A writer is all I’ve ever wanted to be. Now, there was a deep-seeded ballerina stage, pockmarked with tutu-dreams begetting late teen years of summer study and bloody toes, but at the core, I’ve wanted to call myself a writer.
“But God, there are too many writers.”
“No. These are My fingerprints on you, daughter. Trust me alone.”
A voice for the voiceless, He says.
Voice? That I have plenty of: a thick Southern twang and opinion on everything, blog, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, journals on journals. Words, words, words. But in Your ransom of souls, You saved our gifts, too. Commissioning us and the talents in our pockets as PART of us to usher in Your kingdom. To go love. To go tell. “To bring Your kingdom to dark places.”
With words, we call out lies. Hamstring eating disordered thoughts with affirmations scrawled on post-its stuck on mirrors and months of recovery journaling. With words dry-erase tattooed on mirrors reminding my mind and body to hang on:
That life is worth the fight.
That He says He will rescue.
Bind up anxiety with stress management techniques communicated in countless handouts.
Steady marriages through garbled prayers spilled out over wood floors, prayers penned over emails and texts.
With words we record it all to love another one day.
To let her know she’s normal, somewhat.
That’s why I want to write. Why I want to breathe what I gathered from a decade of writing — editorial side, and years on the marketing and PR side — into other women. I will tell you what things worked, I will show you that I’ve fallen miserably only to be saved by grace.
This recovered perfectionist is on a mission to find rest and peace in a media-saturated world.
If there’s media CONTENT … and content means contain … well, then I want to contain what matters.