Just Jane

When I introduced this blog, I called it “Just Jane.” Because it seemed that was all that was left around here. Just Jane.

You see, for the past 20 years my identity was pretty much “Just Mom.” I bet many readers can relate.

“Hey Mom, when I was three, I thought your first name was ‘Mom.’” – Evan

Then my sons Kyle and Evan left home last Fall for college.

My first day without the boys, I cried for hours. I’d never cried so hard in my whole life. Then I said to myself—because I saw people do it in the movies, like Gone With The Wind, so I thought it would work—I said, “You have to go on, Jane. Tomorrow is another day. PULL IT TOGETHER!”

But I still couldn’t pull it together.

Every day for months I came home from work to an empty house. A house that used to be filled with all sorts of noise—from yelling, to laughing, to just the comforting sounds of being ignored while they watched Netflix. There was always a hum of something going on. Without them, the silence was deafening.

It was the infamous empty nest. A crappy empty nest where all the sticks weren’t even stuck together anymore, and I was too old to lay more eggs, and my birds were off doing stuff I didn’t want to know about–and they didn’t appear to appreciate my hourly texts, either.

I couldn’t stand being home. It didn’t even feel like a “home” anymore without them. They’d moved on with their lives—as they were supposed to. But without them, I felt like I had no purpose. I didn’t know who I was.

Enough with that person formerly known as “Just Mom.” Who was “Just Jane?” I had to figure that out.

I’d always wanted to be a writer. But I’d never seemed to be able to find the time or inclination to get that endeavor off the ground. I didn’t really have an excuse anymore, but I needed something to push me.

“Hey Mom, sure, you can follow your dreams—just not if they’re crazy.” – my son Kyle, 11

I came across a Facebook ad calling for auditions for a storyteller show about motherhood. I knew that would force me to write, so I auditioned for the show producers with a story called “Bad Mom.” I was selected. It was a great start. I had some hope. So I started this blog.

Then something interesting happened. A couple weeks later, the storytellers participated in a table read. It was the first time we would hear each other’s pieces. I walked into the room feeling super self-conscious and “less than,” ’cause that’s how I roll.

The table read experience was life changing for me. Each person had such entertaining, well-written, honest—and sometimes shocking—stories, about all sorts of things. I could relate to every story in some way.

Some of us were experienced media reporters and popular published authors, and most of us weren’t, but it didn’t matter. Each person was as much of a “storyteller” as the next. Everyone has a story, right? And these were some very cool stories. At the end of the read, I felt emotionally exhausted, but moreover, exhilarated.

And I hadn’t felt so “Jane” in a really long time.

I finally felt like I belonged. I’d found my place. The storytellers bonded and made plans to get together, not because we had to, but because we wanted to.

I felt part of something again.

And not Just Jane.

But I’d already named the blog Just Jane, so f— it, that’s the name.