Have you ever wanted something so bad you didn’t bother trying for it simply because your fear of trying and failing was greater than your desire to succeed?
Have you ever limited your exposure to challenging situations, avoided social functions, seeking out promotions, asking the cute barista at your local coffee house for their number, reached only for the low-hanging fruit because you knew, without fail, it was the path of least resistance?
You’re not alone.
According to a 2016 study, the most common phobia among Americans is the fear of personal failure.
Personal failure being defined as “the nonperformance…
It’s uncommon these days to find an old-fashioned love story, but that’s exactly what mine is.
I first met my husband when I was fourteen years old. He was a friend of my older sister, he came around the house from time to time, but I have no recollection of meeting him until the first time I actually met him.
Sixteen years old, creating my forever in the backseat of a 1991 Renault Clio headed for our local pool hall. He extended his hand, I shook it and said “hey,” not realizing the life that existed in that one small…
For many, the journey to becoming SuperMom begins with choices. As soon as you decide you’re trying to conceive, you’re hit with judgment, unsolicited advice and questions from other mothers who want to know exactly how YOU plan to earn your stripes.
From nutritional supplements to pre-pregnancy diet and nutrition, preconception therapy, essential oils — even your partner’s underpants, diet, and alcohol consumption come into question.
Pre-ordained SuperMoms are quick to tell you everything you’re doing wrong before the bun is even in the oven.
“You’re not taking pre-conception vitamins? You really must not care about your future child’s life.”
Ten years, two children and two jobs later, I am finally living the life I spent a decade longing for. The problem? I hate it.
Perhaps “hate” is a strong word, but it sure isn’t everything I’d hoped for.
To get to where we are today, sitting in my home office at 11:00 am on a weekday, pajama pants, sipping coffee, we have to travel back to 2010 and the birth of our first child. Until her birth, my husband and I had both worked full time and had expected to continue doing so — until we learned the price…
We’ve all been here, haven’t we? Sitting in front of our computer, watching the cursor blink, wringing our necks in our hands, cursing the white screen, wondering why the words won’t flow like they should. Like they once did. Like they inevitably will again.
If you’re looking for some magic bullet on how to chip through writer’s block, this isn’t it.
Sadly, today, I’m in the same boat as you. Floating adrift on a sea of endless white with only the blinking of the cursor to guide me.
Writers, I have learned, are a finicky bunch. Not all of us…
On days like today, I am thankful for the snow.
Standing in the kitchen at work, empty mug in hand, waiting to use the Keurig machine, I run into a visiting client who is searching the cabinets for a glass. Had I known he was in there, I would likely have gone back to my desk and waited for the kitchen to clear out before entering. Since I didn’t, and he saw me before I had a chance to run for cover, it was time to make small talk — my least favorite thing. “Can you believe all this snow?”…
The Fragility of life surrounds us, always.
It’s in the trees, the grass, the swirling winds, carrying fragments of death’s release in each gentle drift.
Such a finite amount of time we all have.
Such a delicate and fragile existence we all lead.
In each of us, the potential to perish at any given moment, without warning, without compromise.
In each of us, the potential to linger in pain, imprisoned by disease, clinging to life by man-made solutions designed only to buy time.
And why do we continue to hold on when trapped within these confinements?
Is it for ourselves…
Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.” — Louis L’Amour
In the fall, my best friend, a new writer who had never tried her hand at creative writing before, decided to participate in NaNoWriMo. As a long-time writer (and seasoned novel abandoner), my immediate reaction was to feel jealous (you see, I’ve always wanted to participate in NaNoWriMo, but due to time constraints such as a full-time job, children, a husband, dogs, re-reading my favorite book for the 5th time, re-watching Scrubs for the 15th time, reading article-after-article on Medium, Shane…
If you’re reading this now, you’re probably an artist. A musician, a painter, or perhaps a writer like me. And like me, you’ve probably been practicing your art since before you realized it was “art.” Back when it was fingerpaint on your mother’s white carpet, singing the lead as Annie in your elementary school play, or writing a 20 page thesis (in crayon) on the dangers of smoking in an effort to get your father to quit at the tender age of nine (I wish I still had this.)
Regardless of your preferred medium, one thing many of us seem…
I was twelve years old when you stopped trying. When you’d had enough of motherhood. It appeared to be spontaneous in my naive, child’s eyes; As though you’d simply flipped off the Mom switch and were suddenly sixteen again. You started locking yourself in your bedroom, having friends sleep over, living on TV and junk food and defying authority; mostly my father.
You were the product of a wealthy household growing up. A life of privilege and plenty, of exclusive clubs, etiquette and money. …
Creative and Freelance Copywriter for Web and eCom. Wife and Mother. More likely to share random musings on life. Habitually begins sentences with “And.”