Something has been nagging at me for a long time, something has been bubbling away; An unhappiness has been brewing – and not the usual depression I have grown to understand over the years – something different.
I have looked at the usual cures – it’s because I have been overeating, over drinking. I will stop both of these. I bought a body positivity book. I spent a very long time scrolling through Instagram trying to find what was missing. I found myself falling down a rabbit hole on social media looking at photos of me at a happier time. Finally I watched TED talk after TED talk waiting for a sign.
Then last week I went to a children’s birthday party and the conversation among parents got round to what we did for a living. I answered that I didn’t do anything (apart from look after my children of course) and then I reluctantly mentioned that I am a blogger. Then even more reluctantly mentioned that I am a parenting blogger – or mummy blogger if you will.
Right then I felt a pang of embarrassment. I didn’t even like saying the name of it. I’m not proud of it. Not because writing a blog isn’t something to be proud of – because it’s not something I am proud of. And then the ray of light hit me – you don’t want to do this any more – you haven’t wanted to do this for a long, long time – so why don’t you stop? Or rather – why can’t you stop?
Then – in a truly serendipitous turn of events I happened upon the TED talk I truly needed last night. It was “The magic of not giving a f***” by Sarah Knight. (I highly recommend it).
The truth is I have clung on to blogging for six years because there was always that chance in my head that:
a/ money would eventually come
b/ a publisher would eventually come
c/ I couldn’t possibly let go of my followers.
My followers! Like I’m jesus for Christ’s sake!
After all – we have to be influencers now don’t we. It was once ok just to pop some thoughts on blogger. Now we need to stretch our private lives, our every thought over twitter, instagram, God Forbid – Youtube! Pinterest, snapchat, Facebook, videos, lives, bloody linkedin! We have to plaster our face across the internet. We have to write about “fed is best” with a click bait title and misleading SEO – we have to video ourselves at the holiday park with all the correct hashtags. We have to be “on” – we have to study our audience and boost posts and take naff photos infront of walls and tag what we are wearing and write soppy posts about our first borns “ssssh, I’m just posting this sweetheart – in a minute!”
At the risk of upsetting anyone – here is the hard, cold truth to anyone still reading.
I. DON’T. GIVE. A. FUCK.
I don’t give a fuck about getting 4000 followers on twitter and posting “how are you?” and getting one reply.
I don’t give a fuck about SEO or domain authority or hashtags.
I don’t give a fuck about writing FREE content for numerous larger sites just so I can say I write for them.
I don’t give a fuck about being an influencer.
I don’t give a fuck anymore about reading about breast feeding, co sleeping, positive or negative births, soft play.
I don’t really give a fuck about being a parent / or a mummy. I mean – I will still be one. But it’s not ALL I am. I am more than just a bloody mummy.
I don’t give a fuck about playing the blogging game, being up arses (metaphorically) attending blog conferences like Roald Dahl’s witches scratching my scalp asking “how can I make as much money as you?”
I don’t give a fuck about malt loaf, holiday parks, washing liquid pouches, or being in sales of any kind.
I don’t give a fuck about writing frankly terrible content because I have been asked to edit it 28 times and insert the keywords in every paragraph for a sum of money that is never ever worth the time and effort you’ve taken to sell your soul. The ‘free stuff’ has never been worth it.
When I started writing six years ago I was a lonely pregnant woman who wanted to write.
Six years later parent blogging has become a modern day MLM scheme (pyramid scheme) with promises that starting one up can make you rich and famous – preferably if you live in London.
Give up your career folks and become a rich influencer. The only true winner here is WordPress and Go Daddy- and of course the cream of the crop who win at this game.
If you can play this game and make it work as a career for you I am genuinely pleased for you – but I can’t. I can’t do this anymore.
My hope is that any of my posts through these six years have made you laugh, made you cry or given you hope. I have to be truthful to myself and know when to step off this stage.
Finally I don’t want to share my children with you any more. I don’t want them strewn across the internet. I don’t want to waste my time with them staring at my phone trying to think up captions to accompany their faces to get the most “engagement”. Dear reader – I do not give a royal fuck about engagement.
I just don’t give a fuck. So what next? I couldn’t tell you.
All I know is it’ll be a much more private life. I really don’t have anything to say about being a ‘mum’ anymore. Thankfully there are hundreds, probably thousands signing up to WordPress as we speak to write humorous posts about soft play and controversial posts about breastfeeding and gender neutral parenting.
I know I could have slipped away unnoticed – I do know that – but as I have written many posts over the years about my depression I didn’t want anyone to think something bad had happened. I didn’t want the three people and five people on instagram who truly care to think I was unhappy. I’m not – I’m actually happy. Happier than I have been for a long time because I am no longer going to waste my time, money or energy on something that hasn’t made me happy for a very long time.
If you have ever enjoyed my writing thank you for reading. If you are one of the lovely, genuine people / bloggers that I have met in real life and connected with online – thank you – you know who you are. And if you are one of the people who have made blogging work for you as a full time job I truly do salute you.
My time here is up – I’m off to find out who I am when I’m not just a mummy anymore.
If I don’t see you, good morning, good evening and good night.