Working Mom Journal Entry

Journal entry:

Tell me where I am and what I’m doing. Tell me where I fit or where to go. I’m tired. I’m tired of working to be the best. Best mom, best wife, best friend. Work and inspire, clean and care, plan, promote, give, reach, teach, smile. Market, influence, funnel, write the newsletter, learn AI so AI can write the newsletter, dress in branding, live the brand- it’s what people will say about you. Make my anger matter, and change it into change for all, have the rage but make sure it’s well-spoken and looks pretty. Ask for my needs but don’t have expectations. Feel emotions but feel them in an empowered and acceptable way. Don’t be a mess but have a messy bun. Don’t control, don’t micromanage, but delegate. Let go of perfection but be perfect. Accept how others treat me but treat everyone else well. 

Be successful but self-care. Give but don’t get taken advantage of. Smile. Be polite. Say it true, speak my truth, but watch my back. Be the whistle blower but know that you’ll be a target. Make waves, but don’t make waves that make others or myself look bad. Always encourage other women, lift them up! Rise sister rise, while she uses daggers in my back for hand holds to climb. Nodding heads and plastic laughter, applause glowing green with jealousy as they wait for me to slip to fall, to land flat on my face. Stepping upon my back as they climb, climb, climb… rise sister rise. 

I give. I share. I encourage. I promote. I market. I cheer on. I sing praises and offer shoulders for tears to stain. Will I ever find the time and the space within myself or the world where being is being and doing nothing is enough. When taking a break doesn’t make back breaking piles of chores waiting for me as punishment. 

Does the climb end? Scrambling up a mudslide of responsibilities. Constantly sluffing off the ropes of those who are too afraid to lead as they lasso my efforts and pull themselves behind me. My children dragging on a sled, me as I trudge one step at a time. Smile. Smile. Smile. If it’s hard, don’t complain, if I complain I’m a victim. If I cry out for help, I’m a taker. 

Who is supposed to notice me but me? Who is supposed to know me but me? Alone is where I am most at home- with people is when I feel alone. 

Where is this life that I dreamt of? Where is this world that I thought I was part of? Has it ever made sense? Have I ever felt like I belong?