Allison Vesterfelt's Blog, page 11

The Real Reason You Feel Powerless to Change Your Life

Honestly, I’ve spent most of my life feeling like I didn’t have the power to change my circumstances.

My romantic relationships would always end in heartbreak and despair, but I figured that was just the “way it was” with love. Best case scenario, I figured, it was that way for everyone. Worst case scenario, it was something about me that I couldn’t help.

Maybe it was predestined—I would never have a happy relationship.

When it came to money, I was never poor necessarily, but never lived in abundance. I was tight with finances, all the time. I had hard time being generous and rarely could afford the things I wanted.

Everything was “too expensive”.

Again, I figured this is just how it was with money. Some people were born rich. Others were born poor. A lucky few would be able to afford the things they wanted, but most of us would just have to adjust our expectations.

That was just how the world worked.

I felt this way about most things in my life—career, calling, location, environment, friendships—like there was very little I could do to improve my circumstances. Things just were the way they were. I would just have to deal with it.

I watched a documentary called Rich Hill.

The film follows the lives of three families trapped in extreme poverty—poverty beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. I understand there are layers and layers to poverty—and please hear me when I say I am not trying to simplify it—but the thing I identified with most wasn’t their circumstance.

It was their reaction to their circumstance—a feeling of extreme powerlessness.

They said things like, “This is just the way it is,” or “We’ve just been dealt a difficult set of circumstances…”

The truth was they had been dealt a difficult set of circumstances. But I could see how they were also surrendering the very power available to them to change those circumstances and re-imagine their lives.

I didn’t experience this insight from a place of judgment. I experienced it from a place of compassion.

I do this too.

It made me start thinking about how often I give away the very power I have to change my circumstances. Obviously, I don’t have total power over my life, but I do have tremendous power if I’m willing to recognize it.

Most days, I catch myself surrendering the very power I’ve been given.

The closer attention I paid, the more I realized specific ways I do this. Here were a few things I noticed.

First of all, I say yes when I mean no.

Any time we say yes when we really mean no—whether it’s to an addiction, an obligation, a function, a committee, a non-profit, an event, a good cause, or a bad habit—we give away a little bit of the power we have to shape the life we want.

It might seem like the smallest thing, but it is not small. Those tiny decisions add up over time.

Second, I find myself giving in to compulsions.

Compulsions are decisions we make without thinking. These are the things we know aren’t good for us—and if we stopped to think about them for a second, we wouldn’t do them—but we don’t stop to think about them, so we do them anyway.

This is the ice cream at midnight—out of the tub, with a spoon. It’s obsessively checking your cell phone (that’s mine) or stalking your ex’s Facebook profile.

This is addictions—like cigarettes, television, alcohol, caffeine and shopping—or even things like exercise and dieting.

When we give into our compulsions, over and over, we sacrifice the power we have to make what we know are the right decisions—the decisions that lead us to freedom.

Third, I take the easy way out

You know that feeling in your gut when you just know the right thing to do? You know you should tell that person the truth, confront someone in the wrong, speak up about something you’re feeling or noticing, or just walk over to a person who is having a bad day and say hello?

Here’s what I’ve found: when we respond in obedience to those urges, they lead us out of a crisis or into opportunity.

The problem is, all too often, we take the easy way out.

We think to ourselves, “Oh, he or she will never know the difference if I don’t admit the truth,” or  we find a way to get around the conflict instead of confronting it head-on. We justify not talking to the person having a bad day by saying we’re too busy and have to get going.

But every time we take the easy way out, we surrender to a reality we don’t ultimately want. The easy way out is never as easy as we want.

Fourth, I worry more about others than I do about myself

I don’t know about you, but I find myself in conversations with people, or just in relationships, thinking more about what matters to the people around me—what motivates them, what hurts them, what they want and need, what they’re thinking and feeling—than I do about my own wants, needs, thoughts and ideas.

In the process, I sacrifice a really important part of myself.

There’s nothing wrong with caring for others. But if we care for others at the expense of caring for ourselves, we sacrifice the power we’ve been given to shape our lives and ourselves.

Finally, I live in fear rather than love.

Dr. Carolyn Leaf—a researcher who has been studying the brain for decades—says fear and love are mutually exclusive. We can’t experience both at the same time.

In other words, when I’m living in fear—fear of what other people think of me, fear of not having enough, fear of leaving others behind, fear of being left behind, fear of success or fear of failure—I don’t get to experience the profound love that is meant for me and that motivates me and drives me to become love for others.

