Jillian Webster's Blog, page 3

On Being Selfish

I’m a big believer in the 5 a.m. club.

It's not a club really. Nothing that fancy. Just me, getting up at the crack of dawn, and sitting in my PJs to write. For a while it was to practice yoga. But generally speaking, it's a time in my day where I can do something for myself that feeds my soul. 

I am often met with, “I can’t believe you get up that early when you don’t have to, you’re crazy.”

But I’m not really. I just woke up one day and said, “What in the hell am I doing with my life every day?!”  Does anyone else ever feel this way? ​
​
Like… my individual days. The ones that, when you really break it down, feel more like a means to an end. Work all day, go home, eat dinner, watch TV and then go to sleep to start all over again the next day. A means to an end. And what’s the end? 48 hours of freedom on the weekend? And then what? Work all week again. For someone else. To pay the bills. 

I know in the grand scheme of things, wanting to do what “feeds your soul” is not what humans have done. Not really. In the expansive history of humanity, we’ve generally spent thousands of years getting up early every day to WORK. Hard. 

But things have shifted, just a little. Now we have the luxury to be able to sit back and actually look at the quality of our day-to-day life and CHANGE THINGS. Find the spaces between our obligations and responsibilities, where we can do something that makes us breathe a little deeper. Go out on our lunch and watch the sea instead of staring at our phones in a dark break room. Get up a little earlier and journal. Or paint. Or build. Practice yoga. Meditate. Start a new business.

We don’t need that much more time to shift the quality of our individual days.

Just little moments.

Or thirty consecutive moments.

To be “selfish”. To do something just for ourselves. I get up extra early and give myself a whole hour and a half. Not to sound too dramatic, but those small moments in the early morning hours, doing what feeds my soul, has completely changed my life.
​ My 5 a.m. club 
​I’ve found the more I’ve shifted the little moments between real, hard life, the more space I’ve created in my life to shift bigger things. Filling my moments between work and obligations with things that really mean something to me. I’ve also found that making a stand, filling my extra moments with more and more of what feeds my soul, attracts more and more of that blessed thing. Whatever that may be. 

And it is life changing. Small shifts. Little moments. Take them. Make them yours. Because at the end of the day, all we have are moments. 

When you look back, how do you want to remember spending yours? ​

The Hands of Fate

I remember his hands the most.
 
You could tell they were the sort of hands that had seen a few things. His veins popped from beneath his fragile, paper-thin skin. His joints were swollen and crooked from years of cleaning floors and fixing roofs, yet soft enough to have held a few babies and probably even more grand babies. I went to bed that night under a single flickering light hanging from the crumbling cathedral ceiling and wrote in my leather-bound notebook, 
 
"I have just met my Egyptian grandfather."

Every day he greeted me with the same deeply wide smile and gracious nod of his head.

"Your hands," he would say with a trembling voice, "you must let me read your hands."

I smiled in response, unsure of how to respond to this eager custodian’s proposal.
 
I pulled aside the owner of the new hotel. New, as in, he had just opened it. But I can assure you - nothing about his hotel was new. Located on the fifth floor of a mostly abandoned building in Cairo, the only residents filling the empty halls were those creepy Egyptian cats you see in cartoons. The ones with the slanted, blatantly suspicious eyes. They crept along beside me, their meows echoing off the dust and peeling paint, as I climbed the winding staircase convinced I was walking into one of those wake-up-in-a-bathtub-full-of-ice-with-my-kidneys-missing sort of situations. There was a working elevator in the middle of the vast, open space but I didn’t dare take it. Nope, the dusty, cat-infested stairs were good enough for me.
 
Once I reached the top step, a handful of old men, my new grandfather included, were sitting on a sagging couch in the “hotel lobby” smoking cigarettes. They jumped up, arms open with smiles across their faces,

“Welcome! Welcome! Welcome!”

And all my fears washed away.

Plus, it was clean (kinda) and I was a young backpacker on a very tight budget. 

*
 
"Oh no," the owner reassured me, "you mustn't worry. He doesn't normally offer palm readings. You see, to him you are special. No need to pay, just sit in the lobby and have a cup of tea with him." 
 
So that’s what I did.

It was the last of my four-day stay in Cairo. The owner of the hotel was in the kitchen preparing a going-away party for me. He was cooking up platters of his favorite, traditional Egyptian foods.

