When giving myself grace meant I didn't write for three years

Sometimes I process big life events through writing and sometimes I don’t.

I moved to Qatar 2.5 years ago. In case you think I added half an year to the title to make it sound better a) yes I did and b) it took atleast 6 months to pack up a lifetime so it is still accurate.

I began writing seriously during the pandemic. Seriously as in, not for fun, but with fiercedetermination to not only write but get published. Not only get published but get published in America. Not only get published in America but win awards. Needless to say, I ended up needing anxiety meds by the end of it, but by George, I did it! (I have no idea who George is, but I read it in enough Enid Blytons to still naturally think it).

And then my husband moved countries, I solo-parented for 6 months, we had to sell everything in our home of a decade, and I left my birthplace to live in a foreign country for the first time ever. The will to write was buried and stomped on and I didn’t have time to care. I was so homesick and busy trying to figure out who to be and how to be in a new country that not pursuing my new found career as an author was the least of my worries.

Three years on, it still kinda is. But I miss it every day. I know I’m good at it but I’m also afraid of not being able to keep up the by now, very high standards and expectations that I had set for myself. I had reached that bar once. I couldn’t bear to fall below its reach now.

I called it giving myself grace. Being gentle with myself. Practicing being relaxed and unproductive. I still did plenty for the family. I planned overseas holidays with rigour. Researched activities we could do together in this new place. Asked questions like which doctor should I go to for…? or Can anyone recommend a Tennis coach? It’s not that I didn’t do things for myself. I spent hours watching reels, learning make up techniques and how to style winter wear. I invested energy in building new friendships. I tried colouring. Even painting. But they just didn’t spark joy.

I asked my husband yesterday, “What if I never write again?”

“Then it will be a damn shame,” was his reply.

I knew, and know, that writing is it for me. Last year, I told myself I would write my new book. I didn’t. This year, I am telling myself that I will just…write.

It’s hard. Between trying to get healthy by training at the gym thrice a week, and the subsequent fatigue and recovery, spending quality time with the husband and kids, managing everything by myself about half the time or more, writing feels like an indulgence I don’t have the energy for. It takes a lot out of me.

But hey, this is my first substack post. I wrote it in about 30 mins. And 30 minutes weekly is something I think I should be able to do. I hope to do.

And what is the beginning of a new year but new hope?