There is something wrong with me.

 

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There is something wrong with me.

For months, I have dreamed about writing my first Mommy Adventurer blog post.

However, as much as I have wanted to do this—as much as I have daydreamed about traveling the world with my four little girls and writing about our exciting adventures—*something* has been holding me back.

(Yep—it’s myself).

I keep making excuses for why I haven’t done it yet.

But, the truth is: I am scared.

Just fear.

And, since I really and truly believe that fear is an invitation to discover something new about yourself if you will just turn and face it—an invitation to grow—I know I have to be honest and figure out why I am so freaked out about just putting my thoughts onto page.

And, since I am trying to be a brave, badass “Mommy Adventurer,” when a big part of me kind of wants to crawl under the covers and eat tater tots (long story), I need to figure this mystery out so I can get about the business of doing awesome things that scare that crap out of me.

My Inner, Whiny-Fear Monologue:

I’m afraid that what I have to say won’t be interesting.
OMG—What if open myself up and everyone hates me?!

(Or worse—they think I am a really sucky writer).

What if I can’t turn my dreams into reality? There is a chance I could fail.

(And then let my daughters down).

What if I actually can’t trek around the world with four kids?

(I mean—it does kind of sound crazy—but the good crazy).

What if I offend someone by wanting all of these things and telling my story? I mean, someone, somewhere on the planet, might think it is inappropriate for a widow of not-quite a year to want such things. Travel, love, excitement, adventures—a BIG, beautiful life for me and my girls.

See how much you learn when you just suck it up and face your inner critic?
(That was said with so much love…I actually <3 my inner critic)!

So, now that all of that is out of the way…

Losing my husband of 17 years, the only man I have ever loved, the way that I lost him—I still can’t believe that part of my story is real, to be honest.

There are parts of it that I will probably never be able to share.

The vacuum left by his absence is so very vast.

I was unbearably sad when he died.  And, then I got really pissed.

Being pissed felt better.

And, that opened up a space for life and potential to rush in.

I slowly began to open into the pain instead of distracting myself and closing off.

I started imagining what it would feel like to use the tragedy to make me appreciate life more—to savor every second, take risks, and listen to the loud whispers of my heart which warned against putting off living until I felt “normal.”

I have done things this year that would have amazed and terrified the old me.

I climbed a mountain (seriously—with my bare hands—and I am afraid of heights), went surfing in the Pacific ocean, took my oldest daughter to Paris to see the Mona Lisa—on her 10th birthday (I was pretty sure we were going to starve because no one would be able to understand me and so packed lots of protein bars), drove a red, mustang convertible way too fast down a California highway with the top down, went to Seattle to meet my idol Tim Ferriss, interviewed author Neil Strauss about the creative process, completed a 13.5 mile Spartan Beast Race (and, I used to get winded walking up the stairs…).

I have cried an ocean’s worth of tears and held my babies while they cried rivers of their own. I’ve gotten out of bed in the mornings to make them breakfast when I just wanted to go back to sleep.

I’m still messed up and have messed up, plenty. 

But, I’m working hard at knocking down the barriers inside of myself that make me want to hide.

Like writing this blog post.

Which, for some reason, has been scarier than many of the other things I’ve done this year.

I’m a writer who has barely written for eleven months.

Writing has always felt like coming home to me, but I have felt a little like I didn’t even know what street I lived on this year. I am finding my way back, and in the process, discovering what this new me, my new “home,” will look like now.

And, writing these words feels a little like walking down the path to my new front door.

Love & Adventures,

Amanda

xxx