“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.”
― William Wordsworth
― William Wordsworth
I always wanted to be a writer. I studied English Literature in college and was going to make it happen! One semester in and I was so bogged down with books that I lost hope. I switched my major to theater. Yes! I would act! I would be famous just like my high school yearbook predicted. I would be a thespian. One semester in and I realized that it was hard to make a career out of acting and a degree from West Chester University of Pennsylvania was probably not going to get me to the Great White Way. I switched my major again. Education this time. Did that for a semester until I realized that I was not 100% sure I wanted to teach. My last switch was to Communications. There I could still study English and Theater and take education courses and an assortment of others that would hopefully prepare me for...well...something!
I graduated with pride and hope of a bright future. I moved back home since I did not yet have a job. There I was, 22 years old, sneaking out of my childhood bedroom to smoke a cigarette and probably wait for a boy to call. After 4 years away, I felt like I was right back where I started.
Eventually I found my footing as most post-college kids do and I got a job. I moved in with some girlfriends and started the next chapter of my life. I am still super close with those girls and the other friends that I made along the way.
During that time, there were periods when I kept a journal. Times where I started to document my story of who I was and what made me unique. I was never able to stick with it. I never felt I was any good.
Fast forward to the Spring of 2011. My first born had died. After a few weeks, Gary went back to work. I was left here in a quiet home, surrounded by baby clothes and toys and furniture and recovering from a c-section. My body was beat up and bleeding and my heart was even worse.
My oldest friend send me an article she read about how a few women who had also lost children had started to write to connect to their child and to the community of parents that had experienced the same horror. At the same time, my younger brother encouraged me to start writing - to get out on paper what I could not even speak of at the time.
I have been writing ever since.
Most of you have followed me along the way with the most encouraging and uplifting support.
This week, I found out that a job that I interviewed for back in December was filled. In the same email, I was told that if I was willing, they wanted to hire me as a freelance writer. They loved me and my personality and my background and although the job I interviewed for was not the right fit, they want me to work for them in any way that I can. We spoke on Tuesday. They are going to pay me money to write for them. I will write their blogs, promote their social media sites, proofread any materials that need a fresh perspective and whatever else they need.
Why? Because I am a writer.
They are taking a chance on me. In doing so, I can work from home and stay home with Miranda while bringing in some money. It's a win-win. It's about 12 hours a week to start but it could lead to more in time. It could lead to a full time position with them as well.
I can't help but think that I took the worst thing that ever happened - that ever will happen - and made it into something beautiful. I lost my daughter but found myself. Did I need to lose her for this to happen? Certainly not. But that's they way it unfolded and there is no denying this gift that she gave me. This gift that will now allow me to stay home with her sister and see what I can do. What I can create. I took those sour lemons and made the sweetest, most delicious lemonade. Ever.
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
― Maya Angelou
― Maya Angelou