More Than Fine

Just a few weeks ago, I was wrapping up a skype session with my emetophobia therapist. I had the calendar on my phone pulled up like I usually do to mark down our next session. For several months, we met with consistency every Thursday evening for an hour. Then, after some considerable progress had been made on my part, we transistioned to every other week. Occasionally, one of us would have a schedule conflict and it would then become three or four weeks between our sessions. But the tone had started to change. I wasn't having to work as hard to peel back the layers of my anxiety. I was becoming more comfortable with my own vulnerability. I noticed that we were talking more about "life stuff" and less about throwing up. The pictures and videos (yes, videos) of people being sick were becoming less gruesome and more, well, just people getting sick.

"Well, you tell me when you'd like to see me again," she said.

*blink blink*

What? I needed clarification.

"You've worked really hard to get to this point and you've got all the tools you will ever need when you start to find yourself feeling anxious. You're ready to just go and live your life now, and see how your emetophobia reacts with it. But my guess is that you're gonna be just fine. More than fine, actually."

This was it. She was breaking up with me. Not only that, but she was employing the whole, "well, it's obvious that you're moving on to bigger and better things, so now it's time for me to let you go" tactic. I sat there for a second, stunned, and looked down at the following Thursday's date on my phone. The fact that it was pure white nothing-ness was terrifying. Keep in mind that up until this point, I had been gradually exposing myself to pictures of vomit. First it was pencil sketches, then cartoons, then on to actual pictures of puke piles- chunky vomit, watery-vomit, dried splotches on roadways and floors. Then on to pictures of people mid-heave with their heads hanging over toilet bowls and trash cans. And finally, the last level of desensitization: watching entire video clips of real life people tossing their cookies for one reason or another, complete with sounds: carsickness, stomach flu, one too many shots of crappy vodka and one poor, unsuspecting girl who had her roommate spike her morning coffee with syrup of ipecac. (Why anyone thinks this stuff is worthy to 1) be shot on video and 2) be put on youtube, is truly beyond what I can comprehend. But maybe that's why I'm in therapy to begin with).

The point is, that moment of realizing I was being "let go" was in many ways more petrifying to me than anything I had experienced up until that point in my therapy. What now? I wanted to argue with her, that no, I wasn't ready. I was like a college graduate who had dutifully completed all of her degree requirements but was suddenly paralyzed with fear at the thought of actually walking across the stage and accepting the diploma she had worked so hard for. Suddenly I wasn't sure I wanted it. I was afraid that if I allowed myself to believe that I was finally strong enough to stand with my feet firmly in place, that maybe it would all be an illusion and the ground that I thought was so steady would give way beneath me.

We have some friends who live out on the west coast that got a real kick out of the devastating earthquake that shook the east coast last August. Not because they were insensitive, but because we all flipped our nut over something that they probably experience a couple of times a year. Unfortunately, for them, earthquakes are inevitable, so the only thing they can do is practice being prepared for one when it hits. The safest places are in doorways and under sturdy tables. (Whatever you do, don't run outside like I did and look up at the sky to rule out the rapture). Since our friends have young kids, they do their best to drill them on what to do without freaking them out in the process. Children in schools participate in earthquake drills on a regular basis and practice quickly getting into position under their desks or the cafeteria tables. My friend's youngest daughter asked her one day why they couldn't just hang out under the table all the time, just in case. And to that, her mom simply said, "because that's not really living, sweetie. That's just being afraid to live."

As I reflect on the first few sessions I ever had with Anna, I remember that she never promised me a life without anxiety. She did, however, promise me that I could start living again, in spite of it. But it requires that I resist the urge to hang out under my dining room table, for all of the "just in cases," that 99% of the time never come to fruition anyway. There's nothing wrong with taking shelter when a storm comes out of nowhere, but once it passes, it can be easy to forget that we're supposed to crawl back out, hug our loved ones, and begin to rebuild.


Lyrics from a song that was always on repeat during some of my darker times. . .


