I currently have about 17 blog posts in various stages of completion.
I thought I would tell my story of how I came to have a blog. How I came to become something totally different that I was six months ago.
As you can read in this post, I have always liked words. I always like that initial, creative rush after you've processed the creative writing assignments in school. I like to write, but I never wanted to be a writer.
In middle school, I became very good at understanding people. They were fascinating. I could read between the lines and really understand why people did what they do. I was strong in the empathy department. That's when I decided to be a psychologist.
I majored in psychology for one semester. I slept through Intro. I figured if I couldn't stay awake through that class, I needed to explore other majors. I probably Googled "majors like psychology," I don't remember. I do remember going to the the social work department and changing my major. I then spent the next three & half years getting my social work degree-- focusing on child welfare.
After graduation, I moved about an hour & half away from home, and started working as a Child Abuse Investigator. After that I worked in hospice, and after that therapeutic foster care.
I was attempting to find a niche in social work that I could do. I felt that I did a good job in all those positions, but they made me miserable. Not the work, not the people I was working to help, not so much my co-workers, but the people I worked for.
My hubby calls this the "Peter Principle." It states, "You rise to the level of your incompetence." I was working for truly awful people-- really mean, careless, terrible people. People who shred records and ordered their subordinates to recreate them. People who lied to their superiors blatantly. People who had no earthly idea what in tarnation they were doing. Disclaimer: I have had some great supervisors, but their supervisors didn't always measure up.
So after being ignored about a home being potentially dangerous, also known as the final straw, I quit. I quit to be a stay-at-home mommy. I quit to become an expert in everything & nothing. I quit so that some day I could teach my son that there are some things you don't do for money. Did I keep working so that P could have more clothes than he could wear, more toys than he could play with, or trips to Disney World? Or did I quit so that we would have his Mommy, and know from early on what his parents thought were important? It was really a no-brainer in the end.
