Are the Summer Solstice Blues a thing?

Sitting here on the sofa, watching the baby as she falls asleep on the monitor, it occurs to me that at thirty-four years old, I've now been writing for well over half of my life. Probably twenty years, at least.

So when I say that I also can't think what to write about, you'll understand why that's a bit worrying to me.

*sighs*

I'm definitely in a funk. There's no denying it. I'm not convinced I have the right temperament or personality type to be a full time, stay at home parent and basically a housewife. I need mental stimulation - hell, last time I started to feel like this I went and got a master's degree just to prove to myself that my brain still worked. This time I need to find a less extreme option, because I still need to be around the house to take care of my daughter.

I was hoping that this blog, alongside yet another edit of my first novel, would be enough of a creative outlet. And let's face it, with a six-month-old, whatever I do needs to fit around nap time. But damn, I need something. Or I'll go mad.

For a little while, I considered social media as an outlet. I'm scrolling Instagram and TikTok in most of the free moments I manage to scrounge throughout the day - and with a new baby, ongoing house renovation and double redundancy, there should be tons to talk about. But the time isn't there to make content. And when it is, the confidence isn't.

My self-worth is a complicated knot that's utterly choked by self-image. If I don't feel like I look good, I don't feel good. End of. I've always taken pride in my appearance, but to be totally honest, my motivation has been on the downturn ever since the first lockdown. And now, rarely leaving the house (no job to go to or friends to visit, remember?) it seems like a lot of effort.

I've been pushing myself to get up and put on make-up, maybe sort my hair out. But my wardrobe is where I stall. I've been relatively slim for most of my life (again, lockdown did a number on this) but post-wedding splurges did nothing for my shape and size, and now, six months after having a baby, I barely recognise myself. Sure, I'm only one or two clothing sizes bigger - but that's enough to ensure that almost nothing in my wardrobe fits any more. And don't even get me started on trying to dress around significantly bigger and somehow less bouncy boobs. Why is all fashion on the internet (even midsize and plus size) preoccupied with small boobs? Where is the inspiration for those of us with pigeon legs, boobs and an apple belly, eh? Be it models or influencers, I'm stumped. And fuck Gen Z fashion. I was wearing huge baggy cords back as a teenager - baggy is nothing new, it just flatters no one. Least of all thirty-four-year-old first time mums.

All this to say, I'm feeling down today. Between feeling crap about my body, mbeing mentally understimulated and creatively stifled, I just can't find any resemblance between who I feel I am and who I appear to be, right now.