Things I must try before I go.
Oh, and could I please not go yet?
Also, could I please leave him a nice review on Hostelworld?

He had his 8-year-old nephew run down to the stand on the corner to buy us beer. Even a few of the creepy-eyed cats were making their way into the crowd. It was turning into quite the soiree.
 
Back in the lobby, I set my tea on the notched and wobbly table and watched with curiosity as the old man’s hands cupped mine, his furrowed brow gazing into the lines of my skin. He tipped my hand from side to side, examining the way the lines tracing into my palm curved and arched. Some connected in the middle like a fork in the road. Others reached towards each other but were left with a rift, like hands reaching into the sky. He touched a section at the base of my palm where the lines were broken into a dozen different strokes. He nodded his head with a contemplative grunt.
 
And then he told me things he never could have known. Secrets I've never told anyone. He knew about my fears and my past. He knew about my health. He spoke about the crippling loss of my mother. 
 
"You..." he looked up at me with sympathetic eyes, "you do not love easily." 
 
I looked down in shame and he lifted my chin with a single knotted finger.  "But when you do," he added, "your love is loyal and it is fierce." 
 
And then he said something that broke my naive little 26-year-old heart. 
 
He said, "You will marry late in life." 
 
I can't tell you what he said after that because my head was reeling with questions.
 
"Late? How late? As in five years, ‘late’? Ten? Technically, you're a traditional old man, so a single gal in her mid-twenties is already an old maid…" 
 
But I said none of these things.

I smiled and I took what he said with a grain of salt, because who really knows what our future holds? 
 
But there was also some part of me, deep down, that knew he was probably right. 
 
I was always the too girl. 
 
Too opinionated. 
 
Too independent. 
 
And the mother of all too - too picky.

Oh, if I could count the number of times I was told this with a shake of the head and a disapproving tone. But I wasn't being too anything. 
 
I was just being myself. 
 
And I wasn't waiting for perfection - I was just waiting for right. 
 
So in the meantime, from that fateful afternoon in Cairo until the fateful day in New Zealand when I went on a blind date with a coworker's friend (my future husband), I lived my life. I traveled the world. I watched the sunrise and danced on tabletops and cried a million tears. And I played the game, going on countless first dates and looking into the eyes of countless strangers in crowded bars, always... always wondering... is he here tonight? 
 
His name was Nael - my Egyptian grandfather. I think about him often as I consider the fact that next year, I will be walking down the aisle for the first time as a 35-year-old woman, technically a bit "late" by most worldly standards.
When we separated on my last afternoon in Egypt, I felt so uncertain, questioning what if? 

What if he’s right?
 
He was.
 
And you know what? I couldn’t be more grateful in this moment that he was.
 
Because I know, without a single doubt in my deeply lived-in life, that the person waiting at the end of the aisle,
 
is the perfect person in the world for me. 
 
He was worth the wait.
 
He's not perfect and neither am I, but we are perfect for each other. And I'll never doubt that for a second,

because I've been on the other side without him for so long.

That's the thing about love. It doesn't care about age. It doesn't care if you're 16 or 60, whether you're on your first marriage or your fifth.
 
I can appreciate that sort of stubbornness.
 
It follows no path but the one carved out by destiny. 
 
Which apparently, I once heard an old man say, can be as uniquely varied as the crevices of our hands. 

Grit

Abraham Lincoln, Oprah, Steve Jobs, Einstein, Michael Jordan, Walt Disney... we all know the list. That inspiring catalog of exceptional human beings who have failed, sometimes repeatedly, but never gave up. People who flourished despite immense hardship. People who emanate the qualities we endlessly try to plant inside ourselves and secretly beseech to grow. 
This is Angela.
 
Angela studies people like those listed above... but maybe a bit more—normal. No one is normal. Okay, “every-day” people, but people who have one very similar trait in common with the famously exceptional human beings listed above. 
 
Angela used to teach mathematics to 7th graders. She truly believed every one of her students could pass her class if they worked hard enough to understand the material. However, not every student applied himself or herself and therefore some students didn’t pass her class. This was not surprising. What was surprising was that consistently, year after year, the top performing students in her class weren't necessarily "the smartest". 
 
This inspired Angela to quit her job and go back to school for psychology. Now she studies Grit. 
 
What is Grit?