Fear steals our ability to love—and along with it, it steals our ability to shape our circumstances and surroundings through the power of loving ourselves and loving others.

Anytime we surrender to the notion that we have no power, we abandon the great power we have.

And ironically, even in that surrender, we shape our reality. If we believe we have no power, we will live powerless. It is only when we wake up to the great power we’ve always had that we’ll discover our innate ability to move, create, shift and change our world.

The post The Real Reason You Feel Powerless to Change Your Life appeared first on Allison Vesterfelt.

Everyone Should Write A Book

Not everyone would agree with me about this, but let me just put it out there: everyone who desires to write a book should write a book.

Not just those with big platforms.
Not just those who are trained as writers
Not just those who “have something to say” (we all have something to say)
Not just celebrities or famous people

Everyone. I truly think everyone who desires to write a book should write a book.

I was reminded of my conviction on this topic a few days ago when I was talking to a friend who has always wanted to write a book. Her husband has been published and she shares a love for books but when I asked her to tell me a little bit about what was stopping her from writing a book, she gave a familiar list of excuses.

“There are so many writers out there who are better at this than me. Why would I waste my time writing when they can produce something so much better?”

“Speaking of time—who has time to write a book?”

“I don’t have a platform or a following or even a blog.

“A publisher would never pick me up. I don’t have an agent.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Part of the reason these excuses are so familiar to me is because I work with writers on a daily basis—most of whom are far more talented and qualified than they ever give themselves credit for—and they might as well record these excuses and play them on repeat for me. I hear the same thing, over and over again, day after day.

But there’s another reason why these excuses feel so familiar to me.

Because they are my same excuses.

I’ve written four books with my name on them, and a few more for other people. I’ve had a publishing contract. I’ve walked a least a dozen writers through the process of drafting and editing a manuscript. I have a blog and “platform” and a few people who follow me regularly. I get a fair number of emails from people thanking me for my writing.

And still, seven out of ten days I wake up thinking:

“Am I sure I’m really making a difference? This is hard! Is it really worth it? Do I have time for this? Will I ever make any money doing this? Do I need an agent? Do I need a publisher? Am I a good writer? What do I have to say? Where should I even start?”

This only reinforces my belief: everyone who desires to write a book should do it.

Writing a book is not easy. In fact, it might be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. And while the logistics of it get easier each time I attempt it—I understand the process, know what to expect, have some strategies to help me—the weight of it hasn’t changed. It’s emotionally and spiritually challenging and engaging.

And yet, just like any difficult thing in my life—marriage, friendship, work—it is changing me, slowly, transforming me, growing me and maturing me into the best version of myself.

I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Think for a minute about the other difficult things we do in our life. Marriage is a great example. If you told me you desired to get married someday, I would never tell you:

“Oh, no, marriage is only for the really qualified and prepared people. Also, it’s never going to make you any money, and it’s going to take up all your free time. And, to top it off, there are thousands of other people out there doing marriage way better than you could ever dream to do it, so you should probably just skip it.”

Instead, I would tell you—if you desire to get married someday—go for it!

I would warn you that marriage can be challenging and might even encourage you to start investing in your understanding of it. Go to therapy, read books, practice dealing with conflict in your current relationships.

But then I would tell you to buckle up and get ready to enjoy the ride. Marriage, like book writing, is not for the elite few.

It’s for everyone.

So who cares if you never get published or if it’s the worst book ever written. Everybody’s first book is their worst book. And the sooner your get your worst book out of the way, the sooner you can get to your next one.

Who cares if you’re qualified or endorsed or followed.

Who cares about a publisher or an agent or a platform.

Honestly, that stuff is the easy part. It’s the writing that’s the hard part. If you build it [write it, same thing] they will come.”

And even better than that, in the midst of all of this, if you choose to abandon your excuses and get started writing, you’ll find something far more valuable than the most profound book ever written. You’ll find yourself on the page—that beautiful voice and brilliant person you knew was there all along.

The post Everyone Should Write A Book appeared first on Allison Vesterfelt.

Learn to Win Without Feeling Guilty

Recently I was playing a card game with my husband and realized how truly hard it is for me to lose at something.

Honestly, this should not have been a new realization. I’m incredibly competitive. But if you would have asked me before this particular game I would have said losing wasn’t that big of a deal.

photo credit: shikiro famu, Creative Commons

Instead, we played the game several times—and each time I lost (which was most times—I wasn’t very good) I found myself acting more and more like a sore loser.

