The Rowdy Stroudy's: My Letter To Momastery

Dear Glennon (of Momastery),

Last night I met you. You probably won't remember me from every other face in the crowd, but after I heard you speak, and after I waiting in line for a good 1 1/2 hours just to meet you face to face, I giggled like a school girl when you gave me a hug like you KNEW me. You did that for everyone. Every person who stood in your line waiting for you to sign their book--you hugged and smiled at as though we were your best friend.

Thank you for that.

They gave me a cute index card while we waited in line and said I could write my story to you if I wanted. I laughed a little and then started to write as I leaned on the bookshelf recommending the latest self-help book (so ironic) and I tried to spill my guts out on 5 lines. I didn't do so well. So I kept my card and threw it away later that night...it just didn't have enough room to say what I wanted to say.

So here, on my humble blog, I write my passionate story for you to read. Here--I have more than 5 lines on which to pour out my heart.

You see, I used to write. Before the glory that was the Internet I wrote as a girl (even winning an 8th grade award-yippee!). I come from a line of authors and I just knew it was in my blood to do so. However, I suddenly grew up and found a different life of young love and marriage and a baby in the carriage, so time just came and went without a single word written. Then, after I lost myself for a year once my daughter was born, I began to write again because I realized that I didn't want to remain lost. This child that I brought from my womb was so tragically magical. She gave me the greatest gift a mother could ask for--the opportunity to raise her--and in the same breathe that achingly bore her--I lost a part of me that was so fragile and suddenly so foreign that I couldn't exactly remember what it was or when it had disappeared. Then, as though the clouds parted, I began to write again. I wrote personal stories. Essays of motherhood and how she made me laugh, how my boobs would never be the same, and how losing her for 10 minutes in the chaos of Old Navy stopped my breath so fast and so hard that I have yet to recover.

And then my son was born. I lost myself for another year feeling that I might not recuperate--and then in a swoosh of a miracle WHAM came the blog world. Thank God for such a gift--where I could record my journey and share it in a way that more than just me...could see.

I have tried to be honest on this blog. I have often been horrified at exactly how honest I have been, and yet the publish button has remained strong because I have believed so passionately that there is another soul who needed to read what I have written. They needed to hear about my heartache when my husband was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. They needed to hear about my pain as I realized that my son was delayed in speech. They needed to hear how inferior I felt to so many women out there and how imperfect my life was and how I just barely make it out of bed some days. And also, they needed to hear how there have been moments of pure joy and how fiercely I love my husband and children...and am learning to love myself. And how we are all the same.

But time went on and gradually this past year I have made myself believe that no one cares to hear my story anymore. It wasn't really for them anyway--it was therapy for me and how dare I believe otherwise. I take pretty pictures. I throw gorgeous parties. I share one of the silliest tips in the world about freezing spinach in ice cube trays for smoothies and Pinterest goes viral. And that is all this blog is good for anymore. So why write?

And then last night...I met you. I watched in awe as a crowd of women simply adored you. And how strange that I was one of them? We really were all the same and not alone--just as you said. I wanted to be you for a second--so totally adored--and then I realized that adoring YOU was enough. I didn't need to crave to be the center of attention because learning to be attentive to myself through you was enough. Remembering that love is more powerful than fear was enough. Being in a line of women anxiously waiting to just get a hug from you was enough--because in some way we were all the same. We all represented the same cause--which is to be loved and accepted and unconditionally understood by those around us without judgement.

Thank you for giving me such a gift of understanding.

Thank you for reminding me that I need to write--even if it just for me to read.

Thank you for making me feel like your best friend for 3 minutes--because those 3 minutes rejuvenated me more than an entire year of reading self-help books could.

Thank you teaching me that Love Wins. And even if it feels like this race is still in progress...

I do so love a challenge.

Your BFF,