"When I wake in the morning, I want to blow into pieces

I want more than just okay, more than just okay

When I'm up with the sunrise, I want more than just blue skies

I want more than just okay, more than just okay

I'm not giving up, not giving up now

Not giving up, not backing down

More than fine, more than bent on getting by

More than fine, more than just okay."


(Switchfoot, More Than Fine)

Dear Baby Corbin. . .

Dear Baby Corbin,

You were four weeks old today when your parents watched you take your last breath. I'm writing this letter to you because it's all I know to do. As a mommy, I'm just having such a hard time wrapping my head around all of this, and I know I'm far from the only one. You see, I don't know your mommy and daddy personally, or your big brother, who I'm sure is old enough to understand that something went very wrong, but I pray is still young enough that the coming years will dull the edges of this memory. I'm sure that he was the proudest and most loving big brother to you ever.

Sweet baby boy, you were so loved in your 28 days here on this earth. I have seen pictures of you and the word "angelic" fails to do you justice. As I looked at your pictures, I've tried in my own mortality to understand how your newborn perfection could be met with so many unanswered questions. What went wrong? Why won't you ever wake up? Why wouldn't you live long enough to be embarrassed by having those beautiful newborn photos dragged out in front of your future girlfriends?

I want to tell you something about your mommy, Corbin. She is one of the strongest and most beautiful women I think I would ever have the privilege of knowing. I am told that she held you all the time while you were sleeping, often times refusing to have her own basic needs met, just so she could be assured that she would be the one holding you when you grew your wings. I'm sure she went without sleep and probably at times forgot to eat and drink. Every moment- and every second of every moment- was for you, little one. Many times, I have found myself wondering if she knew, before you were born, that she was this strong. And I bet she wouldn't have ever wanted to find out in this way. No one would.

Your life was short, but it wasn't wasted. You left a legacy for so many, like myself, who never knew you, but who carried you in their hearts these past few weeks. If anything, you taught us how to hold on more tightly to our own children. To not take for granted even the slightest upset, right down to the 2 a.m. wake-ups and yes, even the tantrums, because all at once, they reminded us that your parents never even got to hear you cry. You showed us, in your own quiet way, how to better love our children. You see, I thought I knew how to hold my son. I even thought I knew exactly what he smelled like. But this past week, I realized how many times I have held him without really holding him. And so I took the time to memorize everything about him- every fat roll in his thighs, every dimple, the way his lips pucker when he starts to snore. I learned that no matter the time of day, he smells like the perfect combination of baby powder and banana. I thought I knew my daughter inside and out by now, too.. But in these past few weeks, I've caught myself staring at her while she draws and scribbles. Mesmerized, I've watched her as she reads books to her Elmo on her bed. I've listened to her tiny voice inflections and noticed how when she laughs- when something is really funny to her- it starts in her belly, uncontrollable, and bubbles it's way up into a shriek and at the very end, she'll stick just the tip of her tongue out between her teeth. And I noticed for the first time, the tiny flecks of gold in her hazel-brown eyes. I've stood outside the door to her room almost every night this week, just to listen to her sing herself to sleep.

Sweet Corbin, I'm so infinitely sorry that it took your sleep to make me realize what I have right in front of me. I'm devastated that not even your doctors have any answers. And if I'm honest, more than a little part of me is angry with a God that I claim to believe in that would even allow you to only be here- but not really here- for such a short time. My only prayer right now (because I don't know how or what else to pray) is that your mommy and daddy can find even an ounce of comfort in knowing that your precious life has touched so many others- even those that only saw your sweet face in pictures. You are loved, little one, and you will be forever missed.


12/28/2011-1/25/2012

"I Don't Know How to Say It Yet."

