It’s been quite a year. Right?
On top of a global pandemic, the continued oppression of black people in our country, murder hornets and earthquakes in diverse places, I’m turning fifty years old in ten days. Yes, I have a countdown going.
These past six months, I’ve had a cacophony of mixed emotions over so many things. Going places. Touching things. My relationships. When I’ll see my family again. My part-time job. Living in a new town and trying to develop new friendships on zoom. The lack of hugging. The sound of my husband crunching potato chips in the other room.
My internal processor is fried to a crisp.
The hardest part has been over my writing. Shocker … If it seems like I’ve been processing what it means to be “a writer” for a long time, you wouldn’t be wrong. Dealing with the rejections for my last book has been a mixed bag of acceptance and hurt and confusion. It has sucked the joy out of writing. It’s tough being a writer without an audience. In my warped head, zero love for my work translates into zero love for me. The little girl in me wants to quit everything. The old self wants to run and hide.
So on top of everything else going on in 2020, I’m having to process through all of that old junk.
But this is good, right?
Growth is everything.
New challenges jump-start the soul!
Well, maybe not so much in the beginning stages …
But underneath all the shame and doubt and frustration, I have an inkling of hope. And that, my friends, goes a long way.
More than a few of my friends have mentioned writing books that help others. Books about how I’ve dealt with my struggles and insecurities and self doubt. About what it’s like to persevere and hold onto hope regardless of the circumstances. About the heartbreak of living in this world and what God has done to heal my pain.
Precipice. Crossroads. Turning point. Whatever you want to call it, here I am — with wide-open arms. While there’s still much more to process, I’m grateful for all of it.