Last night I washed my car. I never wash my car. And it’s not that my car doesn’t often need washing (she does – like every other day – WHY?), it’s that I find it to be a really unenjoyable activity and I would rather plead with Aaron/pay someone else $20 to do it. Always.

But last night I washed my car. And why?

Because I had several other things to do, of course. I had work to catch up on, I had an article to write, I had to update my budget (both personal, joint, and wedding) and pay the bills. I also had to start a copywriting project, draft a proposal, and pitch another article for my business. To list a few.

But because I wanted to do none of that, I washed my car instead.

And she looks beautiful now (REALLY beautiful; my cleaning is impeccable when I’m procrastinating), but by nearly 10pm, none of the things I had (or wanted) to do had yet been done.

I’ve felt really overwhelmed lately. But oddly, that feeling has not hindered me from doing the things I often don’t want to do (many of the activities that are bartered for a paycheck + car washing), while it has led me to ignore those things that I know I want to pursue (any and all activities related to my side hustle + sleeping).

I’m trying to come to grips with why – in the face of being slightly more than occupied – I work hard to complete what (seemingly) needs to get done, but fail to pursue what I want most.

Of course, at the moment I am working a 9-to-5 job (that would more accurately be described as 7-to-11). I am building my own business (at which I am terrified I will fail). I am planning a wedding (that I want to be “perfect”). I am also teaching classes, writing articles, taking ecourses, reading book after book on business, and of course, trying to spend some time with the friends and family I adore.

This isn’t meant to be a pity party. I don’t expect you to pity me, because I know I am no busier than anyone else (and am far less busy than many), I invited all of this activity into my life, and I also know you are a sassy, pitiless bunch. Rather, this is meant to be an explanation of why I am feeling really fucking overwhelmed.

I suppose there’s a lot of reasons why I might not be. Who cares if my business fails? (You learn more from failure than success, right?) Who cares if my wedding is a shitshow? (It’s just one day out of my entire life!) Who cares if I work long hours and would like more of a life outside of that? (I have a good job at a stable company, and it’s a down economy after all.)

I really, actually, very much hate those reasons. Maybe I’ve placed too much value on things, maybe I’ve taken on too much, or maybe I’m just too much of a damn perfectionist, who is terrified of dropping the ball on something. I’m sure it’s a combination of all three. But whatever it is, I want to cut that shit out. I want to be able to do it all – including those things that don’t fall under “necessity”.

I don’t mind having a day job actually; I really don’t. It stimulates my mind, it adds structure to my day, it pays me well, and it’s brought some amazing people into my life. I don’t mind planning a wedding or writing articles or teaching classes either. What bothers me the most, I suppose, is doing all of those things and ignoring what matters most to me: pursuing the business I am passionate about, writing my stories, writing here. I hate the overwhelming feeling that comes with wanting to do it all and seeing what I am most passionate about get sacrificed.

But then: am I so overwhelmed that the best things fall by the wayside or am I just making excuses to avoid failing (or possibly succeeding beyond my wildest imagination) at what I care about most?

I watched a video that Marie Forleo posted yesterday, on reprogramming your subconscious to get what you want. On the surface, it seemed a little woo-woo, with a lot of talk of manifestation and communicating with yourself. But after really paying attention to it, and practicing what Cathy Collautt preached a little bit, I found my value in it.

Some of the value for me was clarifying why I often resist doing those things that will make me successful in a career (or relationship) I love. Some of the value for me was understanding that no matter how powerful my self-control is, it’s a hard fucking fight against the part of me that believes I might never be successful, or I might never be happy, or I might never find happiness in the version of success I’ve defined for myself. I also found some value in knowing that I could take tangible steps to feeling confident in my success – present and future. And, of course, because this has been such an internal battle for me, I even found some value and a whole lot of comfort in the woo-woo; in the feeling that good thoughts and affirmations might help chase my fear away.

I have been afraid of success for a long time, because I’ve been afraid that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be; that my dreams of freedom and contentment and utter happiness are just a little too pie-in-the-sky or possibly even selfish. I have been afraid that even if I get everything I want, it won’t be enough.

And that’s probably true. My life’s happiness probably won’t be determined by a successful business or publishing a book (but goddamn, would those two things make me really happy). But I believe it will be determined by my figuring out exactly what success means to me, truly believing that the actions I take today will lead me to achieve it, and then fucking taking those actions. Immediately. Right now. Without hesitation.