“Grit is passion and perseverance for long-term goals.
One way to think about grit is to consider what grit isn’t.
Grit isn’t talent. Grit isn’t luck. Grit isn’t how intensely, for the moment, you want something.
Instead, grit is about having what some researchers call an ”ultimate concern”– a goal you care about so much that it organizes and gives meaning to almost everything you do. And grit is holding steadfast to that goal. Even when you fall down. Even when you screw up. Even when progress toward that goal is halting or slow.
Talent and luck matter to success. But talent and luck are no guarantee of grit. And in the very long run, I think grit may matter as least as much, if not more.”
                                                                                                                                                         - www.angeladuckworth.com

Angela went on to get her doctorate and began studying both children and adults in challenging situations -
Which teachers working in really tough, low socioeconomic schools would make it through the year?
Which sales employees at private companies would perform the best?
Which cadets at West Point Military would make it to the next year?
Which contestants at national spelling bees would prove to be the most successful? 
 
In every situation, Angela and her team of researchers would ask the same question, "Who is most likely to succeed and why?"
 
Across the board, taking into account general influencing, relative factors, one characteristic emerged as a significant predictor of success: Grit. 
 
"Grit is the quality that allows an individual to work hard and maintain focus – not just for weeks or months, but for years." - Angela Duckworth
 
So it goes back to the age-old concept, "You can accomplish anything you put your mind to." Talent and luck do play a part—but not necessarily the most influencing part. You don’t have to be the best or the smartest—you just have to be the most determined.
When I think about this thing called “Grit”, this marker of success that has little to do with "luck" and mostly to do with emotional toughness, my heart actually flutters beneath my chest. Like, a lot. The physical equivalent of this "flutter" could be likened to doing cartwheels down the middle of the street... on a pogo stick... with sparklers.
 
Why? Because I am a writer. And like most writers (and artists in general), I am pushed to the brink of insanity to create something I love, all the while grappling with my own wild insecurity about my work. 
 
When writing my first book I would read about people with "Grit" before I knew what "Grit" was. Before the famous TED talk (above) and Angela’s studies hit the internet. I read about as many people as I could because I needed, more than anything, PERMISSION to pursue this dream despite the jilting anxiety shaking me deep in my bones, always rattling off a list of reasons why I was wasting my time.
 
I didn’t have any education in writing or know the right people. I didn't use an impressively extensive vocabulary. I was in the “wrong” vocation. I was terrible at spelling.  Hell, I didn’t even know where to place a semicolon. I felt like a fraud. But my passion for writing outweighed my insecurity. And so I vowed to keep going. 
 
What I lacked in education, I made up for in stubborn tenacity. I figured it out. I'm still figuring it out. Slowly but surely, I've learned through each and every early morning writing session, staring at my computer until my eyes glaze over, that eventually I'll make it through to the other side.
 
So how do you go from an unsure beginner to an "achiever of this great thing?" 
 
Grit. 
 
Have a messy, stumbling, stubborn resolve to fight your way through. Look like a fool. Stand alone.
 
But at the end of the day, stand proud.
 
I want to write. All the time. I want to create beautiful books - even if they are only beautiful to me. I want to write stories that play like movies when I close my eyes at night. And I want to share those stories with the world. My brain of course doubts me (it probably always will), but my heart keeps pushing me forward. 
 
I’m a dental hygienist. That’s what pays the bills. I have a two-hour round-trip commute, meaning I’m gone 12 hours a day. So if I want to write, I have to get up in the early hours of the morning to do so.
 
So that’s what I’ve been doing. I have a dream of writing a trilogy. It’s fiction and it’s wild and I believe it to be a beautiful story.
So for the last two years I get up at five a.m. and devote one whole glorious hour to that dream. It’s all I have, so I make a date with myself and I don’t give it up for anything. It is my one sacred hour to make this dream happen. So I make sure I’m not late and I give it all I have. 

Am I good enough? (That’s always the big question, isn’t it?) Will anything become of it? I’m putting in a lot of work for something that may never “pay off”. But at the end of the day—it doesn't matter. I'm going to follow my dream and I'm going to put myself out there. Because at the end of it all, when I'm wrinkled and elderly, I want to hold my head up high and say I worked hard and I didn't give up. And if anyone can be proud of me, it will be me.
 
