The decision to write.

I can remember the first and last time anyone called me an artist.

It was my teaching colleague and he was explaining to a group of our students how important creativity was.

"Like your teacher, Loni. She is really an awesome artist."

I had never really made art before. Not in any real way. .

I dabbled the weekends with stop-motion movie making, did some videos using Spoken Word poetry... but nothing that would have qualified me as an artist.

I was proud in that moment.

What I did was actually art.

No matter what I considered myself to be.

No matter what anyone else referred to me as.

I've never been called a writer.

Although I've created far more written work than creative art work.

I've written blogs and articles and a master's thesis.

I've written a chapter for an anthology on Project-Based Learning. I've written my way to a healthy following on LinkedIn by sharing stories about teaching and learning and children.

And still, I've never been called a writer.

For as long as I can remember, I've loved to write.

I remember a poem I scribbled on a paper with black marker when I was seven.

Snow, snow, what do you know?

Is there anything blurring? Is there anything stirring?

Tell me, snow. What do you know?

My mom made photocopies at the local grocery store for 5 cents a copy and handed them out to neighbors, a folded copy in the annual Christmas card to family... she was so proud.

I remember a short story I wrote in 5th grade about a girl walking through a dark neighborhood and looking into the brightly lit living room window of a house. There, she saw a cannibal. Eyeball on a fork and everything.

Or a piece in 11th grade describing the process of lovingly decorating my grandmother's Christmas tree in Green Bay. I included the origin story of my favorite ornaments and a few humorous details like how one year the Christmas tree fell off the car on the way home from the lot and my dad didn't tell anyone. He just placed the bare side towards the wall. Or how my grandmother would sit in her chair watching me decorate and dole out unsolicited critique while rocking back and forth.

A little to the left. Up higher. That's it.

And even the 15-page-single-spaced Cultural Anthropology paper in college that I started and finished in one night. It will forever be crowned "The Big Dog" and live in my memory as a thrilling challenge. While the quality was actual crap, the victory of speed writing and making the deadline will always be something I'm proud of.

But still. Never a writer.

Now though, I've made a decision to write.

To prioritize my writing and creativity and discipline.

While I'm not 100% sure where this will take me, the makings of a book has been at play for years. Even with three kids under three years-old, I would find myself staring into a new document titled Camino Manuscript when I could steal a few hours of Me Time and sneak away to a café. I'd write a few more page. Debate whether to use photos. And find myself inspired to finally write the book.

Like clockwork, my energy would drain. The reality of life would take over. Me Time turned into Netflix and Candy Crush.

The Camino Manuscript sits unopened for another year. Or two.

As my kids have gotten older and I've found myself with a few more evenings each week with a little more energy... I'm thinking about how to use my time. A strong voice inside me suggests the answer to this lies in finding things to do that make me feel like myself.

Finding things to do that make me feel alive.

I could return to many of my past hobbies. Like roller derby or running or singing. The things I did before I was a mom.

In reality though, there is no going back.

I've found that motherhood is often straddling a strange tension between wanting to go back to the best parts of yourself... and knowing deep down that you can never really go back. Only forward. There are new best parts of yourself. More profound best parts of yourself.

And I think for me, that means moving forward with writing.

With being a writer.

For now, I'll just call myself that.

And someday, maybe others will, too.