It’s been nearly 17 months since I moved to the UK. And it’s been 17 months since I last wrote in this blog – the blog for which I bought a domain name, *specifically* to make sure I stayed motivated to keep up with it. It was going to be the space where I gathered interesting stories about moving abroad and becoming a stepmum. It was going to keep the creative energies flowing so that I never got out of the habit of writing regularly. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Seventeen months later, I am unemployed. I am broke. I am working on just my second paid freelance piece. I earned my master’s degree, but it was far less fulfilling than I’d hoped. I am married. I am a mom. I am actually really bloody happy, but damn, I am struggling.

Life in England – specifically, the Black Country – hasn’t been anything that I expected. And I’m really good at adapting to the unexpected, but I’ve perhaps been stretched a bit too hard this last year and a half. Perhaps my brain and my body and my soul have gotten unmoored and wandered off in different directions.

I’m having a hell of a year. Photo by David Paul Photography

It’s a good thing my husband loves me immensely, because I am pretty sure most days when he looks at me, he wonders a bit how the competent and hard-working professional from New York morphed into some sort of pathetic little alien with early onset dementia and acute laziness.

My gorgeous baby.

It’s gotta be the kid’s fault, right? I mean, if we’re talking about parenthood years, I’m not even in toddlerhood yet. And parents of toddlers are definitely forgiven for being distracted, tired and unmotivated. They are praised for just keeping their kid alive.

It’s hard to put into words, though, when it’s such a sneaky thing. On the face of it, I’ve had about 60 percent custody of a fairly self-sufficient now-10-year-old. I’ve only been employed part-time about 10 out of those 17 months. For about 10 months I was doing a master’s degree, with about a two-month break to get married and honeymoon.

Actually, even listing it that way makes me feel a teensy bit better. It is a lot, right? And it’s been a lot of very different things. Going back to school at 30 brings pretty significant mental challenges. Going zero to 60 from no parenthood to raising a 10-year-old boy, fitting into a previously single parent’s routine and learning and coping with the painful nuances of co-parenting – that brings a whole slew of other, really intense mental challenges. And don’t even get me started on the Black Country, where someone lied to me and told me we speak the same language, but it turns out I can understand French better than I can understand yam yam.

Did some stuff. Got that MA.

I set really high expectations for myself. I’m not a perfectionist in an OCD way (my husband scoffs loudly at both my housekeeping skills and my lack of punctuality), but I’m a perfectionist about what I want out of life. Basically, I want it all. And I don’t apologise for that, because I put my heart and soul into my work, my passions and my relationships. I thought I could excel at getting a master’s degree, working part-time and picking up freelance work along the way. I wasn’t sure whether I could excel at parenting, but I knew I’d give it everything I have, just like I’d give my relationship with my partner everything I have.

I thought I could meet my own standards, and well, it turns out I just couldn’t. I *hate* that I’m unemployed right now. Not only am I in the worst financial position I’ve ever been in, but being away from the work that I love has sucked all my energy and motivation away. Sitting around the house, I should be able to write freelance pitches left and right, build my baby social media consultancy, re-launch my Etsy store and certainly keep this blog up to date. I haven’t been able to do that, and I’m beating myself up over it.

So where do we find the balance between pushing ourselves to be the best, and remembering to be kind to ourselves? I’m not sure. I guess I’m starting with this blog post. A bit of a life update, and a glimpse into my scrambled brain. Perhaps it won’t be another 17 months before I write again, and perhaps next time it will be a witty anecdote about step-parenting, or even a scintillating piece of investigative journalism. I guess what I’m always learning is, you just never know what’ll happen next. Also, everything’s better with Prosecco.

Hiking with Prosecco (or champagne, I’m not fussy) is my favourite hobby.