The internet makes me feel lost.
I used to know how to navigate it. It used to be my livelihood (kinda). I would write posts and share things with purpose. I knew what I was doing. I wrote a book and promoted it. I had a graphic design business and was contracted to do Facebook videos, write sponsored posts and I was a brand ambassador. I had followers…and now? Well, now I have an expensive hobby. I have a personal domain name, a blog and hosting (all that I pay for) and I never write. My social sharing is half-assed with little purpose other than to keep family and friends updated on our crazy adventures. The odd time I wander into this space…the one with my name on it, I have a tonne of updates waiting for me, cobwebs and guilt that need sweeping into the dark corners of the internet.
Two years ago, I always had something to write about. There was conflict, tension and constant world problems to be solved (and by world, I mean our little Ewert world) and then, after seven years of limbo, my husband got a full-time job in music…in England.
What we had
been waiting and praying for, for YEARS had finally come to fruition and I
gladly turned my back on the internet and the self-imposed obligation to keep
the world informed on what we were doing. Ben went off Twitter and FB and I fell
silent. Things were good. Life
was good is good. It was a much-needed
You see, what you may not realise is that when a momma, who has a child with a disability, suddenly gets a lot of attention (as is sometimes the case), it can be ridiculously hard on one’s ego. When you have a child with a disability, you have an entirely new worldview to process, challenges to face, and hurdles to overcome. Some of us write about it and it helps others too and there is no greater sense of fulfillment when someone tells you how much your writing meant to them. For these moments, I am so entirely grateful but eventually, something changes and if you are weak like me, you start to find validation in the Instagram likes and FB shares. You feel like there is an expectation that you must write perspective into the lives of your readers at every turn and when you run out of things to say or have substantially fewer things to say your writing becomes tired and you touch fewer people, or at least it seems that way, because fewer people comment, like and share and you start to wonder if you had anything good to say in the first place.
And you forget that the reason you started writing in the first place is because you are a writer.
Writing helps you process – not just parenting a child with a disability but all of life.
Whether it is in a journal with pen and paper or on a screen, it is something you have done since you knew how to string symbols together to articulate thoughts and bring your imagination to life.
I used to write stories filled with adventures for myself and my horse. To be clear, I didn’t actually own a horse but my dad was the head cook at ranch camp and I claimed one Welsh pony as my own, Prairie Wind, but in the stories, I am pretty sure Prairie (as I affectionately called him) was a Chestnut Arabian.
Exercise books full of stories – the ones I wish would come true.
There is so much I’ve been wanting to tell you but have been afraid: dreams I wish would come true and realities that make me feel like a fraud and a failure. This is life. Maybe this year, I’ll tell you a bit more about it.
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
― Ernest Hemingway