Tenacity. This is the marker, guys. It’s smothered all over any great story of any inspirational human you’ll come across. They all failed. They all worked hard. And the biggest lesson of all – they didn’t give up.

Ever.

Hold tightly to your dream and fight for it with feverish tenacity. 
 
So that’s me. At the end of my life, when someone asks me how I spent my days, I will hold my head high and say,
 
I was a writer.
I created beautiful books.
I wrote stories that still play like movies when I close my eyes at night.


What is your dream?
Leave me a comment below, I'd love to hear from you!

Something Sweeter

I hesitate,
watching as you empty a packet of raw sugar into your black coffee.
Our silence is broken as your spoon slowly twirls against the glass.
The sugar disintegrates.
You briefly flash me a smile as you grab another packet. 

You think I’m judging you. 

But all I’m thinking about is asking you
this one question.
The words are on the tip of my tongue,
hovering like poison I want to heave out of me.
It’s the same question I assume everyone wants to ask
but are too afraid of the answer.
Because we are like the sugar in your coffee,
your answer could disintegrate us.
We are strong.
We are fragile.
Sensitive.
Raw. 

And then I stop. 
I take another sip of my coffee
and instead,
I ask about your friend. 

Because I recognize the faint whisper deep inside,
this constant
faithful
companion
throughout my life. 

It answers, “It doesn’t matter.” 

But I want to ask,
“Am I good enough?” 

I think it could ease the panic within,
the constant drumming
of this scared and broken part of me
trying desperately to avoid the heartbreak of failure. 

You could respond,
“Honestly, Jillian,
I’ve implored the universe and it has answered
with one sweeping,
definitive,
“No.
You are not good enough.” 

And then what would I do? 

I smile as I write this, a rush of comfort swelling from within. 

I’d try harder. 

I’d get up earlier.
I’d read more, I’d write more, I’d take more classes.
I’d have no choice.
I AM a writer.
I always have been.
My life wouldn’t be “my life” without it.
I could stop now and save myself from the possible heart-wrenching grief
that comes with failure,
but I’d be passing my days,
safe, quiet and secure...
living someone else’s life.
I wouldn’t feel so vulnerable all the time
and I wouldn’t work myself into a maddening frenzy.
But I also wouldn’t feel alive. 

So I don’t ask.

I sip my coffee
and to ease your insecurity,
I grab another packet of sugar.

It tastes sweeter now. 

I like it. 

I watch as the cubes of sugar slowly soften in,
transforming something bitter
into something surprisingly beautiful. 

The Other Side

I write.
I put it out there.
I write.
I put it out there.

Sometimes social media feels like a school auditorium
filled with people on stacked-up boxes,
screaming into megaphones.
Trying to be heard.
To be noticed.
To be whole in a world full of pieces.
Who has the best photos? Who has the most likes?
Who has the rules to play this game?

follow.unfollow.follow.unfollow.

I’ve never been good at popularity contests.

I look up #amwriting
and it seems to me I need to find cooler coffee mugs.
Maybe,
if I can find a cooler coffee mug,
I can find my tribe.
I can find support.
Like-minded souls to strengthen my resolve
in this wildly corrosive world.
Someone to hold my hand
and tell me all this work I’m doing
will amount to something beautiful.

Something bigger than myself. 

And then a bus blares past and I catch a glimpse of my reflection.
A smile gently spreads across my lips.
I rub my hands together for warmth and for once...
I don’t let go.
One hand clasping the other,
I look both ways before crossing over to the other side

An Ode to Artists

Three Lessons to Empower Your Creativity

      "THE DREAMERS are the saviors of the world... Composer, sculptor, painter, poet, prophet, sage, these are the makers of the after-world, the architects of heaven. The world is beautiful because they have lived.
 
"Cherish your visions; cherish your ideals; cherish what stirs in your heart and what forms in your mind. Dream lofty dreams, and as you dream, so shall you become... The smallest and the greatest achievements were at first and for a time only dreams." 
                                                - As a Man Thinketh (One of the original “power of positive thinking" books, written over 100 years ago.)

I believe everyone is an artist. 
 
