I’ve been thinking lately about this project and about why I write. I’m a writer, not a blogger, which is why this has become monthly instead of weekly. I think about these posts for what feels like an eternity before I can slap them down on the page. I write in my head on and off all day. I’m not trying to sell you anything; I’m not trying to make money (no disrespect to those who are). I’m trying to remain sane, and, in the process, I hope I’m doing some good.

I know what I share may be perceived as negative and it may indicate I’m unhappy. Maybe it reveals something about me, but I’d rather cry with you when your dog dies than celebrate with you when your kid poops on the potty for the first time. The sad stuff, the tough stuff—that’s what moves me. I have always been concerned with the human condition. I tend to lean toward the dark, the sad, and the broken.

Of course I want to see your happy pictures and posts. I love knowing your daughter won a tournament; I love watching goofy dog videos (seriously, keep posting the dog stuff). I will like the shit out of those pictures and posts. Keep sharing. And do know that my life is bursting with joy and discovery and delight. And I’ll share that, too. But that’s not what I give you here. The good days and the happy moments are almost weightless and easy to carry.  But I’m not ashamed to admit I need help carrying the heavy, crushing weight of the difficult days and moments.  

I love the good stuff…but it’s easy. We can navigate the joy and the typical without support. Nobody needs to hold your hand on the good days. It’s the hard times that require others, and maybe that’s why I share what I share here. These words are helpful to me on the page, but they transform when they are shared.**

Do you want to read about a happy day? A day in which the girls behave and I manage to exercise and put on makeup? A day in which I feel like a rockstar wife and mom? Maybe you do. I don’t. Give me your teenage torment and how you got hammered and threw beer cans on your ex’s lawn. Give me your rage. Tell me about the time you lost it and trampled the Christmas tree in front of your family, or about the terror you experienced when your child was hospitalized. I want to share your grief, your loss, and your anger. I want to read the words that are hard to share, the words that you almost couldn’t write or say. I want to be there for you when you’re struggling, when you’re weak, and when you’re so angry you are white with rage. It takes courage and vulnerability to breathe life to those stories.

So why do I write these posts? I write for me. I write because if I don’t release these words, my torment will eat my bones. I share what is heavy, and I need to give some of it to you. If I write and write and write, maybe the words will build underneath me and I can crawl out of the dark and see the sun.

And I write for you. I write in the hope that my words will move one of you. If even one sentence hits one of you and fills an empty space, I’ve lifted you, too. I have always believed that words can save and that words can heal. Music and exercise, too. So I guess that’s what I’m doing. I’m trying to save me and I’m trying to save you, even if it’s just from one moment, from one rough day.  

And so this project is me baring my soul, hoping you’ll carry some of this weight, hoping you’ll understand.

** Of course, I can’t share everything. Some things need to remain in my head. Some aspects of motherhood and marriage are sacred and should be protected at all costs. Sometimes what we need to say the most is the one thing we cannot share. And when we struggle, when we feel voiceless and powerless, we need each other. It’s the human condition, right?