For those who wish to listen to this post, I’ve included a voice recording!
In my New Years’ Eve post last year, Resting in the in-between, I talked about the idea that New Years’ resolutions are often centered on the idea of lack, that something is missing in ourselves, our lives, that we need to fill or fix. I had been sitting on an Amtrak, making the trip from Chicago to Seattle and feeling like perhaps, rather than spending the day with thoughts turning forward or back, I should just rest in the now, in time suspended between the year ending and the one just beginning.
Here I am one year later, with so much having changed over the past year, and I find that my feelings about this particular day are much the same. It seems the perfect time to just — rest with what is. To give ourselves the space for our hearts and minds to be suspended in time, beyond the constraints and expectations that time places on us because we’ve designed our lives and society that way.
And yet…
I find that, in reality, I feel much as I do when I fill one journal and open a fresh, new one, at the moment my pen hovers over the first line on the first page. I have yet to write a single word, to turn thoughts into inked words. Every page is blank, signaling endless possibilities.
What will I fill them with? What story will I write for my life on those pages?
I can say anything I want, turn my journal into anything I desire it to be.
It’s endless possibility.
And pressure.
Pressure to make it mean something. Pressure to fill those pages with deep insights or adventure. Even though I don’t intend anyone else to read my journals, I still measure what I put on those pages against what I imagine I should write, which is just another way of saying what I imagine my life should be.
I know many people use their journals as a tool to get to know themselves better or to establish and mark the path they take to the goals they have for themselves. They write prompts that guide them in meeting an intention for a journaling session. They read what their past selves wrote to learn how far they’ve come, to keep themselves on track.
Oh, I know not everyone approaches journaling this way, and that those who do don’t necessarily write productively all the time.
But I still measure myself against the yardstick of what I think others whose lives look more like what I want for my life do to accomplish their goals, to live their dreams (hard parts and all).
And I often feel I don’t measure up. I lack the
courage.
creativity.
talent.
discipline.
I read other newsletters and admire how insightful and heartfelt and beautifully written they are and think: How do these amazingly talented writers come up with the words that others want to read every week?
I read great fiction and think: How can I ever write stories as good as that and reach readers who want to get lost in the stories that tell themselves through my imagination and my fingertips on the keyboard?
I don’t usually read what past me wrote in journal entries, but if I did, I’d find that they are all over the place and often mundane accountings of my day. And I can’t help but think — This is how I live my life — and berate myself for lacking whatever it is that makes others more successful in achieving my dreams than I am.
The weight of self-doubt is paralyzing. And measuring myself against those who are successful, without acknowledging the work that goes into their achievements, makes it easy to make excuses for not getting where I want to be and to not celebrate the accomplishments and adventures and dreams that I’ve already achieved and lived.
Comparing ourselves to others is nothing new, but it’s become an endless and ever-present obstacle in the age of social media. Far easier to stare at the success of others and think how lucky they are and how they have what we don’t than to pursue our dreams and risk…failing.
I’m not on social media anymore, but now that I’ve started down a creative path that is truer to my heart than any “job” or “career” I’ve ever pursued, I find that though I’ve become more grounded and gentle towards myself in many ways, I externalize my own self worth more than I probably ever have in this area of my life…because what I desire feels so vulnerable and grand and out of reach.
However, we do ourselves a disservice by glorifying someone else’s success and then comparing ourselves to them. And I think we do those we admire a disservice by not recognizing the blood, sweat, and tears, the downright hard work, the willingness to fail, the picking themselves up and continuing on after every inevitable failure, the fortitude to pursue a dream despite the obstacles that goes into getting from wherever they started to what we see.
The primary obstacle in pursuing my dreams is me. I think that’s true for most of us. Even as I write this post, I feel the familiar tension in my heart and solar plexus chakras, the closing off of the energy there in a perceived effort to protect myself from the possibility of failure.
But so what if I fail? So what if any of us fails?
It’s part of the journey. I — (and you, too) — can pick myself up, dust myself off, have a laugh or a cry, and consider how my efforts taught me something and took me several steps closer to turning dream into reality.
Life isn’t a competition. Not really.
We’re all on the same team: Team Humanity.
We’re all just trying to figure out this thing called life, our place in it, who we are, and how to live our best story.
So, as I head into this new year, I set myself up to allow room for failure. …and success. I am holding my pen over the blank page and realizing I can write whatever story I choose for this year, with the understanding that the story is mine but that so many others support and inspire me along the way.
Thank you for being a part of my story. Thank you for being here.
I’d love to hear from you in the comments: What story do you hope to write for 2024?
Cheers and Happy New Year!
Peace and love,
Desserae
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