I can always wash the car later.
—
Image from i can read.

My short-lived life of crime began when I was around seven years old.  I was one of those strange (or brilliant?) children that really, really wanted a few ridiculous things: glasses (and not sunglasses, like actual spectacles) and a cast (you know, something that would require me actually BREAKING A BONE). I was an odd one.

Unfortunately (except actually, the MOST FORTUNATELY), I never broke a bone, but the opportunity to get my first pair of eyeglasses presented itself fairly early in my life. On a Costco trip with my mom, I sidled up to one of the circular displays showcasing different frames – bifocals, trifocals, spectacles, and even those cool (not even a little bit cool) glasses that go from light to dark in the sun. I grabbed a pair and stuck them in my pocket; it was a lifelong dream realized in a second.

At home, I put the glasses in my desk until I could figure out what to tell my mom. But the urge to wear them was just too strong – so I did – and my story of “Look mom! Jesus left me glasses!” didn’t go over so well. (Yes, I am serious, that was my story. Also, clearly I didn’t understand how Jesus worked.) Mom eventually marched me back to Costco, made me return my Jesus glasses, and apologize. Mortifying.

Other than that lone instance of thievery, I never really got into trouble as a kid. And if, on some rare instance, I did something that provoked my mom’s ire, she’d yell at me: “BRETT! I mean, JENNA! DAMNIT.” I got in trouble so little (and my younger brother, so often) that she couldn’t even yell my name when it occurred. Then and now, I’ve always been a “good kid”.

It helps that I’m an obsessive rule follower. It’s actually been diagnosed (by me) as an innate part of my personality; as something that I seemingly cannot change because it is inherently part of me. I only cross the street when the light allows, I turn my phone off as soon as an airplane attendant asks me to and, once we land, I keep my seatbelt on until the corresponding light turns off. I don’t steal eyeglass wear from large wholesale membership warehouses (anymore). It makes me physically uncomfortable to break the rules and irritates me to no end to watch other people do it.

But I’m thinking I need to get over some of that. Can I change something that feels so deeply part of me? I hope so. Because I’m becoming incredibly wary of a lot of the rules in my life.

Is it good to follow the rules sometimes? Absolutely. As the daughter of a police detective and a police officer, I am a law-abiding citizen fiercely afraid of the consequences of most wrongdoing. But not all rules are the right rules.

What about the rules that say I have to climb this ladder and follow that path to get to someone else’s definition of success (one that, according to the rules, I should readily accept as my own)?

What about the rules that say I shouldn’t try something new for fear I might fail? What about the rules that say failure is a bad thing, instead of an enormous opportunity for learning and growth?

What about the rules that say gay people shouldn’t be afforded the same civil liberties as the rest of humankind; those rules scarily reminiscent of a time not so long ago when people like my own (white) mother and (black) father couldn’t fall in love, marry, and have a child (the eyewear-swiping ME) because someone else told them it was “against the rules”?

What about the rule that says I can’t park on the same side of the street as my house on Thursdays from 10am to 12pm or I’ll get a ridiculously outrageous fine? The rule I always forget when I work from home. Yeah, fuck that rule.

The rules aren’t always right. And that’s mostly okay. As a human race, we’re pretty fallible – I know this from personal experience. The problem is when we keep following them anyway. That is my problem. And sometimes that’s fine – I still feel pretty cool about not crossing the street when the little red hand tells me not to or keeping my seatbelt fastened on airplanes (or any other large moving pieces of steel that inhabit me). It’s  the bullshit rules I want to stop following – the rules that are boring me, that are keeping me from trying new things or preventing me from having boatloads of faith in my own ability. The rules that encourage me to keep my mouth shut or define tried-and-true security (and often, subsequent boredom) as the keys to a happy life.

Fuck those rules.

This is my bullshit: I still prioritize my day job over my dreams. I still let fear of failure keep me from trying something new. I still eat unhealthy, processed food and put off exercise until “I’m not busy” as if my precious time on this earth is unlimited. I still value the opinion of others over my own. I still keep my mouth shut when I should really stand up. I still hesitate because I’m not sure what to do next.

If I once had the courage to commit thievery (and then blame it on Jesus, no less!), I can muster up some courage now.

Fuck those rules. I’m going to start breaking them.

Inspired by Alex Franzen’s recent post, I listed a few things I’m bored of.