At first, I tried to ignore it.

I would feel frustrated after losing, but I would try to play it off. I would say “good game,” and tell myself move on. But I wouldn’t move on. I would be in a bad mood about it, sulking around, not really able to explain why.

So the next few times we played, I paid specific attention to what was going on while I played. The game requires speed and quick-on-your-feet thinking, which are not exactly my strengths, so most of the time, I would start to feel powerless and frustrated—like no matter what I did to get better at this game, there really was going to be no winning.

But I also noticed something totally opposite, but equally as interesting.

Every now and then I would win. The cards would be dealt in my favor, or a strategy I tried would work, but as soon as we would near the end of a round, and I would notice I was ahead, I would catch myself slowing down—considerably—so I didn’t beat my husband too badly.

This didn’t make a ton of sense to me, because like I said, I’m really competitive. But I couldn’t ignore what I saw was true:

I was not only scared of losing. I was scared of winning, too.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized there is a really strong connection between winning and losing.

First of all, if I’m not willing to lose at something, I’ll never be able to win at it.

I’m about to release a video course for writers and I’ve invested tons of time, energy and money into getting it ready. It’s something that has been stirring inside of me for a long time and I’m really excited about it, but in order to move forward with creating it, I had to be as willing to “lose” at it as I was to win.

I had to be willing to get started and realize I had no idea what I was doing, or invest all of my time and energy and get a poor response.

I had to be willing to face the critics.

I also had to be willing to face the “crickets”—the less-talked-about response of silence which can often be more painful than the criticism we talk so much about.

This is what we have to face as people—wives, husbands, creatives, business owners, students, job-searchers, friends, sons and daughters—every day of our lives. We have to be willing to put everything on the line, to lose it all, if we’re ever going to be able to get to the place and have the things we so desire and want.

Second, if I’m a sore loser, I’m going to be a sore winner, too.

I think part of the reason I found myself hesitating when it came to winning is because I could feel internally how important winning was to me. By that I mean, somehow in my heart (not so much in my head) I had come to the conclusion that if I won, I was a winner. If I lost, I was a loser.

There is something so very inhumane about that conclusion, I think that must have been the reason I was hesitating.

Winning doesn’t make us winners. Losing doesn’t make us losers. Winning, if anything, makes us responsible. When we are the strongest, savviest, most successful person in the room (not necessarily at a card game, but you get the picture) we have an incredible responsible to notice, provide, care, reach out, back off, understand, and share our “power”.

To whom much is given, much is expected.

Likewise, losing doesn’t make us losers. Losing gives us information. Some of it might be uncomfortable information: I’m not good at this like I thought I was. I’m not all-powerful, all the time. I’m not the center of the Universe. But all of that information—comfortable or not—can be valuable to us if we let it be.

Here’s the craziest thing about all of this: When I can make “winning” and “losing” not about me, but about information and responsibility, I actually believe I can “win” more of the time.

I don’t have to be afraid of winning; and I don’t have to dread losing.

Obviously, when it comes to playing card games, this is not a big deal. My life probably won’t be made or lost in the number of times I win at cards (I’m not very good anyway) but when it comes to “winning” in life—getting a promotion, having a great marriage, accomplishing a lifelong dream, making a comfortable living doing what I love, creating beautiful art—winning matters.

I have to be willing to lose those things if I’m ever going to have them.

And if I’m scared to “win” because I think “winning” at what I really desire puts me above other people or makes me “better” than them, I’ll hold myself back and cut myself off from the incredible power inside of me that was made push and create and cultivate and go after and grow and become something amazing.

I don’t know about you, but I want that.

The post Learn to Win Without Feeling Guilty appeared first on Allison Vesterfelt.

How Publishing A Book Made Me Miserable And What I Did About It

For as long as I can remember, all I wanted to do was publish a book. I worked in restaurants to help pay my way through college and graduate school. I worked at Starbucks for a short stint. Then, when I finished my graduate degree, I got my first real, grown-up, full-time job as an English teacher.

But no matter what I was doing, I always wanted to be writing instead. I would think to myself, “If I could just publish a book, if I could just write full-time, I would be happy.”

So finally, I decided to do something about it.

I quit my full time job, sold everything I owned, moved out of my apartment and spent the next year of my life traveling across the country. I think, somewhere in the back of my mind, I secretly thought a publisher would stumble across my tiny blog one day and think to himself,

“Wow! This girl is totally brilliant! We have to get her a publishing deal, right away!”