But if you look around, it’s not uncommon to mostly see “normal”, every-day people looking back at you. Most of these people have ordinary jobs and lead ordinary lives. They tend to their families and bills and obligations just like everybody else. But if you take just a moment to peak beyond the façade of a “normal human” - you will often see some sort of extraordinary creator.
When I glance around my office, I see a dental assistant who also does dramatic, special effects makeup. I see a receptionist who takes beautiful photos and studies interior design in her spare time. I see a dentist who regularly performs in choir and theater. They may all have day jobs that seem less-than artistic, but deep down - they are all artists. 
 
I look at my partner who loves apparel design and dreams of having a hand at it one day. I scroll through social media and see countless friends who are photographers and writers and painters. Friends who adorn their bodies with intricate, one-of-a-kind tattoos. My father and stepmother, whose house decor changes every time I see it, are always refreshing the old… painting, building, gardening, decorating. My older sister built a Tesla coil from scratch. My younger sister loves to paint. 
 
It’s everywhere you look; whether you build houses or resumes, paint nails or paint canvases, bake delectable pastries or landscape or knit; no matter how you look at it, we were all born to create. To make something from nothing. And in return, like some sort of reprieve, our creations often save us from the monotony that binds us.
 
We are all artists. 

"Filling a space in a beautiful way. That's what art means to me."
                                                                                           – Georgia O'Keeffe

Of course a few people will clear their throats and declare, “Nope. Not me. Not even close.”
 
Okay, well… I won't argue with you. But I can't help but wonder – really? You never know.
 
After I wrote my first book, I took a little break from writing. And then one day a friend nonchalantly asked over coffee, "What about writing fiction?"
 
I laughed.
 
I have never written fiction. I’ve spent the last twenty years journaling. And then I blogged. And then I wrote a memoir... all non-fiction.
 
I responded, "No. Never. I write about things in the here and now. I can’t make up stories and characters and plots… my brain just doesn't think that way." 
 
I said this as a  factual statement. At 32 years old, I had a pretty clear idea of who I was. 
 
So you can imagine my surprise, when six months after I published my first book, an IDEA dropped from the sky. Out of nowhere.

Plop! 

A scene… for a fiction book.
 
I sat with this idea for six long months. It tapped into my consciousness daily, persistently whispering that it was more stubborn than me (and that says a lot). I stared back at it in horror, like a leprechaun had taken up residence on my shoulder. 
 
What is this thing and what does it want from me?
 
I was petrified at the thought of writing something I had KNOWN my entire life I couldn't do.
 
Six months later, after my idea had refused to budge, I decided to give it a try. I set aside time every morning before work to start writing fiction - for the first time in my life. 
 
And I'm pretty sure you know what I'm going to say next. 
 
I didn't just like it - I absolutely, wholeheartedly, almost painfully, fell head-over-heals in love with it. 
 
I am at the point where I can't imagine my life without it. Fiction. This idea. Which is now, after two years, a completed draft of my novel.
 
"I can't write fiction." 
 
I lived with that notion my entire life. 
 
You just never know. 
 
SO in honor of all things "creative" and to possibly invoke a little inspiration for your own inner muse, I’d like to offer three gems of encouragement from one of my favorite books on the subject; Elizabeth Gilbert's book, Big Magic.
1. ENTITLEMENT
 
Liz writes that in order to be free to create,  “You must possess a fierce sense of personal entitlement.” 
 
Now, she’s not advising you be a demanding matriarch with a little bell to ring for service, but to believe in your right to be here and to have a voice and a dream of your own. It doesn’t mean we all get to quit our day jobs and move to LA and be famous (I’m pretty sure most of us don’t even want that, right?), but to do what makes us happy. To create an authentic life that will feed our truest selves. Even if THAT is your art - your life.
 
Make your life a work of art.
 
“You will never be able to create anything interesting out of your life if you don’t believe that you’re entitled to at least try.” – Elizabeth Gilbert
 
The famous poet David Whyte also discusses this in his speech on the “arrogance of belonging.” When looking it up I was met with countless blogs already discussing this idea. It seems to be a common theme among artists.
 
Liz clarifies, "The arrogance of belonging is not about egotism or self-absorption. In a strange way, it's the opposite; it is a divine force that will actually take you out of yourself and allow you to engage more fully with life. Because often what keeps you from creative living is your self-absorption (your self-doubt, your self-disgust, your self-judgement, your crushing sense of self-protection.)"
 
We all need to belong; it’s in our DNA. But in that need most of us become locked up and boxed up in the same constraining labels and standards in order to fit in. My brain says, “If I put this blog out, I set myself apart. I put myself on a pedestal for you to look at and judge.”
 
