It’s taken me years to make myself sit down and put my thoughts in writing.
I’ve always admired people that have journaled or kept a diary.
I have always wished I had started at a young age.
My deep love of reading gave me visions of what would happen to the many journals I
would write and someday have read by my children, grandchildren and great
grandchildren.
I envisioned them reading pages and pages of my amazing life and admiring the
woman I was and the life I had lived.
Like some great Pioneer carving the way for them and leaving all kinds of advice for
their lives.
That’s not what happened.
I could never quite get around to getting started.
Life got in the way.
In my 20’s I was newly married and starting down the path of Mamahood.
In my 30’s I started having health issues mingled with the Mamahood.
In my 40’s the health issues persisted and mingled with marriage issues.
In my 50’s my fingers have finally made their way to writing things down, but my
original intent is long gone.
I’m no longer the young girl filled with hopes and dreams.
I’m no longer the young Mom filled with funny stories about her children.
I am no longer the Mom filled with life lessons and hard earned wisdom my family
would some day thank me for.
I am now just a broken down 52 year old woman whose husband told her after 27 plus
years that he is leaving her…