Needless to say, no publisher stumbled across my blog, like I hoped. No one came banging on my door with a check, like Publisher’s Clearinghouse. Instead, it was a lot of struggle and confusion and borrowing money and taking public transportation and holding onto hope it would “happen for me” someday.

After two and a half years of hoping, dreaming and struggling, a publisher finally did pick up my book.

This was it, I thought to myself. This was my moment.

I got a small check to hold me over while I wrote the manuscript, and I dedicated myself to that process completely. This was so amazing, I thought. I couldn’t wait for it to hit the shelves. People were finally going to realize what a great writer I was. I was finally going to be able to live in my gifts and strengths.

This book was going to fly off the shelves and I would never have to worry about money again.

It’s so embarrassing to admit all of this.

I don’t think I need to mention this is not how it went.

Not even close. I mean, the book has done well, relatively speaking. I get the most lovely emails from people who have read it. But it has also been tons of hard work and struggle and barely making ends meet at times and also a giant wake-up call that—hey—this is my first book, which will be by far the worst book I ever write.

There was no “big moment” and there wasn’t a whole lot of fanfare. I wasn’t any “happier” or more famous than I had been before I wrote a book.

In fact, if anything, I was less happy. My expectations were being reset and it was incredibly uncomfortable.

During this season, I realized I had a decision to make.

I could either choose to give into the insecurity and fear I felt (saying to myself, “well, I gave it my best shot, and it didn’t work out. I must not be as good of a writer as I thought I was. I might as well give up now.”). Or I could choose to reevaluate my motivations for writing.

I had to ask myself: what do I really want to get out of writing?
Why am I doing this?
What is going to make this manageable for me?
Why did I decide to do this in the first place?
When I asked myself those questions, a few really important things came to mind.

First, I realized the most valuable part of writing for me wasn’t extrinsic. It was intrinsic.

The thing that had drawn me to writing in the first place, the thing that compelled me to write, even when I had other jobs, even when I barely had the time, even before I had ever entertained the idea of publishing—didn’t have anything to do with fame or money or the number of copies I sold.

The reason I started writing and the reason I wanted to keep writing was because writing had saved me, it had healed me, it had helped me uncover meaning in my life.

No matter how many copies I sold or didn’t sell, no matter how much money I made or didn’t make as a writer—for me, writing would always do that.

The second thing I realized was that my idea of a “big break” probably wasn’t very realistic.

At first, I told myself, “well, some people get a big break in their careers—movie stars, famous authors—but I couldn’t count on a big break coming.” But the more time I spent digging into this idea of a big break and asking successful friends to share their stories, the more I realized:

There really is no such thing as a big break. Not for me, not for anyone.

You get out what you put in.

Yes, sometimes you’re in the right place at the right time to get a great opportunity. But usually these “right place, right time” moments happen because of hours, months and years of work that precede them.

Nothing in life comes for free.

Finally, I realized, as long as my sights were set on money or fame, I was missing the most valuable thing of all:

I missed the writer I was becoming.

After all, like I shared above, Packing Light was my first book and the worst book I would ever write. And that was okay. Because it was also the best book I knew how to write at this point in the process. And because the hope is I still have dozens of books in front of me, each one of which will be better than the last.

So the reward for writing Packing Light didn’t need to come in numbers (dollars or number of copies sold) because the reward was that it was done.

These days, I feel much happier about my writing life.

Truly. I’m not just saying that. I’m enjoying the art of writing again, getting lost in the process. There’s not nearly the self-inflicted pressure to be beyond where I am.

There’s less stress to write something awesome.

I’m just writing because I love it, because I can’t not write. I’m writing for the joy of it. And each day I’m getting better. And that is the greatest gift of all.

The post How Publishing A Book Made Me Miserable And What I Did About It appeared first on Allison Vesterfelt.

Seven Books Every Writer Should Read

I talk to people all the time who want to be writers. Usually, the conversation goes something like this.

Them: What do you do for a living?

Me: I’m a writer

Them: Oh wow, I’ve always dreamed of writing a book someday.

Me: You should do it!

Them: Oh, no. I could never… I don’t have time… I’m not that good…

Me: You should still do it. Writing is incredibly healing. Writing is cheap therapy. Writing is one of the best things you can ever do for yourself. .

With that in mind, here are seven books every writer should read.

