A mother, a wife,
an aspiring writer.

There was once a little girl who believed that if she did everything right, nothing could go wrong. So she carefully followed the path society weaved for her. She did well at school, graduated, and got her degree before landing the perfect job. In her mid-twenties, she was right on track, the only thing missing was a dream home and a couple of kids, ideally a boy and a girl. But then something very strange happened.

On a morning like any other, just before leaving for work, her belly clenched. It felt suddenly tight, like a fist. Then her knees, they turned weak and unsteady, making it difficult for her to walk. At first she thought little of it and forced herself to work, but there, instead of getting better, her uneasiness progressed. She had just signed a very official indefinite contract and couldn’t allow herself a sick leave so soon. But in just a matter of days, her stomach cramps turned into violent vomiting, and the weakness in the knees escalated to a point she could barely stand. It was as if her body wanted her to stop working there, immediately.

Everybody told her she was crazy for thinking of leaving such a perfect job, but she felt like she didn’t really have a choice. The agony she was in made working there unbearable. So not only did she leave her job, she left her home as well. In the next 7 years she moved 7 times, embarking on a self-discovery journey that launched her through Germany, Luxembourg, the many boroughs of London, and finally the dreamy Edinburgh. Through all that time, and experiences, good and bad, she always resorted to writing.

She began wondering if the life she was trying to build for herself even suited her. Since she couldn’t hold on to the perfect job, was she fit to be a wife? A mother? 

Everything went terribly wrong before finally turning up right. 

After years of pondering over how I should and shouldn’t live, and what I should or shouldn’t do, I had finally found my answer. It came in the form of a pregnancy test, an unexpectedly positive one. And I wasn’t just expecting one baby, but two, a boy and a girl. I couldn’t believe it. What are the odds that in the end I got just what I always wanted? The shock that came with the news was soon replaced by an infinite amount of joy. Suddenly, all the confusion, the doubts, and endless questions were finally answered. My gut feeling was right all along. I knew I wanted to become a writer, but I also wanted nothing more but to become a mother too. 

I wish I would’ve listened to my inner self more and ignored everything else. There is so much fuss out there over what women should do, that it has become impossible to tell the difference between your personal desires, and society’s ones. It is expected that as women, we not only excel in our careers, but that we raise our children in a certain way, while looking fabulous doing it. There are images of successful women and impeccable mothers everywhere, and I ignorantly aspired to become one of them. As if they really exist.

I am so, so tired of feeling wrong because I’m not exercising, and for having my nails chipped, and my hair unwashed. I don’t care if my children’s hair isn’t always combed, or if their socks don’t match. I have no fancy job to get back to, and my house is always a mess. But I don’t need to have a dream home, the perfect job, or perfect children to be happy, but most importantly, I don’t need to be perfect.