regular blogger – and remaining uncertain about how comfortable I am with revealing identifying details about myself.
The thing that I have finally put my finger on, as my little boy turned two yesterday, is how much I feel like I have lost my self since he’s been born. I’ve been hyper vigilant about not letting my status as mother define me, so resistant to any claims that I feel X or Y because I am now in this nebulous relational category that has completely consumed me, that I’ve missed the concrete ways in which the abstraction is actually happening. It’s not the discursive construction of motherhood that’s swallowed me whole, it’s the day-to-day nibbles into my time and energy that are taken out of me by the munchkin’s presence in my life. As I wasn’t paying attention, suddenly all that was left was a PhD to get and a child to raise, and the shadows and the contours of me seem to have disappeared.
I need to carve out this space to write, create, and be. It may not be good, but I hope it will be me.