And when I say “writer”, know that I don’t mean every person who has already written a book or published a book or who has been trained as a writer (although these books might be interesting to them as well).

I don’t mean every person who believes he or she has what it takes to be a “real” writer someday.

I mean you. I mean me. I mean everyone who has ever considered writing because you know about the benefits it brings, because you want more of it, because it’s healing.

These are the seven books every writer should read.

They have helped me as a writer. I hope they help you, too.

The Artists Way by Julia Cameron

This book has helped me overcome the blockages getting in the way of unique voice as a writer. It’s the perfect mixture of practical and creative—with easy-to-understand assignments, but also the permission you need to just write. Cameron has helped me, and continues to help me, unlock the creative potential already inside of me. I can’t recommend this book highly enough.

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott

Some of my favorite writing advice—and life advice—comes from this book. If you’re familiar with Anne Lamott, you may have already read this book, but even if you have, it’s worth reading again. Buy it. Give it away. Keep it close by. Use it to remind you to start where you are, take one step at a time, and be willing to write a shitty first draft.

Thinking Write by Kelly L. Stone

The premise of this book is this: our subconscious mind is really our best writer; and if we find a way stir that subconscious mind, to wake it up, to care for it, give it grace, we will uncover and cultivate the beautifully creative voice inside of us. Stone gives practical tips for caring for our creative selves and also provides guided meditations to help your inner writer.

Why We Write edited by Meredith Maran

This book includes advice from twenty of America’s bestselling authors about the process and motivations for writing, and not one single person says, “I set out to be a famous author,” or “what draws me back to the page everyday is the idea I can sell a million of copies.” What I learn from these authors is what I know to be true from my own experience: I write because I have to, because I can’t not. I write because it’s healing.

The Story Within by Laura Oliver

This book teaches voice and story and writing the only way I know how teach it—not by teaching it, necessarily, but by teaching you to teach yourself. Oliver includes stories and antidotes, suggestions, inspirations and guided practice so you can walk yourself through the process of discovering the story inside of you—the story which has always been.

Zen and the Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury

It’s easy to think, “if only I could achieve outward success as a writer, then I would feel okay. I would feel like I had ‘made it’ and like everything was going to be okay.” It’s encouraging to hear from a man who achieved more outward success with his writing than he ever dreamed, writing has always been a struggle. It always will be. And that’s okay.

Grammar Girl’s Quick and Dirty Tips for Every Writer by Mignon Fogarty

So many writers (especially those who are scared to call themselves “writers”) get hung up on grammar. Meanwhile, I want to say, “I have two degrees in writing, and I still forget things, have to re-learn things, and even find grammar rules I don’t know.” This book is not only an easy to read, it’s also a great resource for any writer who needs a refresher on comma rules or sentence structure or the use of adverbs.

The post Seven Books Every Writer Should Read appeared first on Allison Vesterfelt.

The Day I Learned to Stop Saying “I’m Sorry”

It was my first job.

Looking back, it wasn’t that big of a deal. I was greeting people at the door of a chain restaurant, asking a simple question, and ushering them to their seats with the appropriate number of menus. But for me, at seventeen years old, this was more than just a job. This was me, becoming an adult. This was the big bad world.

Actually, this was my neighborhood Applebees. But that’s beside the point.

I worked hard to be good at my job, to make people like me.

I learned quickly to seat the big parties in Tony’s section, because he loved to entertain, and to keep the two-tops for Michelle, because she liked to keep things low key.

I learned never to seat Nicolas after 8:30pm, when the crowd started to die down, because he liked to go home early.

I learned Stephen was moody, and never to bother him when he was busy.

And one day, after I had been working there for a few months, I learned something about myself, too.

I was cleaning tables in Della’s section, the way I did for servers I liked. The faster her tables were clean, the more customers I could seat, and the more money she made, so I worked quickly and diligently for her. I hoped she would think I was cool, and that one day I could be like her—full of pizzazz, with a little grit and a lot of energy.

I finished cleaning her section and hurried down the small set of stairs that led to the kitchen. That’s when Della walked up the same set of stairs in my direction.

With my hands full of dishes I saw her coming and backed away so she could come through.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She stopped, looked at me, and said, very seriously: “Don’t say you’re sorry. Say, ‘excuse me Della! I’m coming through!’”

At the time, I laughed nervously, but I’ve never forgotten that moment—mostly because I’ve been reminded of it at so many other more moments of my life. I find myself saying I’m sorry often—all the time, in fact—not necessarily when I have something to be sorry for, but simply when I feel like I”m in the way.

