The One About Deli Meat, Unused Freedom & the Return of the Blog
I’ve been in a rut lately, mostly because I got comfortable complaining about my life.
Don't get me wrong—I know I’m fortunate. My family is healthy, we have a roof over our heads, food in the fridge, and enough resources. But despite having a good life, I’ve been starving for what money can't buy.
As a stay-at-home mom, I slipped into the habit of living entirely for everyone else. My kids need me, my husband needs me, the dog needs me, and honestly, even the lizard expects me to drop a cricket into his universe every once in a while. For a long time, being needed was my primary fuel. Lately? I’ve been running on fumes. I needed a goal that was mine alone.
A friend recently asked if I wanted to go back to work. I knew with absolute certainty that I didn't want my old career back. But when she pressed me on what I would do if I could do anything, only one answer popped up: This. Writing.
The last time I felt genuine, fire-in-my-belly motivation was when I started this blog. Back then, I couldn’t type fast enough. I’d spring out of bed, desperate to capture whatever thoughts hit me while falling asleep or taking a shower. Writing is my renewable energy source: one idea sparks another, building momentum and giving me a reason to jump out of bed that doesn't involve toasting waffles or refereeing fights.
So, I’m back. And boy, do I have stories. But first, a quick roll call:
My oldest is now eight and in third grade (if someone could explain how I blinked and missed kindergarten to now, let me know). My middle guy is in first grade, and my youngest just started kindergarten. With all three kids in school full-time, you’re probably thinking: What's her excuse for not writing more?
You’re not wrong. I have the time. I’ve just been using it terribly.
Call it a minor case of Stockholm syndrome. The captive is shown an open door, and instead of running through it, she just sits there. That was me. Drop-off would end, and I’d come home to just... lurk. I pictured myself sprinting to my desk to vomit stories onto the keyboard. Instead, I stared at my laptop while wiping down counters, vacuuming around the desk, and folding laundry on top of the closed screen.
I’d complain about the endless cycle of chores, claiming I had zero time for myself—which was a lie. The time was there. I just wasn't protecting it. That same friend called me out: if I want to write, it can't be an afterthought. It has to be non-negotiable.
To fix my "deer in the headlights" post-drop-off routine, she gave me a simple framework: HOW.
Have to.
Ought to.
Want to.
It’s stupidly simple, but it works. If writing matters to me, it goes into the Have To category.
Have to: Get kids to school; pull meat out for dinner; write.
Ought to: Do a load of laundry; wash the floors.
Want to: Watch the new season of Sweet Magnolias while eating deli meat directly out of fridge. (No judgment—I promised honesty here).
Faced with that, I had two choices: keep floating in my rut, building quiet resentment toward the people I love most, or build some structure, make myself a priority, and shift my attitude. You’re reading this, so you know which one won out.
Today, I got the kids off to school, thawed dinner, got accidentally locked in the school playground (a story for another day), and came straight home to sit my butt down and write.
Looking at this page, I realize something: while my kids can’t be the only reason I get up in the morning, they’re definitely the reason I have anything good to write about. Without them, this blog would just be a tragic log of odd snack cravings (i.e. deli meat) and failed dinner experiments.
Case in point: last night’s pan-fried dumplings turned into a mass casualty event where overcrowded wonton wrappers stuck to the pan, leaving me scraping up naked chicken meat-balls.
So yeah... let’s be grateful for the kids.
