Finding My People

Mama Blogger Starting Over on Substack

I fight inside my head between the desire to grow my audience as a writer, write a memoir, and writing just because it’s a part of who I am. I grew a large blog audience without a goal other than to make others like me feel less alone. I didn’t collect data or email addresses.

I’m starting over here (on Substack). So far, my blog audience has not translated over here the way I hoped it would, but that’s okay. I’m older. I have lived a whole life. And as Beyonce says in her remake of “Jolene,” “I raised this man and raised his kids.” Now, I have more wisdom to share.

This post was inspired by this note from Tom Kueglar

Writing is a compulsion, a necessity, an extension cord to my brain. It helps me remember what I think and slows down the never-ending thoughts that plague me. It’s my free, always-accessible therapy. I have to do it. It helps me breathe.

The added pressure of earning money from art is like a mixed bag of nuts. We know we only like the pecans and the walnuts, yet we torture ourselves by trying to eat the cashews and peanuts, too.

Many of us have been conditioned not to waste. Never throw anything away that has value. We can’t afford that. Not eating the entire bag would be a waste.

Why can’t we eat the ones we enjoy and leave the rest?

Why can’t we write just because we love it?

It’s because we live in a capitalistic society that conditions us to feel like we are wasting time on our art if we aren’t earning anything from the time we invest in it.

I admit that being paid for my writing is validating, especially since my work for half of my life has been unpaid. 

The first time I received a paycheck for a piece I wrote, I was excited! It gave me a boost of confidence. I thought…hey, maybe I’m not just writing into an abyss, like no one is listening. No one cares because my writing is mediocre at best. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m totally winging it. 

Are you even a real writer if you don’t have a bit of impostor syndrome?

My unpaid work as a full-time mother to three boys, two of whom are autistic, and being a caregiver for my mother for the last 14 years is vital, important, necessary, all-encompassing work. It’s 24/7 and doesn’t include paid time off, paid time on, or an annual bonus. (although, the last time my husband got a bonus from work, I told him I deserved one, too. he listened.) A girl has to speak up to get what she deserves. It’s never too late to start.

I chose my role as mother twice by giving birth, and I chose my bonus son by marriage. I took my role seriously when it turned out that two of my sons had special needs. I did everything possible to give them the best possible outcome as adults. I had yet to learn how the role would completely change my identity. And that, my friends, is when I changed my mind. But it turns out you can’t trade the kids back in for a more exciting life. They come here all cute and cuddly. They suck you in and make you fall in love. And then they turn into teenagers. The cuteness is no longer enough.

Becoming my mother's caregiver was another layer on the cake I did not choose. It became my responsibility when I was already overwhelmed raising high-needs teens while my husband traveled for work regularly. With no additional family support system in Texas, I had no choice but to figure it out and make the best of it. Ten years later, when having her in the house became too much for me to handle, I found her a Senior Independent Living apartment around the corner from me. It was an excruciating choice to have my mother leave my house, but it was a choice between sinking or swimming. I chose to swim.

In 2009, I started a blog, "Karen Wesley Writes -Confessions." I wrote it throughout the crazy years when I was raising my sons through adolescence and transition to adulthood and the years my mother lived in my house.

The compassion fatigue became heavy. I was sinking into depression. I had very little time for myself or adult social contact on a day-to-day basis. When your kids are autistic, friends come and go pretty quickly. People don’t understand the demands and how little energy and capacity you have left. Writing helped keep my head above water.

The blog was minimally monetized. I earned pennies for the time I put into it. I was doing well just to get it written, but I didn’t have the energy or thought to maximize my earning potential.

I didn’t worry that the writing wasn’t pretty and perfect, but it was hella honest. I didn’t hold back. Half the time, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I just spilled words onto the page through my tears. One might say my writing style was, “I ain’t Willy Wonka. I don’t sugarcoat shit.” It may seem like I wrote some of it with my eyes closed or drunk because my self-editing skills were close to non-existent. It all improved over time. Especially the being drunk part. Ha! I don’t really get drunk. However, wine or cocktails did replace dinner on some nights. After taking care of everyone, I often had no energy or appetite. I know this wasn’t healthy, but it did help me cope.)

I developed a loyal readership of thousands of people all around the world. I am just short of a million all-time views. It became a built-in support system for me and many who were walking in similar shoes. I created two parenting support communities on Facebook –one public, the other private. Being an autism parent can be isolating and lonely.

The support groups are one of the accomplishments of which I am most proud. They are a safe place to share, laugh, cry, scream, and celebrate small victories. My primary goal was to help parents like me feel less alone in the world and to create awareness and understanding of autism—how it looks different on every single person affected by it, right down to the two brothers I was raising.

There is a degree of shame in the fact that I gave up so many parts of myself, including financial power, autonomy, and individuality, to put my family first. My work is powerful and necessary but came at significant personal costs.

So now that I can breathe a little, I have an itch—a feeling that I need to catch up to regain my financial power and independence.

When my husband says things like, "When you take off as a big-time published writer, we will be able to do…a. b. and c." I cringe at the thought. There is no guarantee I will "take off." When and if I get published or self-publish, I don't think it will miraculously fill up all the holes I have been bleeding from for years.

I know his intention is to encourage and let me know that he believes in me, but it feels like another level of pressure on top of the pressure I already put on myself.

I have a small personal income now. Even this minimal earning feels freeing. I have been offered a second part-time job starting in August. I am still determining where the energy will come from. Some nights, I'm so tired that I feel tired enough for the next day, too.

Still, I am torn between the need for validation and the desire for some quantifiable value for all the time I dedicate to writing now. In a way, I think I should be entitled to do whatever the hell I please at this stage in my life, even if that’s just taking a nap and completely retiring from hustle culture. I have given more than my fair share to others.

I'm 59 years old. I'm awake after years of walking around half asleep on automatic pilot.

I remind myself that I've been in a partnership for 30 years. We have worked together. “We” have saved and built a life together. I need to release the feeling that because his work was paid and my work was not, it has no value.

You can know something to be true but still have difficulty fully absorbing its truth.

As far as finding my people for my new writing adventures, I trust that I have built an audience of loyal readers before. I will do it again. I will find them, and they will find me.

And hopefully, I will earn more than a few pennies.

I thank you so much for taking the time to read my words. A special shout-out to my paid subscribers. You are a validation for this work. Becoming a subscriber, commenting, and sharing are also great ways to let me know I’m not shouting out into the abyss.

One more thing: You can always make a one-time donation, or as I like to call it, give me a well-deserved bonus or buy me a coffee.