My first day of kindergarten I came home from school and announced, “They didn’t teach me to subtract or to write. This is a waste of time. I’m not going back.”
I went back.
My relationship with math never got much better.
I learned to write. I fell in love.
When I was small, it was in crayon.
When I was older, I wore pencil after pencil down to a nub.
Through the years, I filled journals and notebooks with my hopes and dreams. And really emo poetry about butterflies.
When my baby girl got sick, I first published my words for other people to read.
When I had my strokes, the doctors warned that I’d never be able to communicate again.
I remember sitting at a window while a therapist held a pen waiting for my brain to form sentences out of the words trapped inside.
I still find ways to communicate.
Days have gone by.
Many words breathed new life.
I helped my 10 yo build her first website.
Some have warned against letting my daughter have too much freedom with her words. I understand that.
But I also wonder where my creative soul would be if there had been someone to feed it encouragement and foster its deepest craving.
I want to be that for her. I want my kids to always know their dreams are important and worth chasing. At any age.