I woke up this morning, with images from the last 6 years of my life flashing past me.

Where I’ve been… what I’ve done. There’s so much to the story.

I’ve learned that life is not fair at times but it is always forgiving. Life gives us second, third, fourth chances. There are times when it takes away what matters to you. But you can always count on getting something to replace the void. It’s never a 1 for 1 exchange but instead a small token of appreciation.

I really can’t help myself from being in this retrospective space. Much of my research proposal is about designing a study to learn about women through their stories. It’s about finding a way to elicit their personal narratives so I can further understand about the construction of identities.

While I like being in this writing mode, it’s also hard work. Writing about yourself is a painful task. The reward is that it feels exhilarating and a little confounding.

Since 2009, my religion has been writing in my morning pages. I have hundreds of binder paper containing early morning thoughts that likely make no sense. Morning pages is my drug. It helps me get in the right frame of mind for the day. It keeps the internal critics and naysayers away so I can create.

I wake up, make coffee, put pen to paper and write longhand, stream of consciousness style. I also try to write in a gratitude journal to remember the things I’m grateful for. I write in a daily diary to capture the small things contributing to my day.

And I write here… about my travels with Butters & Bambi, the life lessons I actively seek out, the challenges I try to dodge but end up hitting face first. I am not sure where these writings will take me. But I think there’s a reason for it.

There’s a deep desire to write. Since I don’t know what the answer is, I just keep writing.