Okay, confession time: I have no clue what I’m doing. Website building? Monetizing? SEO? Likes? Apparently people are actually reading what I write, and honestly, I feel like someone just walked in on me singing into my hairbrush. Mortifying.
My therapist (sweet as pie, harpist not harper) keeps nudging me to “track progress” with journaling. With a pen. On actual paper. Excuse me? If you ever receive a handwritten card from me, know I probably hired a calligrapher off Etsy.
When computers arrived, I thought the heavens opened and the angels sang: FINALLY, an outlet that doesn’t smudge ink all over my hand. Teachers loved my style. Parents? Not so much. They had to live with me. To two people who clawed their way out of nothing, writing and art looked like frivolous hobbies. (They weren’t wrong, but still… ouch, Mom.)
So naturally, I overcorrected with my kids. Any spark of interest, I go full Olympic coach.
- Muffins? Congrats, kiddo—you’re the next Julia Child.
- Playing with robotics? Boom, you’re on a NASA track.
- Said you “like horses”? Saddle up, champ, the Kentucky Derby starts at 3.
According to my children, this is “pressure.” According to me, this is called supportive parenting with a side of panic.
But here’s the real kicker: the whole cycle comes back to my inner toddler. She’s still in there, tugging at my shirt hem, shrieking “MORE MORE MORE!” More candles, more throw pillows, more Amazon packages that I swear I don’t remember ordering. It’s hard to function as a normal adult when you’ve got a toddler driving the bus—and she’s steering us straight into HomeGoods.
So here I sit. In the middle of my “zen” bedroom. (Translation: an obstacle course where one wrong step = broken ankle.) The goal? To make this room minimal, peaceful, zen. The reality? I’ll either pull it off or end up on Hoarders: The Cozy Lighting Edition.
Wish me luck.
🛏️ Broadcasting live from my almost-zen bedroom.
👀 If this is your photo… thank you for your service.