One Word to Change A Life

The day after Christmas, I sat down with pencil and paper and all these words started pouring out of me. Quickly I realized I had the guts of a blog, including an awesome title: New Year’s Confession. I still like that title–a LOT. Just think what a great novel that could be?

But a few days ago I saw a segment on The Today Show about, instead of setting traditional New Year’s goals, (such as the standards lose weight, exercise more, read more, stop saying Amazing!, etc.,) choosing a word instead. One word. That was the challenge. Choose one word that you’d like to define the coming year…that you’d like to define you. And commit to that word.

Immediately I was intrigued. I started brainstorming words and came up with some terrific ones (patience, explore, create, present), but every time I tried to latch onto one of those really wonderful and inspiring words, another word whispered through me.

And that’s where my New Year’s Confession comes in, all those words that poured out of me the day after Christmas. I’ve been sad. I started last year sad and I spent the majority of the year feeling sad. I don’t think it’s depression. Depression is real and serious and often has its roots in big heavy stuff, various physical conditions, chemical imbalances, etc. I’m pretty sure this is just sadness, stemming from a rather significant (professional) disappointment. Something knocked me down. Knocked me down hard. And since then, the shadow of disappointment and failure has followed me everywhere.

For a while, I couldn’t write. Worse, merely the thought of writing made me sick to my stomach–and my heart. Especially my heart. I’d get that awful tight chest feeling. I felt so lost and alone. And the words wouldn’t come. I tried. I tried everything I could think of. But nothing worked. I told myself to stop being a baby and put my big girl panties on. I ordered myself to. But everywhere I looked were reminders of my failure, and countless, constant, continuous examples of others who had achieved at that which I had failed. More than just achieved…they were soaring.

So I’d beat myself up. Me, who is always so full of sunny advice for others. I’d ruminate–heck, torture myself–over all the mistakes I’d made. I’d relive them. I’d play them over and over, wondering and imagining (fantasizing?) what would have happened if I’d done things differently. Id I’d known more. I’d I’d asked more questions or gotten better (more) advice. If. I’d. Known.

But life is about learning, and sometimes you don’t know what you don’t know. And that’s okay. I know that. I tell people that all the time. Forgive yourself. Cut yourself some slack. Move on. And I told myself that, too.

But somehow that didn’t work, at least not all the time.

Days…weeks…months. They rolled by, rolled together. There were times when things got better, when I focused on–made myself look to–the future. What came next instead of what was already done. But it seems something always crept in to throw me back to that deep, dark, cold pit of sadness.

Sometimes I think I really wanted–needed–someone to take my hands, squeeze them, look me in the eye and say, “It’s going to be okay. Everything. It’s all going to be okay.” My husband did and a few friends, but from the outside, I don’t think I looked all that different to them. I don’t think I looked like someone in crisis. And so I’m not sure anyone really realized how much I was struggling. So I’d berate myself for being so needy. Whiny. My life is wonderful, and I know that. There are many people who face bigger, darker, grimmer problems than I do. I know that. I remind myself of that often.

Over the past day or two, I’ve asked myself if I really want to share all this. If I’m seriously going to post something so personal. Generally, I’m not a whiner. Generally I don’t shout out my good or carry on about my bad. But you know what?  We live in such a photoshopped world. We live a life of greatest hits. Our messages are carefully crafted. But the truth is we all have B-sides. We all have junk. We all have stuff. And unless we can be real about the B-sides, in many ways we’re doing everyone a disservice, setting up this false equation where people inadvertently find themselves comparing the raw, unvarnished truth of their own lives to Glistening Public Images of everyone else’s. So, much like with my infertility and miscarriage experiences, I’ve decided to be real about this. To be authentic. To talk about a B-side, no matter how uncomfortable it is.

Now here I stand, at the threshold of a new year. And while it’s really little more than an artifact of our calendar, 2013 turning into 2014, I’m committing myself to turning the corner, to leaving the sadness and disappointment where it belongs–in the old year. The past. Behind me. I’m committing myself to living in each moment as they happen, and to looking forward to all that is yet to come, yet to be done. Because I know that I can never get on with the next chapter of my life until I fully turn the page on the last.

Right here, right now, I’m committing myself to one word.

I’m going to find it each and every day.