And that has always scared me.
 
But then I woke up one day (actually, I was walking the dog) and realized I didn’t want to do it anymore - hide behind a rock. I’m so much happier when I’m writing and sharing it with the world. And I get to do that, because I have a right to be creative and have fun with it. Even though it makes me feel incredibly vulnerable. Even if I put myself out there for people to judge. 
 
And here’s another thing -
People will judge, no matter how perfect or imperfect you are, so you might as well let them sit in their negative stew and go on being you. I can tell you, the stronger the personal issue someone has from pushing down their own creativity (or passion, or work, life choices, weight loss, etc.), the harder they’ll throw a tantrum as you proudly wave yours. I know—I’ve done it myself. Seeing people do what I wanted to do but wasn’t, was painful. They served as a reminder of who I wanted to be and who I needed to be, but was denying. So the judgment - it’s not personal. And it’s none of your business. Just tip your hat to them and move on.
 
2. Don’t be a TORTURED ARTIST – this one is my favorite.
 
In the movie Remember Me, Robert Pattinson plays a tortured young soul named Tyler. Brooding, sensitive, and aloof, he carries his tattered journal under his arm and often steals time away to write to his deceased brother.  At one point in the movie, Robert's character quotes Mahatma Gandhi, saying,  “Whatever you do in life will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it.”  

When I first heard this, I kinda hated it. I mean - my ego was bruised! What? Everything I do will be insignificant? 

Well actually, yeah... kinda. 
 
Think of it like this – and this may sound dark but just bare with me.
 
One hundred years from now, will anyone know or care that I ever existed?
 
Probably not.
 
I find this thought endlessly freeing. 
 
What stops us from doing most things? Fear. Imagine if you no longer let fear make your decisions, if you worked hard for something without the fear of rejection or judgment? Because at the end of the day, we all move on from this life and the world will keep spinning. Whether we were creative or not. 
 
So the official lesson from Ms. Gilbert is this -

“The paradox that you need to comfortably inhabit, if you wish to live a contented creative life, goes something like this; 'My creative expression must be the most important thing in the world to me (if I am to live artistically), and it almost must not matter at all (if I am to live sanely).'"

If you find, like me, that the heavy shackles of fear are holding you down… you own the key to your freedom.
 
This is it:

“It matters./It doesn’t matter.”
 
Let go and create.

Me in my happy place. 3. STUBBORN GLADNESS -
 
When you find something that you love - immerse yourself in it. Liz calls this “a stubborn gladness”. Set aside time for it, almost like an act of prayer.  Make this a time just for you, a space of sacred devotion to your love, and don’t give it up for anything.
 
Not only will your work get better, but you’ll be happier. SO many times I’ve met people that have said, “I want to write a book.” So I ask, “Well, what’s stopping you?” Most don’t really have an answer. The biggest obstacle is often them. They are stopping themselves by not setting aside time to achieve this dream.
 
Make a space in your life for your endeavor – whatever that may be. Make as much or as little space as you can. And approach that time with a stubborn gladness.

I am a dental hygienist by day, writer by… early morning, lunch break at work, train commute to and from work, and weekends. It is a deep need that often becomes more ravenous the more I feed it. Maybe someday I’ll be lucky enough to write full-time, but until then, I will write in every blank space my day has to offer.
 
This is actually a huge point Liz Gilbert makes in her book. The art, almost like an entity on its own, wants to be created as much as you want to create it. You know the feeling… that nagging feeling that persists from deep within your gut. That shiver up your spine when it crosses your mind. That glorious yes! bubbling up from within. That is the art. And it’s your divine right to CREATE it. Listen to it.

I love my writing but it’s not always easy. Actually, sometimes it really sucks. I can’t tell you how many days I’ve spent in tears when writing the first draft of both my books. Because all first drafts are generally terrible. And it takes a lot of work (for me at least) to make them … not terrible. But now I am at the editing and cutting and “making things pretty” stage of my latest novel and I’m having a blast. Sometimes I’m awake before my alarm. Four o'clock in the morning and I’m wide awake, writing in my head, squeezing my eyes shut and willing myself to go back to sleep. That is the art. Demanding to be released.
 
