Today I’m struggling with the feeling of inadequacy. In the past if someone asked me what I did for a living, I would proudly tell them that I was a stay-at-home rock star. But today, today was different. Today, all three of my kids are in school. Telling someone I stay at home doesn’t feel like a glorious reply anymore.
I know I still do a lot—I’m the person that keeps busy. If I’m not writing I’m cleaning, fixing, volunteering, landscaping, budgeting (attempting to), homework helping, pet portrait painting, entire house painting, etc. I don’t allow myself a lot of down time—which is a shame because I LOVE to read.
Yet, for some reason, when I replied to that simple query, I felt down. Because I can’t very well call myself a professional writer—you have to publish to be professional. I can’t call myself an artist—I’ve given away all my paintings so far. I can’t hang onto the coattail of my college accomplishments anymore—nobody cares what I studied or what awards I earned.
In addition, the time I usually write has been eaten away by life-stuff the past few weeks. My writing feels disjointed, leaving me unsatisfied. That in itself is enough to put me in a bad place. Creativity left untended leaves a gaping hole that one can fall into. The cherry on top of my unwanted sundae: I haven’t gotten a single positive reply from the literary agents I reached out to.
I’m a realist. I know that patience and perseverance are the key to getting published. I’m stubborn enough to have written nearly seven books without having published a single one. That’s hundreds of thousands of words that have flown through my fingers—for nothing. The fact that I’m still plugging away is enough for me to believe in myself and my dream of publication. Just today, my patience with publication has disappeared, making me feel subpar.
If I am being completely honest with myself, I found my purpose nearly ten years ago when I had my first kid. I know I should feel accomplished that I’m raising three awesome kids (my husband gets credit here, too). My life is full and I should be focusing on that. It’s just…I’ve always wanted to be something more.
After all, when I was younger, I wasn’t satisfied to just play soccer. I had to swim, play softball, gymnastics, volleyball, track, take piano and art lessons; and I had to do well in school. I wasn’t satisfied with anything less. It should be no surprise to me that being a stay-at-home parent isn’t enough anymore.
So, today, it’s not enough. I feel inferior. Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow I won’t feel like I’m drowning in to-dos. I’ll look around and feel pretty stupid that I had a moment of self-deprecation.

I’m lucky to be a stay-at-home mom so I can tackle this crazy goal of mine before going back to work. I’m fortunate for the opportunity. And the next time someone asks me what I do, I won’t allow myself to hang my head with my reply.