I’m bored of:

• not saying what I really want to say
• discussing politics on Facebook
• the idea that I have to “climb the ladder” & follow a pre-designed path to success
• feeling obligated
• procrastination
• people complaining about their lives & doing little to change it (and I’m bored of doing the same myself)
• wasting time on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, etc.
• writing for work & not writing for love
• following the rules

What are you bored of?

You guys. I am a guest blogging machine. I wrote a little somethin’-somethin’ for Almie’s amazing blog, Apocalypstick. It’s about heartbreak and insecurity, but ALSO, it’s about my love for two incredible cities that I’ve called home and a little bit for myself and my magic. Read on, or read it over at Apocalypstick!

—

I moved home to Los Angeles from San Francisco in May 2009 and it felt a bit like failure.

I was still smarting from the pain of a nasty and recent breakup just months earlier, and days upon moving home I found out that my former love had already married (yes, MARRIED) someone else.

I didn’t have a job, I was living at home (again) and I was heartbroken. I didn’t have much purpose and it was debilitating. As much as I loved being around my family again, I felt like I had taken a step back, and that was incredibly hard for my Type-A, perfectionist self to accept.

When I first moved to San Francisco in May of 2007, almost exactly two years earlier, I was fresh out of college, starting a full-time job at the PR firm where I had interned for the six months prior. San Francisco is a vibrant, friendly, bustling city that warmly welcomes new occupants. I was no exception. It was the perfect fit for my bright-eyed, twenty-two year-old self.

I quickly made friends and fell in love. I worked hard every day and spent nearly every night out with people I adored. We saw live music at Cafe du Nord, we ate Thai food at Thai Stick and scored the best burgers at Pearl’s Deluxe Burgers. We scoured classic bookstores on Bush Street and brunched with the most handsome of (gay) men at Home Restaurant in the heart of the Castro.

I remember breaking onto the rooftop of the apartment building of the man who would later break my heart, weeks after we first met. We dangled our legs over the ledge of the roof, stared out at the moon and that incredible city and relished in how lucky we were to live there and have each other. It was one of many nights we watched the sun come up and still stumbled into work the next morning.

It was a magical city and a magical time in my life. So coming back home – even to a city and family that I loved dearly – was disappointing. After all of that San Francisco magic, I wasn’t sure what I had left to show for it. There was the crippling insecurity of a broken heart, the dangerous uncertainty of being without a job, the gnawing feeling of failure that comes with relying on your parents once again.

Eventually, though, I managed to get a few freelance jobs, which led me to the full-time job I hold now at an incredible San Francisco-based PR firm which opened an office in my hometown. Eventually, I fell out of the sadness that accompanies the dissolution of any romance. It turned into anger, then indifference, and finally (finally!) a confident feeling of platonic affection for someone who had once been so dear to me. Eventually, I realized that as incredible as San Francisco is, I was the one who had made my life magic – the city just played the perfect backdrop. And eventually, as I spent more and more time back in the city where I was born and raised, I came to find that magic again.

Because it was here that I found love and I found my purpose. I found my home.

I had bangs back in the 6th grade. “So what?!”, you might say. I’ll tell you what! My hair is naturally curly, and it took me many, many years to learn how to tame it – curly, straight, or otherwise. So back in the 6th grade, when my mother so cruelly let me walk out of the house with BANGS, they were curly bangs – little, tightly wound tendrils that I slathered with gel (so they wouldn’t get frizzy, you understand) and which hardened quickly, sticking unattractively to my forehead.

As I’m sure you can imagine, this greatly contributed to a decrease in my overall middle school popularity.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say as I was without friends – and, even if I were, I doubt the cause could be solely contributed to my hard, curly bangs; I had a great many other dorky features and characteristics that helped me out. But I will say that middle school was a tough time. It was a time of constantly feeling anxious, of trying desperately to fit in with a “cool” crowd, and of being intensely aware that you were being judged first by the way you looked, and then by the way you acted. And I couldn’t seem to get either quite right.

Luckily, those feelings have mostly dissipated as I work my way into adulthood. I usually feel relatively comfortable with who I am – what I look like, how I act, the friends I have, and the fact that even still, some people may not like me. I’ve (mostly) grown up – and forever rid myself of bangs – and it feels lovely.

But there are still a great many times when I want desperately to fit in; when I want to be liked and accepted immediately and I fear that something about me may just not be right for that to occur.

Bloggers in Sin City was, at first, one of those times.

