What happens to a perfectionist who just can’t get things right?
I used to write, but over time my self-criticism got the better of me, and I became unable to get past the first page, the first paragraph, the barest execution of an idea. I couldn’t bear to read the words I’d written, and cringed at the thought of anyone else reading them. I’ve ripped more pages out of journals than I can remember. I would start, then destroy, then start and destroy again, until there were no pages left. My beautiful, optimistically purchased blank books that were meant to become the record of my life and thoughts and stories, inevitably turned into collections of to-do lists and hastily scrawled phone numbers. Gradually I stopped trying. I became a person who once upon a time loved to write.
But this is a new page.
Tonight, as my husband works a night shift and my two beautiful boys sleep, I have decided to find my voice again. This space will be an honest exploration of my little family’s everyday – the dark and the light, bliss and sadness, hilarity and frustration. I’m not sure what I’ll find, but for the first time in a long time, I’m excited to find out.