I don’t complain. I get up and I work because I know, as soon as this book goes to my editor, I’ll be right back to square one again - staring at the dreaded BLANK PAGE. I suppose this is like life in general. If you’re lucky – you’ll outgrow yourself and will have to “start over” many times throughout the course of your days.
 
If you should ever stop, have pity dear friend, because that’s when the fire within you will have extinguished.
 
Don’t let it.
 
Your art - whatever it may be - is a beacon of your individuality. It is the only thing keeping this world beautiful - and your life unique. Don't hold back, and I promise I won't either. 
 
The world waits for you.

Photo from Huffington Post - "10 Powerful Responses To The Question What Is Art?" What do you love to create? Or what would you like to try but haven't?
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This is Steve. Be more like Steve.

 A Blog on Bravery
     When I hear stories like the one I am about to share with you, I feel deeply inspired. It reminds of something my grandfather once told me that changed my life. I was in my early twenties, working two jobs and going to school full-time. I had made peace with the fact that life was hard and to accomplish anything, I needed to put my head to the grindstone.
 
But I was sick. A lot. And exhausted.
 
And then my grandfather put his hand on my shoulder and said as a matter-of-fact,
“Honey, there’s no rule in life that says it’s meant to be hard.”
 
I stopped dead in my tracks and let that statement wash over me.
 
There are no rules.
 
I’m not sure he ever meant it to that same extent but that didn’t matter. I realized I had made some sort of silent agreement along the lines that when I worked to achieve my dreams, it was going to be hard. Really hard. And miserable. Me against the world. Maybe because I had been taught throughout my youth that getting a higher education was disobeying God...
 
But I digress.
 
When I started moving again, I moved towards a new and different life. I still worked, and it was still hard, but I didn’t carry so much weight on my shoulders. And most importantly - I started to think outside of my limited box of self-imposed rules and ideas of what life “should” look like.
 
I decided after I graduated I was going to live in a big city (keep in mind I had lived my whole life in a small town and had just learned to use a parking meter for the first time). I was going to get my first passport and see the world. I was going to write.
 
After graduating, I spent a few years in Chicago. And then I decided to leave everything behind to backpack the world on my own. Most people didn’t know what to make of this as it was so rare at the time for anyone to do such a thing. Especially in the Midwestern United States.
 
Many didn’t believe me. Some encouraged me… most warned me. It was dangerous. What about my career? What about my health insurance, God forbid. Didn’t I want to spend that money on a house? Or settle down and get married?
 
I was different from my peers and had become wildly insecure about my dreams. I grappled for a long time about being different. But eventually I figured it out. I was deeply afraid about the new adventure I was about to embark on, but I went anyway. I saw the world.

And then I wrote about it. (Check out my book here.)
 
So when you read the story below, I hope you find it as inspiring as I do. It’s encouraged me to continue to face my fears and go out on a branch. To be unapologetic in my drive to see my dreams continue to unfold before me. To be loud and to be me.
This is Stephanie.
 
In the 1960’s, Stephanie started a software company in her living room with the equivalent of $100. She employed only women at a time when women had relatively few rights. They were only just starting to flood the universities but once the babies came, they were supposed to be home. Mothers. Full stop. The end.
 
She pioneered a work paradigm so her employees could work from home with flexible schedules, allowing them to take care of their families as well as have a career. They made meager wages and the company was small. When she tried bringing in business by corresponding with others (they were called “letters” back then. Paper. Mail. Stamps.) she often heard crickets in response. Her husband had mentioned maybe it was “good ol’ fashioned sexism.”
 
So she changed her name to Steve.
 
Opportunities began to present themselves. Business came in. Not only did her company grow, it flourished.
 
Now it’s worth $3,000,000,000. Seventy of her employees are millionaires.
 
There is actually a lot more to her story but its SO much more interesting when you let her tell it for herself. Her TED talk (below) is inspirational. For many more reasons than what I’ve quickly listed here (think running from Nazi Europe and raising an autistic child and a few really amusing feminist anecdotes).
 
But I wanted to share her story because it says something about bravery.
 
Steve… Stephanie… Dame Stephanie Shirley to be exact— she had a vision. It was different. During a time when the glass ceiling was impenetrable, she didn't beat her head against it; she went in through the back door. She didn’t follow the rules—she made her own. During a time when women couldn't even open a bank account without their husbands PERMISSION, she ran a business. And a successful one at that. She didn't let society break her down or own her life. She had a dream, and despite the fact that the current “rules” stated it "couldn't" be done, she went for it anyway.
 