Bloggers in Sin City was one of the first things Nicole bullied me into (followed soon thereafter by running and healthy eating and other such offensive things), though it wasn’t very hard to convince me. This was last fall, when I still spent a few days a week co-working with Nicole and Amber from Nicole’s apartment. I remember sitting around her glass table, undoubtedly eating something delicious Nicole had whipped up for lunch, as they regaled me with tales of BiSCs past. I had very quickly fallen in love with the two of them – bloggers turned in real life (IRL) friends over the prior few months, so I was hopeful that BiSC would be that feeling times 60.

I drove out to Vegas on my own on Thursday, May 17th. It was a long, hot drive in which my cat-like reflexes helped me narrowly avoid a speeding ticket time and again (sorry, mom!). By the time I arrived at The Flamingo Hotel, I was a bundle of nerves. I quickly realized that, all in all, I knew about six of the sixty people who would be going on this adventure with me. And while that may be more than many BiSCuits knew, it still made me feel uneasy. What if my six other friends banded together without me? What if nobody talked to me? What if they did talk to me and hated me?! Again, there was that unfortunate, stomach-churning, WILL EVERYBODY BE MY FRIEND feeling that often accompanies the entirety of grades 6-11.

Luckily, the feeling was entirely unfounded.

After a good hour spent trying to check-in (apparently, The Flamingo is THE PLACE TO BE in Vegas), I made my way up to the registration suite which was fucking bustling. I remember stepping off the elevator, wondering briefly which way to turn, until I realized the incredible amount of noise coming from the hall on my left. I turned to follow it and walked slowly into the BiSC registration suite. There were people EVERYWHERE – hugging, laughing, gasping at the immense amount of swag in the goodie bags. I walked in, scanning quickly for the faces of people I recognized, but it was hard to distinguish between my friends and strangers because everyone was so damn friendly. We smiled, we hugged, we introduced ourselves by our Twitter handles and blog URLs. I felt like I made at least 15 new friends in those brief moments.

And that’s kind of how the rest of BiSC went. It was a blur, the BEST blur – all of these moments, flying by way too fast, where I made so, so many new friends. Amongst many, many other things, over the course of those four days, I…

• …was shot in the eye by a water gun full of booze (thanks, Adam)
• …was forced (/jumped at the opportunity) to learn and perform choreographed dances with the staff at Carlos ‘n Charlie’s
• …jumped into a fountain (multiple times) – for a picture with Katelin, Nicole, Drea, Doni, and Amanda – as the cops stood perilously nearby, yet somehow completely unaware of our innocent trespassing
• …took lots of shots – lots of frozen hot chocolote shots at Serendipity
• …stood mouth agape watching the lengths some “ladies” will go to to win a booty-shaking contest near the pool (Luckily, the classy, BiSC booty-shaking contestant won. Also, apparently I am an old lady.)
• …found what appeared to be a man’s wedding ring at the bottom of said pool and later, after his friends identified the jewelry, watched him vehemently deny it belonged to him as he stood in front of a woman who seemed less and less likely to be his wife
• …thought my roomie had been kidnapped on the Vegas Strip when she failed to come back to the hotel one evening and spent approximately fifteen minutes under the covers deciding how I might find her and how much money I could offer to get her back without alerting and alarming any of the other BiSCuits (Note: she was not kidnapped, she was still out living the life. Girl knows how to do Vegas.)
• …became an artist, drawing and presenting an incredibly accurate caricature of CrushHub founder, Chris Biggs
• …ate some melt-in-your-mouth, ohmyfuckinggod delicious caramel from Le Bon Garcon for breakfast every. single. day.
• …watched two “Mean Girls” turtles continually kick a third turtle off a rock in a pond next to the breakfast buffet at The Flamingo
• …danced under the (fake) Eiffel Tower with 59 of the most impeccably well-dressed folks in Vegas
• …made so many new, wonderful friends.

Each of the people that attend this event – at least in my sole experience – are so unique, but so incredibly (scarily) similar too. They are funny, they are supportive, they are great dancers, they love buffets, and they are so wonderfully, unwaveringly kind.

That lurching feeling of unease and nerves I initially felt? Gone, in an instant. I can’t ever imagine not being friends with these people. I just wish I had met them all back in 6th grade. They would have loved my bangs.

