A lifetime ago I was a writer

A lifetime ago I was a writer.

To write was to breathe and my thoughts and emotions would come crashing down in black ink onto barely lined paper so fast that I had hardly enough time to capture each and every one.

And then I grew up.

And now it’s hard. It’s hard for me to write from my heart. Something that came so natural for so long. That at times felt like a curse more than a blessing. For something that held me captive because until it was written I could not function.

But who am I now?

Somedays I feel like something is missing. Missing between the times of making money, the times of frivolous fun, the times of being a wife and a mother. And then what I realize is

What’s missing is me.