“Me.”

I am 24, 7 months pregnant, engaged, and in search of me. I was once a spunky, goal-oriented, altruistic college student with a penchant for fashion; after finding love, relocating, and submitting to my new role as housewife, I’ve lost my mojo, my essence, my me. The very thing that attracted my fiancé seems to have escaped me; no longer am I the carefree life enthusiast with a zest for independence, but a dependent, bored, worrywart who has threatened her own future by confining her spirit to a life that doesn’t suit her. In a quest to attain a level of domestic perfection seen only by the likes of Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray, constant failures compound my already blatant disinterest of keeping house, and I often times find myself buried in the corner of my clothing-riddled bedroom, crying into used towels as I wonder what happened to Ms. Independent. Have I put aside my own desires for the sake of being super wife and mom?

Not anymore.

I am 24, 7 months pregnant, and engaged. By exploring my lifelong dream of writing, I have taken the first step to finding myself, doing what satisfies my creativity, and reclaiming me.