I wrote a post for Super Duper Fantastic that was published while I was in Las Vegas last weekend. It’s a fun look at my view on “living in sin”. Spoiler alert: I quite like it.
—
Aaron and I decided to move in together on the drive home from our first big “couple trip.” We had visited San Francisco (one of my former homes) for a week, and we hadn’t wanted to strangle each other by the end! In fact, we had quite enjoyed each other’s company 24 hours a day for a full seven days – far longer than we usually had to put up with one another’s idiosyncrasies. We stopped in Santa Barbara on the drive back home and popped into a small, quaint Italian restaurant for dinner.

“You know,” Aaron said, as he twirled his pasta. “This week was fun. I didn’t want to kill you.”

“Well, thank you,” I replied dryly, somewhat annoyed at the insinuation that anyone wouldn’t relish being in my presence for every second of every day.

“No, I mean it,” he continued. “I think this is a big step. Maybe we should think about moving in together?”

I was floored. Of course, I wanted to move in together too. I had wanted to move in together as soon as I had realized how compatible we really were – which was far sooner in the relationship than Aaron had, ahem. But still, I hadn’t expected him to realize it too, and so soon. I was sure I’d have to come up with detailed propositions and spreadsheets of data analysis proving why our moving in together would be both cost effective and beneficial to his happiness quotient. And here he was – convinced of the idea’s validity without any prodding by me!

I started planning immediately. I went ahead and made those spreadsheets anyway, I combed Craigslist listings, I analyzed our salaries and created conscious spending plans which determined how much we could each reasonably spend on rent, bills, and other miscellaneous costs per month. I bought books on cohabitating before marriage (otherwise known as “living in sin”) and the best ways to prepare for such an endeavor so that it might not end in the tragedy of a failed relationship.

We ended up finding a place in West Los Angeles and moved in on February 27, 2011, with the help of some incredible friends and family – who we paid in slices of pizza and sweaty hugs. It’s been well over a year now, and as cliché as it is to say – living together has been damn near perfect. Unlike our first official “couple trip” to San Francisco almost two years ago, there are many, many times when we want to strangle one another. There are times when I think I might make him sleep in the backyard if he keeps chomping his teeth together when he eats. There are even more times when he thinks he might throw a chair at me if I continue to insist that I am always right (which I AM – but that’s neither here nor there). It’s hard work to live with another person, especially one that you expect to live with for the rest of your life (and thus, can’t get rid of) but it’s also the most rewarding experience I’ve ever known.

By becoming roommates with my boyfriend (and now fiancé), I became roomies with a partner – someone who washes the dishes because I hate doing that, while I take the laundry which he loathes; someone who massages my shoulders when he sees me working still at 10 o’clock at night; someone who acquiesces to my need for meetings and planning and spreadsheets and goals and appreciates me all the more for it; and, of course, someone who is a nice, warm body to cuddle with at the end of every day. Aaron is the other half of me, the better half, and he complements me in nearly every way. Moving in together has often been challenging, but more than that it has allowed me to see that we can do a lot more together than we did apart – and that we can do it all without murdering one another! Small victories!

There’s another move on our horizon. Within the next few years, we hope to buy our own home – another situation rife with potential relationship-ending tragedies like financing, home décor, and deciding on the best time to start filling said home with kids. But for now, I’m incredibly content where I’m at; living with the man I’ve chosen to live with for the rest of my life. I hope not to strangle him any time soon.

You guys, I don’t like yoga. Like, what is actual wrong with me? EVERYBODY LOVES YOGA EXCEPT ME. This is what I think about at least five to six times a day. Granted, I’ve only done one type of yoga (bikram) and I’ve only tried it like seven times (which is a helluva lot of times to try something you don’t really like) – but still, I’m not feeling it. I want to be lean and lithe and trendy like everybody else, but my body refuses. She’s a bitch.

Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. I just wanted to let you guys know. That’s called a non sequitur. I think.

I’ve done a lot of things lately. (None of which was yoga.) I went to Coachella, I ran the Color Run in Southern California, I traveled to San Diego and sobbed in the hallway of the apartment complex of a girl I barely knew at 1am, I taught another class, I wrote an article that was published on The Daily Muse, I graduated with my Masters Degree in Education (see above). All of these are important stories for another time. What I mean to say is that there were a lot of important things happening that took the place of blogging in my life for a hot minute. And because of that – because of my absence or lull or what have you – I’ve been afraid to get back into it. I’ve been afraid that it’s been too long, and that I might need to come back with something SPECTACULAR.

“Break the seal,” Amber told me tonight over coffee and wine and a plate of delicious cheese.

