Sometimes I think I’m just too old for new beginnings. Usually, those are the days when I’m overwhelmed with trying to keep up with the social media I do in marketing my work, writing two or three posts under a deadline, connecting with folks I want/need to know through LinkedIn and other platforms, writing a pitch to a media outlet or corporation, and crafting an outline for my next book; oh, and being a wife, mother, daughter, grandmother, friend, sister, etc., etc. to everyone in my life.
I think about what I’ve got to do and wonder how the heck I got here. And then, I realize ten years ago, I was doing none of that stuff. Some of it, like creating a newsletter and sending it out via Mail Chimp (what does that even mean?), I wasn’t even doing six months ago.
My life, like those of, well, everyone on the planet, has changed exponentially over the last ten years, forcing me (okay, dragging me kicking and screaming) into new beginning after new beginning. If I’m being honest, I’m often exhausted. I’m also anxious that I’m not keeping up, not serving my best interests or those of anyone I know. But then, I realize I’m also excited—by what I’m doing, whom I’ve met, and where I’m going, even though I have no idea where that is.
Then, of course, I have the one day a week when it all stops, thanks to the patter of the little feet of my two-year-old granddaughter as she flings herself into my arms, followed by her little brother, carried into my home by his momma or daddy, for a day at “Franny’s house!” Those days involve Play-Doh, pretend, mac and cheese, silly songs, and sweet kisses—everything else be damned.
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