I share a bed, a routine, a life with someone. We walked down the aisle with bated breaths and exhilarated hearts. Every day, I cook and clean for him; he works for me. Together we are figuring out this sensational thing called marriage, through shared silences over books or takeout dinner, through deep conversations on a comfy couch or on a foreign leafy terrace. I am a wife.
I gave life to a little someone. I change the nappies (yet again), prepare his milk (yet again), buy him a new book (yet again). I research and read and listen to parenting tips so that he grows up well and healthy. But most don't matter because this little one holds his own. I revolve around him. But just like the sun, it's he who gives me light. I am a mother.
I enjoy dressing up. I obsesses over the details. The kitchen and the home are my domains. I could talk to someone, anyone about the most intimate parts of themselves for hours on end. I like to stay home yet I also love to experience the world. I still handwrite letters and always save room for dessert. I am a woman.
So I live through all of that and then I write. To tell the stories, to find the answers, to exalt the memories. It's a difficult craft but it's my chosen one. It's how I remind myself to live a life based on my worthiness as a woman who is a wife, a mother, and her own self. Thank God for these words, for this exquisite art. And thank you for reading.