“How on earth do you have time for that?”

When I first began writing, this was by far the question I received most often. The inquiry was legitimate. My husband was in nursing school. My oldest was in the process of an autism diagnosis. My youngest was potty training. I was working part-time and found myself in the middle of a downward health spiral, which led to two autoimmune disorder diagnoses.

When you add all that to the regular requirements of being a human—carpool, dishes, cooking, laundry, groceries—it’s a wonder I had time to breathe, much less write.

The weird thing was I couldn’t keep from writing. Yes, I barely had time to breathe, but it was the one thing that seemed to help me keep breathing. Whenever I began to feel overwhelmed with the circumstances of our lives, I felt the urge to type out my thoughts. I joked about it being free therapy. But for a long time, I had an enormous amount of underlying guilt associated with every minute spent at the keyboard.

I stopped talking about writing. I began to hesitate every time I was about to share my latest post. I downplayed any growth or progress made through the hobby I loved so much. I spent years like this, and I often went through phases when I gave up writing altogether. I would try to focus all my energy on being a better mother, a better wife, a better housekeeper, until the day I realized writing makes me a better mother, a better wife, a better housekeeper.

We Are Created by an Unimaginably Creative God to Be Creative

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