My powerful me ...

"I'm trying to be my powerful me. It’s in there, but I have to find the strong part underneath the layers of ‘I'm shit. I'm never going to go anywhere!' " -- Teri Hatcher, 2005

I love that quote. I have always related to Teri (and not just Lois) on some level, and this is representative of that. I completely understand what she's saying. But while she finds her powerful self in front of the camera (and, apparently, in non-Botoxed photos on Facebook) I have found mine through words.

When I'm writing, I am my powerful me.

As I have said before, I started my blog in the aftermath of my miscarriage. I wanted -- no, needed -- an outlet to work through my feelings in a way that fanfic wasn't going to provide. Sure, I still worked on stories, and I maintain that "This Ain't a Love Song" wouldn't have be nearly as strong without such personal pain behind the words, but once I got pregnant, I basically stopped writing.

I have wondered if it has to do with writing being my coping method for my infertility and it not being needed anymore, but that's not it. I didn't know what the issue was. I started stories, but didn't finished them. I blogged, but infrequently. My sister-in-law joked that The Daily Pinky should be called The Monthly Pinky.

And eventually, I realized, that in doubting my professional self-worth, I had lost my voice.

Ironically, for all the talk about gatekeeping and being the voice of the people, journalism doesn't give you much of one -- at least not personally. Being a reporter or editor means you do just that -- report or edit. You report on the number of fatalities in a crash; you write a headline about the record-setting temperature; you mention the score of the game, but not that the team played like crap. With few exceptions, you don't get to have an opinion.

Side note: Working in Editorial is one of those exceptions. I absolutely loved subbing over there, and took any shift offered, even though it meant being at work before 10 a.m. I had so much fun writing headlines that brought out my snarky side, my emotional side, my congratulatory side. I got to use exclamation points! I got to have fun! (I even did an entire column of letters to the editor with "Lois and Clark" episode titles worked into the headlines. A link to it ended up posted on the ficboards with an OMG!!!! not knowing that a fellow member of the fandom was responsible. Ha.)

But back to the point. When you're a journalist, you have to establish your own voice independent of your career. But when you're a journalist, your personal and professional lives often tend to run together. So when you're not a journalist anymore -- at least in the "here's your paycheck" kind of way -- you're effectively silenced.

Fortunately, since regaining some professional confidence -- and starting my month of blogging -- I am really and truly loving writing again. It's not headlines; it's not football; it's not fanfiction. It's life. It's putting my feelings down on paper so that I can one day reflect upon them, whether that be next month or in 10 years. I may not have a job, but I do have words. Lots of them, it turns out.

And I can't express how much I appreciate the support of those who have been with me as I work through my issues and express my fears and share my proudest moments and most mortifying memories. Some of you have been with me since the beginning, and some more recently, but it really is a thrill to know that ANYONE is reading what I have to say, since that was never even my objective.

On some level, it's reminiscent of my days in newspapers. Seeing someone reading a copy of The Times in Starbucks or on a plane -- and knowing that I had edited some of those stories and written some of those headlines -- always ignited a spark of joy. Sometimes now, I admit, it sparks a wistful feeling.

I have been reading a lot of blogs lately and quite honestly am blown away by some of them. The insight, the emotion, the imagery that these women evoke through words is awe-inspiring. And then I look at my own blog and shake my head. I'm no superhero. I don't have a captivating tale to tell or a message to save the world. I'm just here, plugging along as a wife, a mom, a friend. A journalist, a miscarriage survivor, a bargain hunter. But I'm OK with that.

One of the good things about blogging late at night (other than the peace and quiet and ability to watch fabulously terrible shows like "Hellcats" that 3 a.m. affords) is that I have all day to think about what I am going to write. I naturally spend a lot of time wracking my brain (and bugging Chris) for decade-old details in "The Story of Us," but I have found that my internal filter is in overdrive these days.

Every post starts with me weighing the merits of blogging about whatever it is; whether it fits with the day's theme; whether it's too much or too little information to have any lasting impact; whether photos are too personal. I walk a fine line between wanting to invite you into my life and guarding my family's privacy. I'm not going to discuss my sex life or admit my weight, but I'm also not going to NOT talk about the trainwreck I married into, or be specific about what went down in the hallowed walls that border Fairview Avenue.

It's relevant.

It's part of the story.

It's me.

And I thank you for coming along on this journey.