After my traditionally published book released last September, once the dust settled, I was feeling depressed and out of sorts. Part of it could be explained away by the demands on my time and the fact that I am an introvert who gets somewhat annoyed when my schedule is interrupted with out-of-the-ordinary activity. When my calendar gets crammed, as it tends to get during book launch season, I feel stressed and overwhelmed (which is also why my sons have not yet joined sports, though I have one in orchestra this year).
At the same time, lists began to greet me at every turn—favorite books, best books for the holidays, best-of 2018, awards lists. There is a book list for practically everything. And comparison loves lists. I fell hard into the sticky web of I guess I’m just not good enough.
But it was, of course, more than that.
The writing life isn’t an easy one. It’s especially not easy when you’re the mother of young children. At the same time I was recuperating from the busy launch season I had a son struggling with middle school, another upset about the necessity of speech lessons, and two others who were having behavioral issues at school.
When there are crises in my home, my first now-predictable response, as a mother, is to question whether I am doing the right thing to pursue a career and work outside the home (even though I technically work from home). Maybe it’s because of the pressures that exist in modern motherhood, but when my sons struggle, I feels as though it’s a direct reflection on the time I spend doing anything other than caring for my family.
I know I was made for writing. When I write, I feel as though I am doing exactly what I was brought into this world to do. I feel free and hopeful and alive. When I’m talking about writing or new projects or ideas I feel shaky with the bound-up energy of this knowing.
What would happen if I were to give that up?
I know myself. I know what would happen. I know I would not be the best version of myself that I could be. I would not fulfill my full purpose. I would waste potential and talent and opportunity. I would lament and resent.
Around this time, my husband and I were about to visit New York for the first time, a late fifteen-year anniversary celebration of sorts. He had a work conference, I was set to meet both my agent and my editor in real life, and we had planned a day to ourselves, for pleasure and touristy things. I didn’t even know if we could afford the trip in terms of both money and absence from our children, but there it was, already booked.
So I went. I had a lovely visit with my editor, who told me she absolutely loves my work and wants as much from me as she can possibly get. And the hope began to peer in at the edges.
At all junctures of my life I can feel hope peering in, no matter how bad things got. My parents divorced—there was hope. My father left in totality—there was hope. My sons and I are struggling with anxiety and depression—there is hope.
Hope is a powerful force, the kind of force that can lift our heads and whisper, Get up, you’re still alive, you were made for more than this.
You were made for more than this burden you carry, this disappointing setback, this scary circumstance. There is still hope.
There are so many people in our world who think and feel that they are without hope. It is up to us—the hope-filled ones (at least today)—to find them and tell them: Life’s an unpredictable thing. It can change in a moment. The night never lasts forever.
Go out into the world and shine your light of hope.
(Photo by Daniele Salutari on Unsplash)
