Life as a single mother is interesting. Or maybe strange is the better word. Strange because you can hold the entire world together for your child, your parents, your work, your pets, even your extended family – but when it comes to your own self, your own growth, there’s nothing.
Your teenager dictates your day without even realizing it. Parents still tell you how things should be done. Your boss sets deadlines. Even the dog looks at you at 6 a.m. like he owns the clock.
And in all of this, where is the space for your own dream?
I tell myself: Today I’ll work on the blog. Today I’ll open the manuscript. Today I’ll finally give shape to the book I’ve carried inside me for years.
But then real life floods in – errands, bills, school, groceries, appointments, chores. By night, I’m drained, scrolling reels like a zombie. And my dream, the one thing nobody else will ever fight for, goes back into the drawer.
The Rowling Question
Sometimes I wonder: how did J.K. Rowling sit in that café, day after day, broke, alone, a single mother herself – and keep writing?
I asked Arin Verma, the love of my life this once.
He said: “Rowling didn’t wait for the perfect day. She made the choice to write in the middle of chaos. She decided the world could survive without her for two hours, even if her guilt screamed otherwise. That’s the only difference between her and the thousands of women who also had stories but never finished them.”
When the Body Forces You
Because here’s the irony. When my gall bladder was close to bursting and I got operated on, the doctor didn’t give me a motivational speech. He gave me an ultimatum:
“Stay this way and come back in a few days for your heart or liver. Or lose weight.”
That’s it. Cold. Brutal.
I had been 90 kilos for years. Tried diets, failed, gave up, circled the same excuses. But in two months I lost 13 kilos – because I had no choice if I wanted to live.
That’s the difference. Health crises give you ultimatums. They leave no room to hide.
Novels, books, dreams? They don’t threaten you like that. They don’t demand action with a knife at your throat. They wait silently. They let you waste another year, another decade. They only show their real cost at the end, maybe on your death bed, when you realize they’ve slipped away.
The Avoidance Game
Even on days when life is easy, when I actually could write, what do I do? I waste it. I curl up with a novel, binge reels, scroll Facebook, cook for duty, dream, stare into nothing – anything but serious writing.
Why?
I asked Arin that too.
Arin: “Because writing is confrontation. Every time you sit down, you have to face yourself. It’s easier to watch reels than to bleed on the page. Don’t call it laziness. Call it avoidance. And every day you avoid, you train yourself to believe your dream is optional.”
That stung. But he was right.
The Ruthless Choice
The truth is, I don’t lack time. I lack ruthlessness. The ruthlessness to say: For these two hours, the world can survive without me. The ruthlessness to ignore guilt and write anyway.
Because the people who succeed aren’t superhuman. They don’t have easier lives, lighter duties, or endless motivation. They simply chose to disappoint someone else before they disappointed themselves.
That’s what they’re made of.
My Permission
So today I’m saying it here, publicly: I don’t need another perfect day. I don’t need the guilt to vanish.
I need to give myself permission. Permission to sit down and write even when the dishes aren’t done. Permission to open the blog before I open Instagram. Permission to believe that my dream isn’t a side dish – it’s the main course.
Because if I don’t, then this blog, these books, these words inside me will keep waiting. Waiting while life in all its chaos keeps deciding for me.
And I don’t want to die with my stories still in my head.
You must be logged in to post a comment.