When people ask me what I do, I want to say I'm a writer.

The problem is, I can’t finish a thought.

I have been involved a torrid affair with writing since I started my first blog almost 15 years ago. I have never been able to be consistent enough to materialize into a career, or even a steady hobby. I am not convinced that I have to make this anything. My goal is just to simply begin again.

I used to write here about the version of Christianity with which I was involved. It dictated how I saw the world, until I broke it open. Like when Jasmine breaks the trace that Jafar's staff induced.

Breaking open a previous worldview is intense. Almost every relationship in my life was created through the pretense of Christianity. It has taken me a few years, mental collapse and rebuild and a cross country move to receive the perspective I have been searching for.  

I have finally allowed myself, after 33 years, to pursue me. This involves attempting to decode the thoughts in my head out of my body and into another medium, whether it be print, type or another form. It involves attempting to make sense of my experiences and translate them into a shared connection with others. It involves giving myself permission to put my three beautiful children into the care of others Monday through Friday so I can have the space to make this attempt. 

It's giving myself permission to occupy space. To use my voice. To have an opinion. 

To carve out my individuality within the sea of individuals.

To wonder. To dream. To create. 

To allow myself to be fully human.

Things I have denied myself for most of my life. 

I tell my children they can be anything they want.

So you know what?

I am a writer.