I was in Chicago for a week for a conference and I learned a lot. Mostly about myself. I made a lot of connections, both professionally and personally, and I was happy for the experience.
I heard a colleague, someone I truly respect, tell me I was a memoir blogger. At first, I took a step back and almost got offended. Memoirs? Not me. I'm funny. I shoot it straight. I tell you about my life. I tell you about things I love. I tell you what I hate. I talk about things as I see them in life. I talk about my life, my marriage, and my family. I'm a lifestyle blogger. I don't write memoirs.
Then I thought about it with a clear head and realized that I do just that. I chronicle my life with emotion, good or bad. I tell you about my life. I put myself out there. And then I Googled it:
a record of events written by a person having intimate knowledge of them and based on personal observation.
an account of one's personal life and experiences; autobiography.
the published record of the proceedings of a group or organization, as of a learned society.
a biography or biographical sketch.
And so, the dictionary agrees. I'm a memoir blogger. I didn't set out to be the person that wears my heart on my sleeve, but apparently I am. It is what it is and there's no denying it now that it's been called out.
This post was going to be about the flowers I received tonight for no particular reason other than my husband was not very understanding or kind during my recent trip. This post should have highlighted the fact that he realized that he was wrong and bought me flowers. This post should have shown the beauty in our relationship, but instead, it revealed that I can't write without sharing details of my life. I can't just tell you a story without telling you the back end of that story.
The flowers are beautiful, they look wild and free against the sign that tells the story of my life. But they aren't as innocent as they look.
This past week, I went to a convention, 4 days out of 365 (that I spend taking care of my family for the other 361...24/7), and my husband made me feel guilty while I was there. He didn't mean to. He was lonely and wanted me home. But he did, and it worked. I felt horrible by day 4. And on day 6, he bought me flowers, because he was admittedly wrong. He's sorry, and he does support me, and I'll forgive him, but that moment, while he was lonely, sucked the fun out of my whole trip which was only meant to connect and grow my brand. It should have been fun. It was only 4 days. I'm a little sad. It will all be OK because where there is love, there is forgiveness.
It's my life and it's an open book. Sorry for the memoir. I guess I am what I am and I just can't change! My colleague, and my friend, was right. I guess I should keep writing from my heart. If you want to play along, keep stopping by because I appreciate you. If you want to dip on me and my memoirs, I completely understand.