…and I am addicted to my phone. Yes, you read that right. I’m an almost middle-aged woman (ALMOST), a wife, a mom and a working health care professional who cannot imagine life without my phone. It didn’t happen overnight and it didn’t happen over weeks. It just happened. One day, I found myself carrying my phone around like a lightsaber, and had become the person I vowed never to be. I think the person most surprised by this, is me. I had been anti-technology. I turned my nose up at those “iPhone Users,” rarely went on Facebook (still don’t), and looked at my husband blankly whenever he tried to show me how some thingie worked (still do that, too).

But then I wrote a book. (Notice how I didn’t include “writer” in my description above). Now, isn’t that ironic? It took me writing a book to lead the way to my phone addiction. I was researching how to publish a book, and realized how important social media had become when trying to publish anything. So I broke down and opened a Twitter account. I tweeted here and there, and diligently followed other writers for the follow-back, hoping to drive up my ever important follower count. The more followers you have, the more relevant you are, right?

Wrong. As I followed more and more writers, I noticed myself not caring about other writers’ tweets about their published books, much less their follower count. Not once did I click on the link they posted or even bother reading the 140 character tweet about their book. What I did notice were words. Funny words, heartfelt words, sardonic words and most of all, the people behind those words. The people who were tweeting words about their lives, about THEM, made me want to read anything they wrote. So that’s what I started doing. I viewed Twitter as a public stage where I could tweet 140 character mini-books. I would grow my account into a platform where I could show a prospective literary agent my “likability” or I could use it to publicize my books if I chose to self-publish. I was hoping to grow to 1K followers or maybe 5K one day.

At first, there was little interest in my words but as time went on, and my notifications grew, my phone grew more attached to my hand. There is just something about being heard without being seen. So much of our life is based on our looks or appearance. It’s what people see first before you ever open your mouth. I’ve always been reserved, have filtered what I’ve said for fear of rejection or being misunderstood. On twitter, there’s this sense of security that no one is really listening or caring about what you say when really, you hope there is. For me, twitter has been one big, “I hear you.” It doesn’t matter what I look like, what I’m wearing, what my weight is or what my hair looks like. It’s all about my words. Some hear and agree with me while others do not. And for the first time in my life I can honestly say that I really don’t care who does or doesn’t agree with me because I have found my voice.

So… almost 45K followers, a handful of very good friends, a few life lessons, an Instagram account, a Blackberry and two iPhones later, I acknowledge this addiction to my phone, to being heard. I’ve actually gotten a lot better with putting down my phone and disengaging myself from my notifications but my writing has been calling me as of late. No, this isn’t my resignation from my phone but I’ve been gone from writing for far too long and I think it’s time to return to my original addiction… writing. It’s time for me to listen to my own words.

December 14, 2012. This is the day the shooting happened at Sandy Hook Elementary School. This is a day in which people will remember where they were when they heard about a shooting having happened at a place where kids are supposed to be safe, nurtured. A place where innocence is groomed for bright futures. And yet, without wanting to, those Angels’ light is ever so bright, radiating out to touch all of our lives.

Every day, I wake up and join the cadence of my very busy life. I have two young kids: Joe is six and is in the first grade; Katie is four and is in preschool. As of late, I’ve been working too much—spreading myself too thin. I’m trying to keep up with the demands of work, of being a wife, and of being a mom. Most nights, I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow. When I wake up, I may as well hit the “repeat” button on my alarm. It may be a different day, but it’s another day of well–orchestrated chaos.

As I move along the treadmill of my day, I tend to yell at my kids too much. I may lose my patience much too easily. I may be too busy cooking dinner, doing paperwork, laundry, cleaning, or whatever else is more “important” at the moment than the attention my kids crave. They don’t care how clean the house is or what sits in front of them at the dinner table. They just want me and my undivided attention. It’s not really that complicated for them.

Yesterday my world stopped for a moment. The treadmill paused while time kindly stood by to wait for my comprehension to catch up with it. A shooting happened at an elementary school. How could that be? Yesterday I was late getting Joe to the bus stop, and he flew out of my car without our usual kiss and hug. What if that were my last moment with him?

What if it were mine? I’m sure that is a question we all asked ourselves yesterday and in to today. What if it were a car accident or some other tragedy? Certainly, this is not the first time an innocent, young life has been lost much too prematurely. But if you’re like me, that stuff always happens to other people. It’s just too painful to think about it actually happening to me. Well, I think I can speak for many that the pain of yesterday hit much too close to home.

Ironically, yesterday was also the day of Joe’s first grade holiday concert at his school. He, and the rest of his fellow first graders, innocently sang to a room full of people who love them—oblivious to the horror of what people will inevitably remember about that day. And when I finally got to hug and kiss him, he animatedly talked about his singing and asked how he did. The room buzzed with the excitement and energy of the impending holiday, and I couldn’t help but think of the severe contrast to what those families in Newtown, Connecticut were experiencing at that same exact moment.

I’m Blessed to have my kids. They’re healthy and, for the most part, happy. When I tucked Katie into bed last night, she worriedly told me through my repeated kisses about her hangnail, and when I tucked Joe in, he half hugged my lingering embrace—excitedly talking about what the weekend has in store for him. They take my love for granted—as they should.

As for me—I’ve realized I need to “pause” more often. Life has a funny way of following our cadence. We set our own rhythm. If we run, it runs along with us. If we pause, it tends to wait.

Things always seem to get done, somehow. Laundry will always need to be done, my house will never be clean enough, and my to–do list will never be empty. My kids will not be six and four forever. In fact, Joe will be seven next month. Seven. Almost seven years ago, I was Blessed to experience the fullness the heart of a mother could only know. Since then, time seems to have been flying by ever so fast.

I don’t know why these tragedies occur. I’ve always been a believer that things happen for a reason. But this . . .  Maybe time will make things clearer, and those families at Sandy Hook will have some type of closure—peace, even. I pray for that, anyway.

As for me, today will resonate in a very different way. I will pause more often, or even stop. I owe that to those families who are unable to do the same. Last night, I was able to eat dinner with my kids and tuck them into bed. I get to be with mine for another day, and God willing, for many, many more.