It makes me wonder: do I say I’m sorry too often?

Obviously, being able to say “I’m sorry” is really important, especially when you really have something to be sorry for. It can be one of the most diffusing things in a conflict; and also the mark of a great leader.

It takes a strong person to be able to take responsibility.

But there’s a difference between a genuine apology and simply saying “I’m sorry” because we feel like we’re in the way. And what I noticed, after that day with Della, was that most of the time I said “I’m sorry,” I was doing it the second way.

I’m constantly afraid to take up too much space.

I’m scared to step in front of someone, to cut someone off, to raise my voice, to speak up at all—even when I have something to say. I’m scared to have an opinion (heaven forbid it be the wrong one) to start a conflict, to hurt feelings, to take up resources, to get in the way.

I’m scared to want things, to ask for things, to admit my hurting, to need help, to accept gifts, to make a path for myself.

I want to be the girl who says, “excuse me, coming through!”

But instead I’m the one who says, “I’m sorry,” and backs away.

It’s been more than ten years since I got that advice from Della, and I would love to say I’ve mastered it. I wish I never said “I’m sorry” when I didn’t mean it, or that I didn’t still worry I was stepping on toes or getting in the way. But of course, none of that would be true.

What is true is that I think about Della’s advice all the time and I’m still working to be the kind of person who doesn’t feel the need to apologize for her existence.

And more than ever, lately, I find myself making room for myself, speaking my mind, asking for what I need and ultimately, like Della suggested, avoiding the apology and just saying, “excuse me, I’m coming through!”

The post The Day I Learned to Stop Saying “I’m Sorry” appeared first on Allison Vesterfelt.

The Importance of The Glorious Failure

I write all the time about taking risks and quitting jobs and chasing dreams and achieving success. But the thing I rarely write about is one thing every success story has—failure.

Not just failure, either. Glorious failure. There’s a difference.

I was thinking about this recently because I was talking to a friend who just quit her job to do what she’s always wanted to do—start her own business. She had been making plans and getting ready for months, and now was finally ready to do it. As she was talking, I couldn’t help but think about my own decision to quit my full-time job, four years ago.

I was so starry eyed in those days, so convinced my “big break” was just around the corner. I saw myself in the way she was talking and in some ways, I envied her naiveté a little. In other ways, I remembered:

This is what it’s like before your glorious failure.

When I first left to go on my road trip, I was convinced my “big break” was just around the corner. It had been my dream for years to write a book, but the timing hadn’t ever been exactly right and I hadn’t had any great opportunities.

As far as I was concerned, that was all going to change on this road trip. I was going to quit my job, take this leap, and the Universe would match my risk with an equivalent reward.

Risk big, reward big. Right?

I was convinced this is how I was going to get a book contract: I would be in some random city at some random person’s house and I would tell them about what I was doing. This person would take a look at my blog and be so impressed by my writing, they would rant and rave about how brilliant I was.

And oh, by the way, they just happened to work for a publisher. The next day, they would show my blog to their acquisitions team and—boom—I’d have a book deal.

Instead, after nearly a year of traveling, I came home.

I had no money, no job, no place to live, no furniture, no car and definitely no book contract. The road trip, my dream of writing a book, the deacons to quit my job—the whole thing seemed like a giant failure.

And here’s the thing. It was.

If I’m really honest with myself, I have to admit I probably quit my job too soon. Or, maybe not too soon, but just without a really solid, long-term plan of what I was going to do to sustain myself. I had a plan for making a living while I was on the road, but what did I plan to do when I came home?

I didn’t plan to do anything. I didn’t think I was going to need a plan. I thought I was going to have a book deal and sell a bunch of copies and be rich forever.

That was my whole plan. And it was a total failure.

But here’s what turns a regular failure into a glorious failure, in my opinion.

I didn’t let it stop me.

It didn’t matter that I quit my job too soon or that I didn’t have a plan or that I realized nobody gets a book deal the way I described. It didn’t matter that I was wrong or naive or that I should have done a better job of thinking things through. It didn’t matter that I was accepting food stamps and taking handouts from my roommate at the time.

None of that mattered. I didn’t let it stop me.

I let the failure humble me. But I didn’t let it crush me. I allowed myself to see the areas where I had been overconfident. I readjusted my expectations. But I didn’t quit working, quit fighting, quit wrestling toward the thing I had always wanted—to write a book.

