The website I contribute to regularly is about to disappear. A source of professional and personal support, as well as income, is going to evaporate, just like that.
I'm a freelance writer, so I should be used to this, but I'm not. I have been so lucky from the start because Parent Co. is amazing. I've published other places, but I really dug in with them because of my amazing editor, their streamlined process, and their unending support for their authors. Plus, I loved their website even before I wrote for them.
I handled the news really well. Just kidding, I freaked the hell out when I received the email on Monday. D wasn't home yet, and I was in the house with the kids suddenly dealing with tunnel vision and dry heaves. This was a gut punch, a loss, cause for immediate mourning. I calmed down long enough to realize this loss hurt for a multitude of reasons, and I was going to have to face all of them.
1. I like bringing in money. We don't depend on my income, thank God, but it's nice to have and I like making it. I like being paid consistently for what I do. Yes, I can do this with other sites, but I had a process that worked, and I LOVE my routines.
2. I have some serious identity confusion at times. I know I'm a writer whether my work is being published or not because I write. I know this is not the only place that has accepted my work. However, the loss of this place made me feel like I lost my writer identity somehow, and I need my writer identity. I love being a mom and a wife, but I need to write and to view myself as a writer because it's what I do. Before I talked myself through the whole you're-still-a-writer-thing, I felt untethered.
3. I like it when things are linear. I worked a couple of years to establish my writing, and it went well. I found a place I loved and did work for them. Nice gig. This is not the freelancer's real life, and I should have known that since every freelancer on the planet will tell you all the time. I didn't listen because I didn't want to. I am at the starting-over place—luckily not totally over because I have made contacts and built my resume—but I do not love the two-steps-back process.
4. I love the people I work for and with. I submitted to Parent Co. because I read their articles and found them beautiful and useful. They spoke to me as a parent in a way that I needed to be spoken to. I was so intimidated that I hesitated to submit my work, then when the first article was accepted, I assumed it was a fluke and was scared to try again. I finally did after my editor reached out to me, and now I have around 50 articles that have found a home there.
Luckily, the writers and my editor (is it weird that I'm still claiming her?) have come together and vowed to never leave each other. The support has been more than I thought was possible.
Everyone talks about how enlightening and freeing it feels to be pushed out of a routine and into the scary places, but here's the truth: first it feels like shit, like a sucker punch, like your skin is on fire and you are running from yourself.
I cried a lot. I still cry a lot, even though we're going on day five of the news. I cry because something beautiful is ending. I cry because beautiful things are already being planted. I cry because I feel taken care of by people I've never even met in person, and I need that right now. I am zero percent useful in a crisis. I hate this about myself, but it is a fact. One friend told me to just be bossy during a crisis and it would calm me down, but what would I say during my bossy time? Don't follow me, I'm just running in circles with no clue? This is as horrible as it seems, I can feel it? I just threw up in my mouth? Nobody needs to hear from the person who can only bring themselves to this, which is me.
Other writers have created lists and are encouraging all of us to get back out there and own it. They are reminding us kindly of all the waiting rejection but also of the possible success. They are whispering persevere.
And I will. The first night I just cried into a plate of cheesy bacon fries and sent an email to my friend that said, "I'm not having a crisis. Wait, yes I am." D talked me off the ledge about 400 times, only to have me start crying again five minutes later.
My friend sent an email back that said "you're gonna continue to rock out with your lady c*ck out (that's a colloquialism. If you have a lady c*ck I think I would have heard about it by now)", and I laughed for the first time since I got the news. I will rock out, eventually.
In honor of a wonderful site that gave me so much love and support, here are three pieces that hold a special place in my heart that were lucky enough to find homes on Parent Co. Check them out before the site is gone for good at the end of the month.
The Inconvenience of Girls Who Want
I outed myself as a survivor of rape and sexual assault in this one, though you would have to notice the word we instead of them to catch it.
I don't believe victims of rape and sexual assault have to out themselves. It took me over a decade to tell anyone I was raped, and I still don't share the details. However, it was important for me to tell at this point in my life, and this article was the beginning of that. I felt freer once it was published, and I am so grateful my editor saw fit to include it on the site.
Raising an Orchid Child in a Dandelion World
When I found out one of my kids was an orchid, life made sense in a way it hadn't previously. I was able to pull together all of the research I had been doing when I wrote this one, and it gave me an opportunity to get everything straight in my head.
Can a Mother be Undeserving of Her Child's Love?
Originally titled "When Love is a Homemade Necklace, and I'm Not Worthy", this is the first piece that I ever had published on Parent Co. I am still way too careless with my children's love, and I try to do better every day. Putting this piece out there made me feel both vulnerable and accepted, even when I'm screwing up this mom thing.
May you go forth and persevere in February and every day, no matter what life hits you with. Onward.
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