So I haven’t been blogging much lately.
It’s definitely not for lack of material; I have a good dozen blog posts swirling around in my head, dying to recorded and unleashed out into the internets. Instead of writing one of them down, however, I’m writing about why I’m not writing much.
‘Cuz that’s how I roll.
The plain and simple truth is…I am happy. I am happy and I am just getting busy with the business of living. CBG has only been here four nights, and honestly, having him here is better than anything I have ever imagined. We are settling into a comfortable, easy, loving domesticity of shared chores, laugh-til-our-sides-ache family dinners, and waking up with a smile next to the warmth of my man every single morning.
Funny how when we’re happy it’s a lot tougher to get down to the business of blogging. I think a lot of people can relate to misery more than they can to overwhelming contentment and happiness, and so part of me feels almost guilty writing about how good life is right now.
But then that voice in the back of my mind pipes up. The voice that reminds me of where I was just four years ago — freshly separated from my husband (though still miserably living under the same roof), struggling with my community of “friends” (who were actively adding to my misery instead of helping), drowning in depression, unemployed, weighed down with self-doubt. I have fought and scratched and worked my way to where I am today. I shouldn’t feel guilty for being here at all — because I have earned it. There have been many, many times in the last four years when I never expected that I would get to where I am today. And now that I am, I intend to enjoy every single moment of it.
Which is why I haven’t been writing about it as much as I would like. I’m far too busy soaking it all in.
I’ll write more soon, I promise. There are too many stories — lovely moments — not to share.