Listening to: ♫ You’re Dead by Norma Tanega

I have exactly nine months.

Nine months to nest. Nine months to prepare. Nine month to bloom.

I’m pregnant with my new project. I will center myself around it, and invite creativity and freedom inside of me.

After all, I will be fifty years old next year. In exactly two hundred and seventy four days. And I have spent most of my life already living for other people. Both people I love and people I don’t even like. I’ve been self-sacrificing my time for a long while, right?

The worst part is that no one could have forced me. I just imitated the example I witnessed from my Mom. She was self-effacing and running around doing everything for the people around her—and it killed her. She became ill just as she entered retirement… and never got to enjoy life on her own terms.

This freedom I am seeking, this is the ultimate lesson from Mom. Her ultimate gift to me. It made me realize that this is the only years left I have got.

I’m already plagued by a lot of health and mental health problems. Neurodivergence and chronic illness are not helping. Depression? Anxiety? Well… No need to explain those—everybody knows how crippling they are.

Having two disabled children is not freeing my time either. But I believe I can find the space and time I desperately crave, now that my raising work is pretty much done with them. They’re quite autonomous—my pride and joy. They still need me on a regular basis and will probably never leave the nest. However, I can enjoy my home with my family, and still choose to take the time to cultivate my personal, secret garden.

I’m putting myself first now.

My health. My mental health. My aspirations. My creativity. My projects.

It’s damn time.