Finding my meaning.

Before I begin, a disclaimer: this edition of my newsletter is heavily focused on parenting. If you’re not a parent yourself, I hope you’ll still read and be able to take something of value from it. However, if this topic would be triggering for you, particularly this close to Mother’s Day, please be kind to yourself. If you need to opt out of reading then please do, and I hope to see you back next time. 

My children are growing up. 

I knew they would. If babies stayed babies forever, no one would procreate because everyone would be too exhausted from never sleeping. Every day they get a little bigger, a little older, a little more mature, shedding younger versions of themselves as they do. But the fact of knowing this doesn’t make it any more difficult to slowly lose the little versions of them, their childhood slipping through my fingers like sand. 

As of this month my daughters are four and seven. I’m through the thick of it, the foggy, elastic period with small children where time has no meaning. It’s simultaneously long and short —whole mornings spent looping the neighborhood with a stroller or nights with a baby in your arms, but then you blink and another day—another week—another month—another year has gone by. 

This summer Little starts pre-K, which is significant for our family in that it will be the first time both of my children will be in school five days a week and feels like a line in the sand from which, after we cross it, we can’t return. The baby years and the toddler years are done for our family, and soon the preschool years will be, too.

Friends, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grieving the end of this period of my life. I’m struggling with that grief in a way that surprises me, especially given how much of the dialogue around this transition is about the time I’ll be gaining. I both loved and hated the baby and toddler phases. I feel immensely sad that it’s over—no more baby smells, cuddle naps, pure joy of contextless discovery, or fitting their whole person on my chest—while also feeling intense relief to be through some of the harder parts—hello teething and volcanoes of poop and tantrums and waking up every two damn hours through the night. At the same time, I love these more grown-up versions of them, getting to peel back the layers of who they are as they start discovering just who that is. I love that I’ll have more time for fulfilling things like writing, and I’m deeply sad that I won’t have my days with Little anymore. Change is complex, and I don’t think the emotions around its evolution are ever linear. 

But she’s my last baby, not my first. I knew this was coming. I know what it feels like. I know what comes next. It’s her big sister who keeps me on my toes, surprised at the way childhood evolves, at the way we slowly transition from parenting as caregiving to parenting as raising them. I’d heard this was less physically demanding and more mentally demanding, but, again, knowing something and knowing it are two entirely different creatures. 

If you know my daughters then this won’t surprise you: they are very strong willed. They’re also smart and funny and so very, very kind; thoughtful and determined and emotional. They will fire back at my husband and me and stand up for themselves, and they have a very strong sense of right and wrong. I saw a quote recently by Jiddu Krishnamurti that read “A lily or rose never pretends, and its beauty is that it is what it is” and this so clearly encapsulates my children that when I saw it it took my breath away. The older they get the more it's clear to me that my two most important responsibilities are teaching them how to be good humans and supporting them in becoming who they’re meant to be. There’s an ocean of depth in both of those areas, I know, but that’s really all parenting boils down to, isn’t it? And I suspect it never ends, that on my deathbed I’ll still be interacting with them with those things in mind. 

Parenting is a ton of work, at least with the level of thoughtfulness and intention with which I approach it. But it isn’t selfless by any stretch. Not to say that I feel my children owe me anything, because I truly don’t. It’s more that they’ve already given me so much—my world is more beautiful with them in it, and they give me near constant reminders to look for and appreciate that beauty. Parenting isn’t selfless because I believe that, for me, it’s what has helped me realize who I want to be and continues to inspire me to work toward becoming the best version of myself. 

I started writing my first novel as a hail mary when I felt the walls of postpartum depression closing in on me in the claustrophobic early-Covid world of 2020. Writing a novel had been a dream of mine for a long time, and though it felt like the only lifeline I had, I also never could have imagined how it would pull me away from the darkness and ultimately become integral to my identity. But still something was missing, and I realized that I feel most alive when others read my work, when I hear about how my words touched them in some way. I started down the road to publication because I want to lean into this. I want part of my purpose in life to be to make people feel through my writing, and hopefully get in touch with something emotionally resonant deep inside themselves. While that publishing loop is hanging open, it all feels incomplete, somehow, even disappointing, though I’ve now completed my initial goal of writing a book four times over. But I’m not giving up because I know my kids are always watching. And because I owe it to myself to see this thing through. 

But then I realized that the meaning I’ve been looking for in my life I’ve already found, and it hit me, hard, while walking my dog after dinner one night recently, listening to Jennette McCurdy’s audiobook, I’m Glad My Mom Died. In it, she says:

“I want to do good work, I want to do work I’m proud of. This matters to me on a deep, inherent level. I want to make a difference—or at least feel like I’m making a difference—through my work. Without that feeling—that connection—the work feels pointless and vapid. I feel pointless and vapid.”

I feel this deeply, on a cellular level. This is why I want to write, this is why I want to share my work, and this is why I’m not giving up on that dream. But I had been missing a crucial point: I am already doing this work, and it isn’t through my writing. It’s through my parenting. I am making a difference not just on my own, but multiplied through my girls. And my pride in my children—their spirit, their spunk, their cleverness, and their kindness, only some of which I can claim as my influence and a lot of which comes straight from their souls—gives me the connection to others that I need for my life to be meaningful. Friends, it turns out that what I’ve been looking for has been right beside me all along. 

Recommendations Roundup

Click on the cover of any for which you’d like to read my short review.

Parting Shot

Final Thoughts

I’m very lucky to have a lot of people in my corner supporting the different pieces of who I am. When it comes to my writing, so many folks continually show up for me, letting me bounce ideas off them, reading drafts, and giving me pep talks. But I want to mention two in particular who seem to be in my brain and who help me get my words from where they start to where I really want them to be. Grace Walz for my novels and LeeAnne Minnick for this newsletter—thank you for helping connect the dots, elevating my words to something with heart and meaning, and helping me hone in on what it is I really want to say. 

And to you, my readers: thank you from the bottom of my heart for subscribing. I know your time is limited, and you’re choosing to spend a slice of it here, with me. It’s a gift, and one I take seriously. 

I wish you the peace that comes from living the life you want for yourself, the hope that comes from seeing your own potential, and the joy that comes from stepping back and feeling gratitude for it all. Go forth, my friends. I wish you well.

Love, 

Sarah

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