I’ve worn a lot of titles in my life: Professional ones like analyst, negotiator, supervisor. Personal ones like daughter, sister, cousin and my favorite of all: Mom . Until recently, I never really considered myself a “writer,” at least not in the career or professional sense of the word. Even though writing is what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. It’s what I’ve always loved doing. And now, it’s what pays the bills. I’ve kept a journal for as long as I can remember. Made lists of lists. Took detailed classroom / meeting notes. And don’t get me started on school supplies—oh lawd! The nerd comes out of me. It wasn’t until I turned 40 that I started to truly claim the title of “writer.”

I want to talk about the dreams we shelve, those aspirations we tuck away in the attic of our hearts while we're busy building a life for someone else. For me, that someone else was my son. And for about eighteen, maybe nineteen years, my answer to "Who are you?" was simple: " I'm his mom ." That was my identity, my purpose, my everything. He still is my everything, just in a different way now.