I giggled. “Like peeing after drinking copious amounts of beer breaking the seal?”

“Yes,” she said. “Just break the seal and after that you won’t be able to…”

“Stop peeing,” I finished, no longer giggling and fairly enamored by her ability to turn a funny expression for the insane amount of times I have to pee when drinking a lot of beer into a perfect metaphor for getting back into blogging (or anything, really) after an extended period of time.

Consider my seal broken.

I have been asked several times since I graduated on Sunday what I am doing now with all of my free time. I’ll tell you: I’ve had a lot of wine (I continue to do this right now), I’ve torn through some dusty bedside recreational reading, I’ve caught up with friends, and I’ve started to plan out the next phase of my life.

That’s my favorite part. I fucking love planning.

I’m very keen on spending my time – any free time I may find – in the right ways, in the ways that are best for me. I want to spend my time furthering the goals I’ve set for myself, following the passions I often push aside for seemingly more important endeavors, surrounding myself with people who make me laugh and encourage me and inspire me with their own motivation and accomplishments. If there’s anything I learned in my last few weeks of wanting to pull every hair out of my head/graduate school, it’s that I have complete control over how I choose to spend my free time. And I don’t want to waste it.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about action; about actually doing something. I don’t want to just say I’m going to run a marathon; I want to run one. I don’t want to just say I’m a personal essayist; I want to write and pitch and publish. I don’t want to just say that I will build a side hustle and make money based on the things I am most passionate about, the things I am obsessed with, the things I want to be known for; I want to fucking HUSTLE. I’ve always wanted this, of course – to be a DOer instead of the person who talks about all the doing. But it’s hard to make that change. Captain Obvious reason number one being that if it were all so fucking easy, everybody would be doing it.

But, truly? Who cares about anybody else? (I do, sometimes. I can’t help it. I like it when people like me.)

When it comes down to getting off my lazy ass and DOING, I have to forget everybody else. My sole focus has to be me and what I want to be known for and what I know will make me happy. And that recent realization – that recent OBSESSION, really – has called for a lot of change in my life. And with all my newly-acquired “free time” (note: I do not really have all that much more free time, but the first few weeks after graduation do feel like a sort of freedom, don’t they?), I want to focus on that change.

Who’s the person that I want to be?

Well, she’s healthy. She’s financially secure. She loves her fiancé and shows and tells him that she loves him as often as possible. She stays in touch with friends – sending emails, sending cards, making calls – for no other reason than because she knows she needs to put in the work to keep the people in her life that she adores. She teaches and she learns. She writes and writes and writes some more, and takes the even scarier step of sharing that writing with the world. She recognizes what is important to her – and only her – and fucking hustles to make it happen.

And it’s not that I wasn’t this person before. I’ve always had traces of her. She’s always been who I’ve wanted to be, so there have always been half-hearted attempts to become the well-rounded, happy individual described above. But shit gets in the way, as it’s wont to do, and without a proper game plan, I get sidetracked. I become overwhelmed. I find that I can procrastinate all the goals quite nicely by playing on the Internet for hours at a time.

And then I’m miserable.

Why can’t work make me happy? Why can’t my relationship make me happy? Why can’t my friends make me happy?

Captain Obvious answer number two: because that’s my job. There is nobody who knows me better than me, and I am the sole arbiter of my happiness. Can my job and relationship and friends contribute to that? Clearly. But as a grown adult, with the competence to recognize and assess my own feelings of contentment, it’s my job to get up in my own head when shit doesn’t feel right, and figure out the way to fix it.

I read a book a few months ago called “Switch”. The subtitle is “How to change things when change is hard”. First of all, is change not ALWAYS pretty effing hard? Yes, it is – let’s just be clear about that, authors of Switch. Was it hard at first to wake up a little bit early three times a week to go for a run that wasn’t really all that fun to begin with? Absolutely. Was it fun to go to a yoga class in a heated room full of sweaty strangers whose breathing exercises sound unfortunately similar to groans of sexual pleasure? Fuck no, it was the most not. (I hate yoga, you guys!) Was it hard to write an extremely personal essay about my absentee parent and send it off into the world to be read and judged by everyone? Just a bit. But they are small solutions on the road to my bigger goals, and I am working hard to make the switch from just saying I will do certain things to actually doing them.

I’m breaking the seal.

