I used to think writing was about having something to say. A clear idea, a neat thought, a sentence you could stand behind. Something you could shape into something else, then hand to the world like a finished thing.
Then I became a parent.
And now most days, I’m just trying to hold two thoughts at once: I love this, and I have no idea what I’m doing.
And suddenly, both writing and parenting felt like something else entirely—more like standing in a river than building a wall. You can try to hold it in place, but mostly, you just try to keep your footing and not lose sight of what’s beautiful in the current.
Writing’s taught me to stop rushing. I used to chase the end of the piece before I even knew what it was about. Now I try to just sit with it. Let the words knock around a while. Listen more than I talk. Sometimes what shows up isn’t what I planned, but it’s better. Or at least truer.
Parenting’s like that, too. You can’t hustle your way through a hard moment. You can’t talk a toddler out of their feelings. You just stay close. You kneel down. You wait. Sometimes you sing a song you don’t even like just to keep the edges soft.
I used to think I had to be brilliant to be a writer, or endlessly patient to be a good parent. But the longer I do both, the more I believe the opposite might be true. It’s the imperfection that lets something real in. The mess is where the light gets through.
I’ve had to let go of a lot. I don’t write like I used to. There’s no time for the perfect draft, the endless rewrites, the afternoons spent tinkering with commas. I write in the in-between now—in scraps and bursts, in the quiet corners of the day. Same with parenting. You make do with what you have. Cups of yogurt. A crumpled storybook. A little grace when you remember to grab it.
And most of it is messy. None of it is tidy. But I’ve started to think maybe that’s not the point.
Because both writing and parenting ask the same thing in the end: Did you pay attention?
Did you notice the way the line turned? The way the child looked at you when they thought you weren’t watching? The way something small cracked you open, just a little?
That’s the good stuff. That’s where the light gets in.
I write like a parent now. Tired, distracted, doing my best to love the thing in front of me.
And I parent like a writer. Looking for the story inside the moment. Even the weird ones. Especially the weird ones.
It’s not perfect. But it’s honest. And maybe that’s enough.
The CJBuzz 