Do It For Her
It's been more than two decades -- 26 years, give or take -- since I started blogging. In that time I got a job as a professional blogger working in newsrooms, which morphed into work as a social media strategist, which is work I still do today. What was once Diaryland became Geocities which became Typepad which became Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn, paid social, social listening, social analysis, influencer marketing, employee advocacy, full-funnel social intelligence. It happened slowly and all at once. And while I appreciate the skill and breadth of knowledge social media marketing takes in 2026, I miss just typing into a box without overthinking it and hitting publish. I miss writing about whatever. I miss the simplicity of storytelling without an audience in mind. Just expression for the sake of it. No algorithm to track, no specs to keep in mind, no video-first approach, no legal sign-off, no brand consistency considerations, no link in first comment, no engagement rate to calculate, no earned media value, no cost per click, no UTMs.
So, here we are. Or, at least, here I am. Back to my blogging roots. Except now I'm somebody's wife. Somebody's mom. Pushing 50 and wondering how I strayed so far from this hobby that brought me so much joy in the early aughts.
I had a lot more time back then, I know that much. In fact, as I type this, my daughter is two feet away, tying her orange belt around her gi in preparation for her martial arts class. Tying the belt is hard for her, she's just learning to do it herself, and she's frustrated, and like many humans do when they are frustrated, she is expressing that frustration outwards, onto me. And in a moment she's going to ask me to do her hair.
And so, I will (I did) put down this laptop and brush out her tangles, and she will tell me it hurts with anger in her voice, even though the brush barely moved through her locks, and I will say (I did say), tersely, "do you want to do it?" And I will (I did) immediately regret this, because it was unnecessarily harsh.
"Am I allowed to say 'ow'?" she will respond, and I will (I did) grow even more annoyed, the urge to hand her the brush and insist she do it herself rising within me, but I will (I did) pause, I will (I did) take a deep breath and say nothing. And then I will (I did) concede, internally, that yes, she is allowed to say 'ow,' and I will be (I was) glad that she feels empowered to say how she feels, to express her frustration in this house, in front of me, at me, even though it triggers my own irritation. Because that means that she feels safe and loved, and that's my highest goal as her mother, to ensure she always feels safe and loved.
This is the work I do now, in addition to the social media marketing. The work of undoing generational trauma, the work of regulating my nervous system so that I don't dole out verbal daggers which will embed themselves into her musculature. We don't want that.
It's a full time job trying to mother her in a way that won't leave long-lasting damage, and it's the most gratifying, all-consuming work I'll do in my life. It is a spiritual practice, an ego death, a maiden voyage.
And it is impossible to get right. I fail at it in a dozen tiny ways every day. A snappy retort here, a too-deep sigh there, a plate placed too loudly on the table before her. And she will (she does) say, "Are you okay, Mama?" And my heart will break again, for the dozenth time that day, that she felt the need to ask.
It is for her, really, that I am writing this. I have noticed that my life is lacking a good amount of joy. I am allowed very little space. And it is when I have space and joy in my life that I am a better mother. A resourced mother. A mother with room to pause, an inclination to laugh, an ability to be present. And so I've gone looking for it.
I used to outsource joy, turn to substances for it, but they turned on me, so I cut them out of my life, every last one. I'm out here raw-dogging reality in this godforsaken decade of decay, and my light is pretty dim, I'm not going to lie. I work, I parent, I sleep, I repeat. And it is not enough. There is no play. There is not much to look forward to. And so I'm reigniting the things I once enjoyed. Writing stories. Making art. Finding whimsy where I can. And not worrying about the worry that comes with opening up like this, on Al Gore's internet, where anyone with 5G can read it. I will say to you like I say to my daughter: I may be cringe, but I am free.
There is value, for me, in expression. It makes me feel alive. Writing this gives me a sense of purpose, a reason to get out of bed in the morning that is not a report deadline or the need to pack a child's lunch. It's just for me, myself. And it brings me joy. And with a little bit of joy I can give more freely to the person I love most in this whole wide world, a little girl who deserves a happy and fulfilled mother. A mother she doesn't have to check on. A mother with a little wiggle room. A mother with a point of view, a little something to say.