You can’t blame your unhappiness on anyone else. Or you can if you want, I’m really not trying to tell you what to do. But that won’t get you very far. All of us have the ability to recognize what we want, and make it happen. It probably won’t be easy. (Change is hard, remember?) It may take two years or ten years or twenty. But it will never happen if you don’t make the move – if you don’t make the switch from thought to action.

So that’s what I’ll be doing with my free time, everyone. I’ll be making some switches. It feels good to be back.

I’ve always wanted to be a writer. Even as I considered more “stable” career professions like being a teacher or a PR professional or a journalist, I hoped much deeper down that I might somehow make a living with my written words. And not words about other people (as journalists are meant to write), but words about me and my own experience; narcissistic, sure, but there’s nothing I know better than my own self. For me, it’s easiest to write beautifully and articulately about my experiences.

As I’ve grown older, it’s often seemed that being a writer was a fanciful goal. I felt silly dreaming that I might spend my days in coffee shops, writing and submitting and publishing my work – and getting paid to do so. In some ways, it still feels silly; it still feels like an unachievable goal and like I need to grow up and accept big girl responsibilities.

And I have.

I have a steady, challenging, well-paying job. I pay my bills on time. I try (emphasis on the “try”) to limit my alcoholic intake during the week. I’m a big girl.

But writing – this is what I’m meant to be doing. Whether it’s typing away full-time in quaint cafes or stealing away quiet moments after my guy has fallen asleep, I am a writer. I am supposed to be writing, even if only on the periphery of the rest of my life, for the rest of my life. This is what I was made for.

It’s a scary thing. As with anything, I’m not always going to be good, I’m not always going to be brilliant, I’m not always going to be profound – in fact, I will be happy if I am any of the three ever. But I know I’ve got something here. And, I just love it. It makes me happy, it lifts me up, it makes me dizzy with excitement when it touches other people too.

And that’s what happened for me yesterday, when Salon.com published my writing for the first time. They published a personal essay I wrote back in December about finding and seeing my father for the first time on Facebook. I wrestled with the subject; I found it really hard to write well about a subject in which I was so deeply emotionally invested. But I wrote and rewrote and edited yet again. I shared drafts with my mom, with Aaron, and with my closest friends, and made it into the essay that was perfect for me. And Salon’s editor saw that essay fit to publish.

It’s funny to me that after nearly thirty years of adding literally zero value to my life, my first great writing accomplishment is thanks in no small part to my relationship (or lack thereof) with my father. I wished for a moment that that weren’t the case, so that he might not get credit for something so important to me. And I realized just as quickly that it didn’t matter. This was truly one of the greatest moments of my young life and, as with everything else, he played no part in giving that to me. My mom – who would write down my stories when I was too young to write them down myself, who helped me cut out pictures from magazines to illustrate them, who punched three holes in them and bound them with yarn, and then read them back to me as if they were the greatest tales in the world – she deserves some credit. Aaron – who has read every draft, who has massaged my shoulders as I sit hunched over my laptop, who has told me time and time again, “You WILL be a writer” – deserves some credit. And all of my friends – who share my words and tell me I’m talented and offer their endless encouragement – deserve a lot of fucking credit too.

I’ve set a lot of goals this year – and I’ve been steadfastly serious about accomplishing them. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s been relatively successful, and I’m sure it’s because I picked only those things that I actually want to do. I don’t want to quit drinking, I don’t want to lose weight, I don’t want to manage stress [though I could probably afford to, just a little]. I want to write. I want to be read. I want to be a writer. And this feels like a big step in that direction.

Yesterday was a dream come true for me. I want to remember this feeling forever.

You can read my (first published!) essay here.

(Quote pictured above by Joseph Campbell, from Amber Rae’s blog.)

First of all, you should all know something. I have a bit of a girl crush on Olivia Munn. I’m not sure if that was clear already from the massive picture of us above. Honestly, the girl can do no wrong to me. Recently, I’ve had some feelings toward Chrissy Teigen too, but Olivia will always, always be my first love.

So when Nicole had this idea and “Nicole Effect”-ed the WHOLE Internet into doing it with her [myself, included], I knew exactly which former blog post I would read aloud: The One Where I Met Olivia Munn. Otherwise known as The Best Day of My Entire Life Until I Get Married and Maybe Even the Best Day Still After That.

Enjoy.

Original post here.

My second 5k today was this morning, early on Brett’s birthday. I figured there was no better way to celebrate my birthday than with a day similar to how he might spend it – with an early morning workout, followed by delicious food and drinks with friends and family in the afternoon.