As a child, lying in my bed, lulled by the soft, consistent cries of a nearby lighthouse, I used to dream up stories. At first, these stories lived only in my head, mirroring the books that I loved to read: stories of ships from faraway lands that carried stowaways seeking refuge from war-torn countries; stories of pirates commandearing approaching vessels, timing their ascent up the side of the ship with the darkness between the rotation of the lighthouse’s beacon; stories of fishermen coming dangerously close to the rock jetty on dark and stormy nights.
As I grew, so, too, did my love for creating stories. Eventually, I began writing them down in my journals. Crafting these narratives was a means of escape from a difficult and dysfunctional home life; one that felt as unpredictable and unsafe as the nearby rocky shore of my childhood. In my adolescence, I dreamed of becoming a writer, wanting to inspire and comfort others the same way that my childhood books had inspired and comforted me.
I continued creating stories through my teen years, until life blew me off course. Pursuing college and a teaching career through my 20s and 30s, I only dabbled in my narrative writing craft. As a student, and then an educator, most of my writing time was spent on academic writing and the teaching of writing, both of which I loved!
Academia gave my writing structure and purpose, but it kept my true love of storytelling at bay. As a teacher, I found immense fulfillment in creating a community of writers with my students. A subject often met with resistance, I reveled in helping students find their voices through the written word.
Becoming a solo mama to my son at the tender age of 39, I was faced with challenges for which I was not prepared. Until this pregnancy, I had struggled to carry a child to term. I lost four babies, one I carried long enough that the doctors determined she was a girl, so when my son was born, I put everything, including my teaching career, aside. Knowing he would be my only child, I was not going to miss a second of his childhood.
What ensued were years of pouring everything I had into my son. I wanted him to follow his heart, the way I had not, so I encouraged him to try a myriad of activities, from dance to baseball to martial arts. I invested my time and my money into his pursuits of what he loved, and I don’t regret a single second or a cent spent!
As rewarding and gratifying raising my beloved son has been, I struggled – a lot! Without a steady support system in place, I struggled financially, physically, and emotionally. Trying to survive on the Central Coast, as a single mom and on a single income, proved exhausting! Though my mama heart swelled with a love I could never have imagined, my daily life was restricted to working, raising my son, and running our household.
Through my 40s and into my 50s, I found myself farther away from those cherished lighthouse stories than I had ever been. I had lost sight of who I was, and what I loved to do. I had become the ship in the night needing the guidance and assurance of a lighthouse’s beacon.
Now, at 54 years of age, “It’s time”! It’s time for me to create space in my life for the love of storytelling from which I’ve so long been separated. It’s time for me to rediscover my writing voice and reclaim my adolescent dream of becoming a writer.