I want this space to be a place of joy. A place for encouragement and dare I hope, a little inspiration.
Writing brings me joy. It centers me in ways that I never expected and lets me process all the things that my mind tends to jumble up into one giant, well, mess. I only wish that I had realized this penchant for writing words sooner.
I’ve rebelled for so long against the idea of sharing anything overly personal on this blog for awhile now and I don’t even know if it was a conscious decision. Sure, I’ve shared of the grief that I experienced in Fall of 2015 when I lost my grandmother and my aunt but not much else. This blog was quickly turning into a blog that was centered around grief and loss and I had skipped right on over the “getting to know you” stuff. If you scroll back through my archives, it’s almost laughable at how random and sporadic my posts were.
When I was in the midst of that season of loss, I can’t tell you how many moments of joy and gratitude there were between me and God. It was truly beautiful. So many of the promises that He made in Scripture were being played out in my life and for the first time, I felt true joy in the Lord and in His amazing strength. I was so overcome that I wanted to write about it. I wanted to share that with others but I began to try and do that in glossy, picture-perfect ways. I wanted my blog to look like so many of the other blogs out there and share things the way that so many others did. But in doing that, I skipped over one of the most important parts.
My archives are the perfect example of that. I went from superficial post to superficial post before suddenly diving into grief and how I was coping with that, without ever sharing any of the deeper, nitty-gritty details from the journey I took to get there. I had named my blog Messy Milestones and yet I wasn’t actually sharing any of the ordinary, messy details. I clearly hadn’t established a clear identity for Messy Milestones. But then again, had I even established a clear identity for myself?
Oh, identity…the eternal struggle of every twenty-something.
I feel as though I have lived a lot of life in my twenty-five years, but in some ways it feels like I haven’t really lived at all. I’m still living in my childhood home with my parents, something that I am immensely grateful for as I would not be able to pursue my dreams and my callings without their support. But on the flipside of that, I feel sometimes as though I’m missing a key piece of adulthood – the first apartment, the complete independence, and the struggles that inevitably go along with that.
I long for the freedom to be able to pick up and move somewhere new, even though I don’t really have a clue where that would be. I long for the freedom to decorate my living space with furniture I picked out and decor that matches my style, but thinking that makes me sound unappreciative of all that my parents are doing for me. I long for the day when I can have the career I want, live out this calling that I feel God has placed on my heart, all while documenting my story with these words that are swirling around in me.
Oh, how I pray that I’m not the only person struggling with this.