Repressing Passion

Like many middle class Americans, I was raised with the idea that I could become anything I wanted to become. But as the years passed, I picked up on clues that perhaps that wasn’t true. In the third grade, I realized that I had a talent for writing, and thought that I might someday become an author, but as life went on, that seemed to fade into the background as I started to make safer, more stable and secure choices. In other words, I settled. But it wasn’t like I realized that I was doing it. Making a career out of writing seemed like a kind of hard road with no guarantees. People in my life lovingly suggested that I should have a backup plan. Writing is a creative pursuit, but a career must be productive, right? My mom was a nurse, and encouraged me to get my teaching credential (which, incidentally, I never finished) so that I, to use her words “would always have something to fall back on.” That seems like good advice, but unfortunately my subconscious heard “you’ll never be good enough, just settle.” My mom only wanted for my happiness, and I’m sure she felt that security was a big part of that. I took the safer path, becoming a teacher and followed my passion for coaching. I don’t regret those choices because I truly enjoyed those years, but this month has completely reignited my early dreams, and I wonder now, why I didn’t persist. Deep down, I know. I didn’t have the unyielding faith in myself necessary. I wilted at the thought of rejection, without even trying. The vision I hold of myself is not one of a person who settles, and definitely not of someone who quits. It sucks to realize that I chose not to do what I really wanted to, and more importantly, that I have not acted like the person I thought I was.
Most days, I’m grateful that I became a stay-at-home mom. I mean, how many women in America even have that choice? But I certainly didn’t expect to disappear the way that I have. And I fully admit that I use my children as an excuse not to be and do what I truly want. I choose unhappiness and stagnation and then blame it on “what’s best for my kids” knowing fully that what’s best for them is a mom who lives as an example. I hope that they grow up to be healthy, whole, confident, secure in their sense of self, passionate and joyful about life, and certain about their roles in it. They will learn how to be from me and Jim, and it is my duty to learn how to exemplify this for their sakes as much as my own.
I guess I just had no idea how much of my sense of worth was tied up in what I did for a living. But when I chose motherhood as a full time vocation, my self-esteem plummeted. I felt like such a victim. Of course, I loved my sweet baby, but I felt so important to her, yet so utterly useless to the rest of the world, and like a huge (not to mention, smelly, leaky, and out of shape) burden on Jim. I had no idea where to find a sense of approval, and yet I was angry at myself for feeling that I even needed it. And of course there is the dreaded question “…and what do you do?” How can I possibly answer? “Stay at home mom” sounds so dependant. “Domestic Engineer” is just trying too hard. “Just a mom” is a bit demeaning. So, I don’t know what to say. It seems impossible to reduce my role to a catch phrase. And while we’re on the subject, how do I really feel about my role anyways? Now that I’m here (trapped in my house with my kids), I have time (between 5:00 and 6:30 AM, and after 8:00 PM) to re-evaluate the path that I’m on.