We are two weeks into the new year and the energy is already starting to shift. The shorter days of winter don’t feel as brief as the sun begins to set over the hills a tiny bit later each day. There is a sense of newness in the crisp air, a sense of possibility. Maybe it’s because Nic and I managed to get ourselves and all three kids to the gym twice this week – no small feat for a family of five! Maybe it’s because I am honoring my commitment to redirect the onslaught of distractions available every day towards my intention to grow in ways that are slow and sustainable. Or maybe it’s because I am willing, at least for today, to release some of the pressure I put on myself to write in the ways that I want to while tending to all that needs to be tended to in a day.
Last night I planned to finish up an essay to share this week. I drafted two pieces last week, neither of which got to the heart of what I wanted to convey. It’s not enough to feel my emotions while writing, I want to put those emotions to words, to sentences, to some kind of form. The essay drafts need hours of work to get them where I want them to be. I am struggling with learning how to manage my time in new ways while being home more with our kids.
In December, we made a family decision that I would move out of my workspace in town to share the home office with Nic. It’s going to be a big experiment with recording the podcast at home, seeing a few clients remotely, and writing in the office and in our town library when I crave fewer domestic distractions. I have written in small pockets at home throughout this past week and it is wildly different than being in my own space out of the home. I am at the beginning of an adjustment period and to be honest this past week was really tough. I struggled to write in smaller chunks of time. I struggled to write hearing our foster baby cry in the next room. I struggled to write after putting the kids to bed at the end of a long day with them. I struggled to write while my attention shifted from writing to childcare, writing to making lunches, writing to walking the dogs, writing to changing diapers.
I am trying to be gentle with myself in this process and tend to the parts of me that aren’t sure how to weave writing into the responsibilities at home that are calling for my attention. I am trying to be gentle with myself and remind myself that it’s okay to take my time. It’s okay to start a piece and set it aside. It’s okay to write an essay and never share it. Delete it. Let it go. To remind myself that not everything I write will be great or even good by my standards and that is okay too. To remind myself that I am allowed to be mediocre. I am allowed to be in the practice of writing. I am allowed to discover when I am hiding behind words and unable to write myself into a place of vulnerability.
Last night did not go as planned. We had a late dinner and the kids struggled at bedtime. Zen needed firmer boundaries, boundaries that I’ve been challenged to set with him and Solomon. There was this moment when I was about to check out of putting him to bed, about to give up and walk to the computer to edit a piece for today’s post. Something stopped me. Call it grace, chance, or access to the part of me that has been working hard to do things differently with my kids.
I did not check out. I stayed present. I took a breath. I picked up Zen and carried him into the bedroom. For the next five minutes I held him while he kicked and screamed and cried. Tears rushing from his eyes, dripping down my arms that held him with just enough pressure to let his body know that he was safe and not so much pressure that it activated his trauma of being confined in the NICU after birth. While he wailed and tried to get out of my arms, I tended to the younger parts of myself that were frustrated that they couldn’t write, that they couldn’t do the one thing that they wanted to that night, finish the essay. In tending to those parts, I was able to bring myself back to the present moment, to my son who needed me, to his small body in my arms, to his tear-filled eyes, and exhale. This is actually where I wanted to be. As much as those parts wanted to push him away to get to the writing, present time me wanted to care for him. To give him what he needed, the boundaries that challenge me so much as his mother, yet also stretch me to grow into who both of us need me to be.
After five minutes his system started to unwind and relax. His spine curved towards my body, his arms wrapped around my rib cage, and his hot, damp head pressed against my chest. We exhaled several times, our breathing eventually flowing in sync with each other. I rested my chin gently on his head and rocked him side to side, softly humming in his ear. A couple of minutes later I tucked him in bed and held his hands until he fell asleep.
Shortly thereafter I made my way to the soon-to-be shared home office. When I opened my computer to edit one of the essays from earlier in the week, tears filled my eyes. I felt the part of me that wanted to push through, that wanted to prove to myself I could get this piece of writing where I wanted it to be. I felt the part that was disappointed that after carving out all the little windows to write during the week I was left with fragments that skimmed the surface in voices that I did not fully recognize as my own. I felt the part that was concerned I would miss my own publishing deadline of Sundays, because I have made commitments to myself and to you dear reader to show up each week. I felt the part that was let down, whose shoulders slumped forward, who wished they were more organized so I wouldn’t be in this state on a Saturday night, hours away from when I was supposed to hit publish.
Just as I was about to dig into a craft book for inspiration, Nic came to the doorway. He said he would take care of the kids for me so that I could write today. He invited me to come to bed and rest, to take care of myself. My whole body exhaled. More tears flowed down my cheeks. We will figure this out, he said, but tonight, let’s get some rest.
Things are changing. As challenging as it feels right now to re-enter my family life more fully, pack up my office, and find new rhythms to write in, that new year energy is present. It’s a kind of spaciousness. A little release of pressure. A small surrender to the choice to be a mother who is also committed to writing in whatever ways that I can each week. In this moment I have no solutions. I have no answers to my questions on how this is all going to work out. What I have is devotion to my family. What I have is devotion to Nic who continues to support my dreams to write. What I have is devotion to my writing practice. What I have is devotion to being tender with myself during this big transition. What I have is devotion to keep showing up with care.
Thank you so much for being here. Your presence here is felt and deeply appreciated.
With care,
Ashley
A couple of extras—
Last week I had the pleasure of being in conversation with the amazing Carissa Potter of
. Together we explore the topic of rest, why it is so challenging, and simple practices for accessing rest. You can listen to the full conversation here and check out Carissa’s Substack too, it’s great!I was featured on
with the incredible Sarah Fay last month. Here is the full interview. Her support has been invaluable to me this past year on Substack and I encourage you to explore her Substack if you want support.
I always appreciate your honest and vulnerable shares. And while I don't have children, I often feel pulled in directions other than where I want to be and have had to sigh and collect myself so that I can take care of others or emergencies that distract me. Begin again as Sharon Salzburg says. We begin again and again. Thank you
On so many levels this resonates. It's such a realistic insight into what it takes to balance family life, personal commitments, and the pursuit of creative endeavours. The Deeper Call is quickly becoming soul-balm for me.