In the year I was born thousands of women named their bouncing baby girls, Sarah. In that name they saw someone trustworthy, solid, old-fashioned and strong. But those of us who grew up with the name in the angst-ridden years of the Fionas and the Toris of the world, saw it as boring and tired. In just one of my high school classes there were six Sarahs. In college I lived with three. For those of us who carried the common name the world had just too many Sarahs. I grew up hearing my name around every corner only to find it was someone I didn’t know, not talking to me. How could we aspire to be someone special, if we were all the same?
Growing up I was always reinventing myself. I changed my hair, my clothes, and my hobbies often. I never really knew who I was. Some days I still wonder. I’ve been an artist, an athlete, a singer, a dancer, a mother, a writer, a teacher, a painter, a wife, a runner, a northerner, a southerner, and the list goes on. I’ve been a wanderer that longed for roots, and I dreamed of taking flight when I got them. Maybe all this came from some desperate need to be different, to be the girl that stood out in a sea of Sarahs. Or maybe the only place where there were too many Sarahs was inside my own mind.
These days I’ve settled into a comfortable life. I’ve come to understand that all of these things combined make us who we are. Maybe we aren’t meant to be stagnant. Now I know we are supposed to change, evolve, learn. There are a thousand different versions of each of us all jumbled into one body. That is what makes us so uniquely wonderful.
So that’s what you’ll find here. A collection of sorts. Some of this and some of that. So if you’re a rooted wanderer, a cheerful pessimist, a free spirit that can’t fully let go, if you’re a collection of interests and can’t quite put your finger on what makes you tick then you’ve come to the right place, my friend. Welcome home. You can call me Sarah.