I have a habit of saying that I “used to be smart.” It stems from insecurity and the remnants of letting my identity be defined by the work I do. It also comes from a fear that the further I get from earning my Ph.D., the longer it’s been since I engaged in scholarly (e.g. publishable) research, and every day that I’m out of the classroom, I become less. Less sharp, less expert, less relevant.
I recently traveled by myself. In the 45-minute wait at the airport (I like to get there early) and 2-hour flight, I completed several pages of my own edits, provided feedback and editing on a chapter for a fellow writer, and read four chapters of a nonfiction book. I felt smart.
Moms out there, you are still smart. And funny. And attractive. And whatever else you need to complete that sentence with. It’s hard to remember who we were before we were wiping other people’s noses and wearing unidentified stains on our clothes. We are still those women. We might need to step away for a minute in order to notice, but it’s true. In fact, we are more, not less, than we were before.