And what did they do when she put herself out on the wire for everyone to judge? Did they judge her?
 
Of course they did. They laughed at her.
 
But she kept moving forward and did it anyway. 
 
Now Stephanie is a billionaire.
    Now, I don’t have the same aspirations as Stephanie and I’m willing to bet you don’t either. We’re all so different - that’s the beauty of it. But we all have things we want to do. Maybe big dreams that call out to us as we drift off to sleep at night. Maybe something smaller that pushes us out of our comfort zone. Big or small, it doesn’t matter. We are all uniquely different and our differences are what make this world beautiful. We can’t let our differences silence us. Be unapologetically you.
 
Stories like Steve’s -*ahem - Stephanie’s, teach us that when at first we are being brave, we must be brave alone. Feel the fear and do it anyway. Even if you happen to have all the support in the world (which most don’t), at the end of the day, it is still only you standing out there on that ledge. 

 
Stand proud.
What are your dreams? What would you do if you knew you could not fail? Leave your comments below - I’d love to hear from you!

Some Photos From My Journey

For the readers of Scared to Life - a few photos from my journey. Click on the photo for the location and description. 

My One-Week Anniversary

Photos from social media            
                     "From the very first page, Jillian Webster's passion and pain will grip you to the extent that you feel as though you are by her side, watching as her life unfolds. She will take you on her journey, a journey of finding herself and her place in the world when she doesn't even know what she is looking for...other than life. This book will show you what bravery means, it will show you what it's like to take life in your stride, and most of all it will show you what it's like to listen to your heart and never give up. Even though this genre is not my typical read, I'm so glad I picked it up based on a friend's recommendation. I loved it, and I'm so impressed by the quality of her writing for a first time author. I'm already looking forward to her next book, whatever it may be."   - Review by Richard on Amazon


Today is my one week anniversary. 


One week ago, the book I've spent four long years on was published live on Amazon. 
Since then, it has been an overwhelming response of messages, posts, photos, and more posts ...  and just like that, my book has been unleashed unto the world. 

The past seven days have been surreal... a dream come true...more than I could have imagined--better than I have ever dreamed. 

And it has only been a week.

So thank you, to everyone out there, for your kind words and your endless support. And thank you for joining me on this journey...  here's to living our dreams, the best is yet to come.

The Secret to Living Your Dreams

I feel like I'm dreaming. Actually, now that I think about it, I feel this way often. I look around at my life and wonder how I got to be so lucky. And then I remember-it wasn't luck that brought me here, but hard work and faith.

I made this happen. 

Below is a journal I penned 3 1/2 years ago, when my dreams of writing a book and living abroad and well... pretty much every wild aspiration I have recently achieved--were only dreams.


         November 19, 2011

         I feel that writing may be the absolute source of bipolar for me. I finally find the words that belong in my story to be able to finish a chapter and with that, I am soaring with purpose and pride. I feel like I am finally moving, finally finding the place in life where things "click". Then I start to work on the next chapter, only to sink into the depths of desperation again. The blogs that are the basic foundation for my book are not well written... at all. They have the backdrop of good writing, but they are smothered in elementary mistakes. I was feeling so great, and now I feel hopeless again. I look at the pages in front of me, covered in scratches and scribbles, a potential of greatness but in reality an insignificant failure. The only thing I can hear, thankfully, whispering beyond my doubt, is a small but strong voice beneath it all saying, "It's okay Jillian, you will figure it out. You'll transform it into something great. You will. Just keep writing. Don't stop writing." I sigh, pick up my pencil again, and can only hope with every letter, every word, I'll find my chapter in the madness."

   
Today, I walk the streets of Wellington, just elated. The first copy of my book has come in the mail. My book. I worked and I worked and I edited and I worked, and now it is everything I imagined it could be. And it exists. This dream I've held for years now physically exists. Tears fill my eyes as I hold its weight with my hands, gripping the pages and the binding, tracing the title with my fingertips.

It's finally here.

Scared to Life will be unleashed in one short month, and the possibilities are limitless. 

I can't wait to share it with you.

Do you want to know the secret to living your wildest dreams?

Never give up.

-Ever. Me holding the first copy of my book.