The Tension Between Dreams and Reality
By: Rachel Rupert
Tags: Passion, Motherhood, Writing

Photo by Alex Pasarelu on Unsplash

I often find myself in an endless internal struggle. It always seems that passion strikes me at the most untimely of circumstances. My passion for writing never truly disappears, like the nearly faded embers of a fire that although dim, still produce a dull red glow. Then all of a sudden, something will stir me back up and it ignites into a strong flame, a force that drives itself against the grain of my soul; a constant beating wind on the door of my mind. It’s an itch, an irritant, a curious tickling.

I dream, constantly.

My mind walks down pathways of potential topics, stories, articles to be shared. I know they are in there, words waiting to be spelled out and put in order. Inevitably, when they bubble up to the surface of my mind, tiny hands come strolling by, pulling my mind in the opposite direction.

This is my reality; the dreams I have, though they are important to me, don’t hold top priority in my life. Not because they aren’t worthwhile, but because this season of life so severely limits my ability to spend the time necessary to produce them.

Why? It’s simple. Motherhood.

Motherhood was a dream all in its own, one that I proudly carry. It’s simultaneously the most fulfilling and degrading, relentless and joyous job I’ve ever had. Regardless of how many stories, encouragements, or words of advice you receive — nothing can prepare you to fully understand what it means to be a mother, until you join the club and become part of this group of strong, sacrificial women.

There have been times where I’ve resented motherhood. The moments are fleeting, but they do come. Times when I’m frustrated that I’m really wasting my time and energy doing the most fruitless and mundane tasks when my efforts would be better spent at my desk, writing. It’s been hard enough with one child; now with my second coming in actual days, how am I ever going to find time to dream when my child rearing duties are doubled? Will my brain even be able to hold anything worthwhile, or will it only hold on to what items we need from the grocery store, or a running to-do list of chores? What happened to all of my dreams, are they still there?

I’m caught in the tension of holding on to who I was and giving in to the full demands of being a mom. My identity existed long before that positive pregnancy test, yet each day I feel the tension for it to fade away. I know, I know; these days are fleeting, I’ll have time some day, and I’ll wish I could turn back time and be right back where I am now. I get it. This time is precious. Don’t get me wrong, it really is. That’s why I’m still here; that’s why I spend my afternoons baking cookies, painting, and playing barbies.

I refuse to let my passion fade, in any season. Even if it takes extra sacrifice. Even if it means the work is incomplete, the writing mediocre at best, the thought imperfectly communicated.

Motherhood is a glorious thing; a sloppy, messy commitment. Writing is a dream, a passion, and a piece of my identity. As they reluctantly fuse together, I’ll rest in the tension of my unfulfilled dreams and my beautiful, child-filled reality.