And in that way, the failure became glorious.

Instead of giving up, I got a job at Starbucks.

I know that might not sound glorious, but it was. Because working at Starbucks to pay my bills while I struggled to write a book proposal and pitch it to publishers and struggle through the process taught me that no success comes easily.

There is no such thing as a “big break”. The journey is the reward.

When I set out to accomplish my dream of writing a book and being published, I had no idea how hard it would be. I had no idea the hardships I would encounter, the setbacks, the confusion, the struggle… I had no idea how many times I would fail.

If I had, I probably wouldn’t have done it.

But failure, if you ask me is necessary if you ask me. Failure teaches us. Failure guides us. Failure will direct us. And if we let it, failure will make us glorious.

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You Don’t Always Have to Take the Advice of Others

Have you ever noticed how, at an engagement party, or baby shower or graduation party, people tend to give all kinds of advice?

“Start investing now—you won’t regret it.”

“A water birth really is the way to go.”

“Whatever you do, don’t go to bed angry!”

This is all well-meaning advice, of course, and some of it actually pretty wise. But I guess the reason this has been rubbing me the wrong way lately is because I’ve learned the hard way that giving someone advice is a lot different than actually doing it.

Telling someone your advice is much easier than living it out.

“Don’t go to bed angry” for example, sounds nice until you’re four months married and it’s four in the morning and you’re still awake because you can’t resolve a fight.

When I think back to the advice I’ve been given in my own life—about college, about career, about marriage—I’m grateful for some of it. But some of it I also think took me off track. When I was choosing a major in college, for example, I had several people tell me, “it’s nice that you want to be a writer, but choose a major that is going to get you a job.”

I took the advice. After all, it was practical and smart. But because of that advice I paid a lot of money for a degree I’m not using.

So was this good advice for me? Maybe not.

All is not lost. My skills and expertise have gotten me to where I am and I’m finding innovative ways to put my degree to work. But sometimes I wish someone would have just looked me in the eye when I was in college and said: forget what everyone else tells you should “should” do.

Do what you want to do.

Do what you think is right. Trust your instinct.

Do what works.

I used to read a lot of self-help books. I liked them. It felt comforting and nice to have someone tell me exactly how things were supposed to be done, to give me a list of all the steps. And, hey, when my life didn’t work out the way I wanted it to, I could blame the books. After all, I followed the formula. I worked the plan.

I didn’t have to blame myself.

But these days I’m realizing: while there is a lot to be learned from those who have gone before me, there are also many things I have to learn myself.

After all, life is not black-and-white and my life is totally unique from anyone else’s life and most of which way I go depends on who I am and what I want.

There really are not shortcuts. No amount of good advice can save me from the inevitable pain and obstacles of life.

There are many “right” answers to most problems and the best answer is usually this:

Do what works.

Be willing to try and fail and try again. Be humble and learn quickly from your mistakes. Pay attention and be agile and adjust quickly. Don’t let insecurity get in the way. Figure out what works for you and then do it.

Trust your instinct. Trust your gut.

So if you’re feeling lost in your marriage or your career or as a parent or just in life—or if you’ve just graduated or are about to have a baby or are newly married and you’re getting a bunch of advice—remember this: advice is much easier to give than it is to execute.

Don’t dismiss the advice. Give it a try. But if the advice isn’t working, try something else.

Don’t worry about finding the “right” answer or the best answer or the most impressive answer.

Just do what works.

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Having Faith When You Get What You Don’t Want

The first time I talked to my husband I was at my parents’ house.

We hardly knew each other. We’d connected over Twitter and he’d commented on my blog a few times and we shared several mutual “friends” online but he also lived all the way across the country and I wasn’t even sure I knew his whole last name.

If you ask him, he’ll tell you he called me that day because he wanted to date me.

If you ask me, I would say I had no interest in dating anyone, anywhere, let alone a strange guy I barely knew from the Internet.

I didn’t make a habit of talking to strange men on the Internet, but the reason I agreed to talk to him that day was because he found out I was trying to publish a book and told me he thought he could help me. And well, those were pretty much the magic words for me.

So we Skyped.

I sat at the island in my parents’ kitchen and told my mom, who was making dinner, I had to have a quick online business meeting. She agreed not to make too much noise.

So we talked for about ten minutes and exchanged stories and he told me how he thought he could help. We agreed to connect again later and I closed the lid to my laptop so I could go help my mom make dinner.

