thoughts on writing, life, and the freedom to become

When I began to write publicly nearly a decade ago (on a blog that no longer exists), the words were cathartic but not eloquent. I was in the thick of grieving—pregnant for a son I knew would not live after he was born. Every day was raw. Every moment felt fragile. Writing became both a release and a way to minimize the retelling of our story. People cared, and I was grateful. But I needed to disseminate information without repeating myself and reliving the moments that broke me. The blog did both.

A year after our son Carter was born and passed away, that public processing of my grief came to a natural end. The grief had not disappeared but seemed to have leveled out, and shutting down that blog became a necessary step forward in a life I never saw coming.

But the writing never ceased.

Every second of that grief-filled journey shattered and reassembled me. Sure, the bones of who I was remained, but it was as if I wore new skin and needed time to figure out how to live in it. For four years, amidst career changes and moving across state lines, I wrote in the gaps, feverishly trying to capture every detail of that season with our son before the memories became muddied in the fog of time. This silent, unseen season became crucial not only to my work, but also to my way of navigating the world.

Eventually I tried on a new blog that I wore for a while, but after a year or two, the fit did not seem quite right. Words felt forced and inauthentic, so I began to shift. We had four sons at that time (including our one who had passed away), so my writing naturally gravitated toward motherhood—particularly my experience parenting all boys. Life in Blue emerged and lasted a few years, gaining a decent following from fellow moms who resonated with that particular season of life and the chaos that ensued on the daily.

Yet as that concept gained traction, I began to itch internally once again.

While I enjoyed capturing the hilarity that ensued in our home on the daily and engaging other moms like me, women who needed someone in her corner, my thoughts and my writing kept gravitating toward the spiritual life and the suffering that had rearranged me. The words were not exactly mommy-blog material. I struggled knowing what to do next. On one hand, my blog seemed to be connecting with women and filling a gap, and yet the work felt tedious and uninspired.

I decided to take another step back. We had added yet another son to the mix and were in the process of returning from our beloved Tennessee to our home state of Indiana, so I decided to piggyback on that life transition and pause writing for a bit. The break was not business savvy. Logic told me to ride the wave that seemed to be building, and yet my gut told me to jump, even if the waters were uncertain. So I did.

For several months, I wrestled. I rested. I searched the recesses of my soul, and eventually I began to write again, here in this space I now call home.

If you look back to my last two and a half years of writing, you will see that nothing is “on brand” or laser focused. My curiosities and questions have led me from the paradoxes found in pain to the liturgical rhythms that feed the soul, from theological musings to heartache over disconnect within the church. Perhaps all of it can be bundled beneath the umbrella of belonging and connection, but even then, I struggle to package it neatly.

But it wasn’t until recently that I realized I did not need to put a bow on the work or the words. In light of all the change that has transpired in my writing life alone over the last decade, it’s silly to think it will not change again. Instead, I have given myself permission to let my writing (and really, my life) remain fluid—to allow my pursuit of God, of publishing, of deep relationships, and of purpose begin with a posture of surrender.

Life is best lived with an open hand.

We are allowed to change, because we are people who are becoming, not stagnant. Our innate creativity—embedded in us by the Creator—invites us to partner with God in stories of beauty and becoming on a path toward “making everything new.” [1] Movement is implicit in the creation and redemption narrative. The Spirit of God isn’t meant to be contained but followed, a trail beckoning us deeper into the ways of God and his work in the world.

Where we begin is not where we end, so we must allow space for us not only to grow and to change, but also to look back on our younger selves with compassion. You are allowed to change. In the words of the poet John Blase, “Don't look back on your life with any disdain or dismiss a younger version of yourself. It’s all necessary.” [2]

NOTES

[1] This phrase was taken from the passage in Revelation 21 (CSB) that describes a vision of a new heaven and new earth. But I would also recommend reading the creation narrative in Genesis 1-2, to get a picture of the beauty God intended and how he invited mankind to participate in the world with him.

[2] John Blase used this phrase during a conversation we recorded for the Not My Story podcast (episode 31).

feature image by Ravi Roshan via unsplash