My husband looked at the towels spread across our back porch. “Why paper making?”
My 13-year-old didn’t even hesitate. “Paper is so cheap,” he said.
I had spent nearly two hours on my knees on the hot concrete, scooping watery paper pulp into a frame, sponging out the excess water, and laying each fragile sheet onto a towel as if I were preserving ancient documents.
Instead, it looked like wet, nasty oatmeal.
Just as I finally stood up, my hip bumped the bucket, and over she went. Cue the sound of dirty paper water pouring straight into the grass.
Was I making paper? Was I making papier-mâché? Honestly, I wasn’t sure anymore.
My back hurt. My knees hurt. My grass looked like a kindergarten art class had exploded. By the time I finished cleaning everything up, I had exactly one thought:
I am never doing this again.
But the paper had never been the point. Heck, it didn’t even look good.
At 35, I decided to try one new thing for every year I had been alive. Some of those things would stick. Others, clearly, would not. The point was to remember what it felt like to do something simply because I wanted to know what it would be like.
I had spent years putting myself at the end of the line
I became a mom at 19. My first son was born before I had fully figured out who I was as an adult. By the time many people my age were learning what they liked, I was learning how to keep a tiny human alive.
Now I have three kids, ages 15, 13, and 6. For the last 15 years, motherhood has been the center of my life.
I love being a mom. I love my family. But somewhere along the way, I got very good at being useful.
I work from home, which means I am almost always available. Available for school pickups, snacks, laundry, appointments, and the “Mom, where is my…” questions that somehow only I can answer, even when the item is directly in front of everyone.
Everyone in my house had something that belonged to them
My husband coached our son’s soccer and football teams. He volunteered with the church band. He played golf with friends.
My kids had sports, friends, activities, and their own growing lives.
I had laundry. That is not entirely fair. I also had dishes.
It was not that my husband was stopping me from doing things. When I told him I was frustrated, he encouraged me to try new things. My family wanted me to be happy.
The problem was quieter than that. No one had taken my identity from me. I had just slowly moved myself to the end of the line.
A birthday trip reminded me I could still discover new things about myself
Earlier this year, we took a birthday trip. During that trip, I went hiking and was surprised by how much I loved it.
I expected to tolerate it. Maybe enjoy the view. Maybe complain once or twice about my legs in a way that felt charming but was probably just annoying.
Instead, I felt awake. I had discovered something new about myself.
I liked hiking. I liked being outside. I liked feeling capable in a way that had nothing to do with being needed. When we came home, I kept thinking about it. If I could still discover that I loved hiking, what else had I never given myself the chance to enjoy?
So I decided to try 35 new things during my 35th year.
I made clay magnets. I decorated planters with Mod Podge. I planted a vegetable garden. I baked bread. I made peach cobbler. I started a book club. I tried cyanotype photography. I embroidered pictures of my dogs. I hemmed a dress. I sewed a toddler skirt.
Some projects made me feel proud. Some made me feel ridiculous. Some left my yard covered in soggy paper pulp.
I am learning that joy does not have to be useful
Embroidery has been my favorite so far, even though it has been one of the most complicated. There were so many moving parts to learn: the software, the machine, the thread, the stabilizer, the files, and the mistakes. At one point, I stared at a machine, a hoop, and a tangled mess of thread and thought, “This is why people buy things from stores.”
But I loved it.
As a mom, I am used to measuring time by usefulness. If I am making dinner, folding laundry, working, helping with homework, driving someone somewhere, or cleaning something up, I can justify the time.
But spending an afternoon making paper I did not need felt almost suspicious, like someone was going to walk outside and ask to see a permit for joy.
Maybe that was the point. Some things are worth doing simply because they remind you that you are still a person who gets to try.
At first, making time for these things felt selfish. There was always something else I could have been doing, and usually something more useful. But I am learning that taking up space does not make me less devoted to my family. It just reminds me that I am part of the family, too.
I do not regret becoming a mother at a young age. I do not regret building my life around my family. My children are the best part of my life. But I am starting to understand that loving them well does not require disappearing.
In fact, I think my kids need to see me as a whole person. They need to see me try things I am bad at. They need to see me laugh when something flops. They need to see me make space for joy, not only responsibility.
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