When my husband died, I was too preoccupied to think of myself. I took care of things and breathed only to survive.
A few years passed, and I began to think about my life. My identity as a wife was gone along with my life partner. I felt lost and incomplete. I quit working for others and started to write and draw in hopes of finding my place, my life mission.
I am still not sure about my life or identity but now understand that I am forever a work in progress, incomplete, just because I refuse to grow up.
For The Daily Post’s daily prompt: “Incomplete”