But before I could even get out a pot to begin boiling water, my mom said, “Hey, didn’t you say that was a business meeting?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Why?”

“It didn’t sound like a business meeting,” she said smiling.

Everything inside of me fought what I knew she was saying—that she had seen my interest perk up a little when I was on the phone with him. I don’t like him, I told myself. I don’t want to date him or anyone. I wasn’t ready. This wasn’t the time.

I even believed myself.

If you would have asked me that day, I would have told you I wasn’t interested in dating him and I never would be. In fact, in full-disclosure, at the time I would have told you I was in love with somebody else. But sometimes our hearts want things our heads don’t even know we want.

A little over a month after that conversation, I flew to Minneapolis to meet him.

Four months after that, we were married.

It wasn’t what I thought I wanted. It wasn’t what I would have told you I wanted. But at the same time, something deep inside of me—something I couldn’t quit put my finger on—wanted him, wanted to date him and be married to him, in a way my thoughts couldn’t say.

(Also, let’s be honest—he won me over. He’s pretty smooth like that).

I try to remember this part of my story every time something happens in my life that I don’t think I want. There have been a few things lately, a few instances where I think to myself, “this is now how I would have planned it! This is not what I wanted!”

But I try to remember that some of the best things that have ever happened to me would never have happened if I’d gotten exactly what I wanted at the time.

Sometimes we don’t know what we want.

Sometimes we want things we don’t realize we want.

Sometimes we avoid the things we really want because we’re not sure we’re strong enough to face them, or because we’re afraid of the work it takes to keep them, or because we don’t quite have the clarity to see who we are and where we’re headed just yet.

We’ll see, with time. We’ll get what we want.

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What Happens When We Listen To Ourselves

One day recently I was really struggling to get words on paper.

This was not new. Some version of writers block has been plaguing me for weeks. But on this particular day my husband suggested I go for a walk and I took his suggestion. I hadn’t showered in a few days and I was starting to get to that dark place I go when I don’t shower.

I needed an excuse to get out of the house.

So I walked, and as I did I tried to listen to myself. This is something I’ve been practicing lately—being present with the sensations in my body and using them as a guide for what I was feeling, underneath the thoughts floating through my head. I walked and listened and prayed God would help me see through the cloudiness I’ve been feeling in this season. And within a mile or two of my walking, this phrase came to me, without thinking:

Take care of yourself first… others second.

At first, everything in me cringed at these words. Although they felt true in the deepest part of me, I immediately wanted to push them back down. Consider myself first and other second? Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?

All the phrases of my upbringing fought with the phrase that had come to the surface in that moment. The last shall be first, my brain argued. Lose yourself to find yourself, my thoughts challenged. But no matter how hard my thoughts fought, I couldn’t ignore the intention that had risen up from a deepest part of me. I couldn’t explain it, but I also couldn’t ignore it.

So I walked home with something that resembled a thought but that also felt much deeper and more powerful than the “thoughts” I usually had.

Yourself first, others second.

It felt more like an intention, like a meditation, than a simple thought. I didn’t know what it meant or what I was supposed to do with it, but I just held onto it, trusting the rest would become clear over time.

Later that day, an idea came to me I wanted to get down on paper. Feeling an energy I hadn’t felt in weeks, if not months, I opened my computer and started typing. Before long, I got an email from a coaching client who had a question she needed me to answer. I got a text message from a friend who was wondering if I wanted to go for a walk. My husband was asking me what we were going to do for dinner. And yet, for some reason, this phrase kept rising to the surface of my heart: yourself first, others second.

I texted my friend and asked her if we could walk later that evening, or the next day. I asked my husband if he wouldn’t mind picking up take-out for dinner. I assured him he would have my full attention in an hour or so. And I closed my email and resolved to respond the next day.

Miraculously, I was able to get a few thousand words down that day.

With the “myself first, others second” intention in place, I was able to clear the blockage and get moving again. It was almost like my body, my spirit, knew what I needed to do. It knew the solution to the problem even more than my mind did. But in order to get there, I had to get quiet and be able listen to myself.

What would happen if we listened to ourselves a little more often? What would happen if we stopped ignoring our instinct, our intuition, our fear and our pain? Maybe we would find relief from our worry, our anxiety. Maybe we would uncover happiness. Maybe we could give ourselves permission to stop caring so much about how many many people like us or hate us, or how viral a post we write.

Because with this in mind, we would have what we set our for all along—not fame or fortune or popularity, but a small and growing semblance of self.

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