Why this is called a journal
Not a blog. Not a newsletter. A place to exhale.
It’s not a blog. It’s not a newsletter, exactly, though it arrives in your inbox like one.
It’s a journal, and I want to share why.
A journal is a place to think. To reflect. To process something you’re still inside of, without needing to have arrived at the answer yet. To practice the language for things that don’t have clean language. To write toward understanding instead of from it.
That’s what this is. I’m not writing from the other side of anything. I’m writing from the middle — the same middle you’re probably in — and trying to name what I see.
But there’s something this journal can do that a private one can’t: it can show you that you’re not alone in here.
That’s perhaps the most important thing. That someone else is untangling the same threads. Dissecting the same contradictions. Interrogating the same expectations that arrived, unasked for, the moment you became a mother. Raging at the same things. Grieving the same things. Sometimes laughing at the same things, because what else are you going to do.
This is a place to exhale. To be seen without having to perform okayness. To release — a little, incrementally, imperfectly — the weight of carrying it all without anyone noticing how heavy it actually is.
We hold it together here. We listen. We don’t fix and we don’t judge.
And when you’re ready — when the reflection turns into I want to do something with this, when the awareness becomes a hunger for actual change — you’ll know where to go.
For now, just read. You’re not alone in here.