My mom tells me that when I was younger and would get upset trying to communicate something to them, I would often heave a dramatic sigh and say, "I can't know the words." Ella says something similar to this now when she's mid melt-down (ten years from now, she's gonna love me for posting this picture). Lately, she'll shake her head and say, "I don't know how to say it yet, momma." Sadly, it occurred to me that this is one of those rare moments when I often stop and actually try to empathize with my daughter. The truth is that sometimes I forget she's only two. She started talking early- and often. (Very often). That, combined with her almost off-the-charts height makes her look older to me, so I am guilty of treating her, and therefore expecting her to act, like she's four. It probably doesn't sound like a big difference, but the developmental milestones between ages two and four are huge, and those are some pretty unrealistic expectations to place on a kid. How frustrating it must be to want to be able to say something and not know how to get it out.

As parents, we know that our children are constantly evolving and learning. We have seen from our own experience and the experience of others that what they can't do today, they will be eventually be able to do in the coming days, weeks, and months. So, under normal circumstances, we don't sweat it. But children don't see the big picture (clearly, given the plethora of tantrums). Ella isn't yet aware of her own steady trajectory yet. She only understands the moment she's in, and right at this moment, she has this thought inside her noggin that is too much for her vocabulary to keep up with. Maybe it's that she wants to show me how to play a game she learned at preschool. Or that she's afraid of something in her room at night that she can't articulate. Whatever the case, in that particular moment, I wonder if it's possible she believes she'll never possess the ability to say what she wants to say. Does she think that this is as good as it's gonna get?

It occurred to me that there are those moments when I act exactly like my two year old (you know, minus the crapping in my pants). I become frustrated and often disenchanted when I have ideas, thoughts, and artistic endeavors that I know are waiting to take shape, but that I don't yet have the means with which to articulate. What if I could see myself the way I see Ella, particularly when she's red in the face and upset that she doesn't have the words. No parent in their right mind looks at their child in this moment and belittles them by saying, "why don't you learn to talk correctly?" We understand this is just another minor obstacle to be hurdled as they grow into their own person. And so we coax it out of them. We tell them it's okay- to give it time. Maybe, then, we should view ourselves in the same light- as artists, wives, mothers. Most of us are positively certain we haven't reached our full potential (and tend to believe, perhaps, that it can't ever be reached). Even given this, there's often the tendency to interpret our momentary setbacks and missed opportunities as the closing chapter, when in reality, we're only half-way through the book.

Just something I've been thinking about lately...

P52 Challenge: I Have a Dream

Back in the worst years of my anxiety, I thought I would never be able to function a part from depending on anti-anxiety meds. I wasn't sure that I could do anything on my own without some kind of safety net underneath to catch me. This weeks photo challenge is called, "I have a dream" in honor of the late Dr. Martin Luther King. I thought a lot about my dreams and aspirations and how I'm 29 years old with two kids and still haven't decided what I want to be when I grow up. But when I look back at the me from my early 20's, I realize that perhaps I'm already living out a dream that at one point, I thought I'd never see- to be healthy and happy. This, I'm sure, had to happen before any of my other dreams could be realized. So today, I'm grateful for the baby steps, the-two-steps-forward-and-one-step-backs, for grace that has been extended to me above and beyond what I deserve, and for the beautiful life that I'm living, not because I've learned to live without anxiety, but in spite of it.



Linking up to My3boybarians P52 challenge!

"Is That Your final Answer?"

I used to love watching "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire." Who doesn't love Regis Philbin? And who doesn't love getting large sums of money? Winning combo.

I think that the entire game show was worth watching not because people cared who wanted to be a millionaire but because they actually wanted to know: "is that your final answer?" The lights dimmed. A thin layer of perspiration appeared on the participants forehead. And I always pictured somebody sitting in the audience with their bongos, awaiting their cue to start pounding away for dramatic effect. In some cases, you could clearly see the confidence in the person's eyes. Other times, there was hesitation, wavering. More sweat. Why don't they just use their lifeline?!?! And then you suddenly realize you're forgetting to breathe, too.

But what if Regis hadn't bothered to throw out the "is that your final answer?" bit? Probably wouldn't have been nearly as enticing to watch.

"The answer is C, ______."

"Okie doke. Next question."

Lame.


Something about the finality of things really shakes people up. Because if you believe that something can or can't be undone, this can result in acute paralysis. (Particularly for someone like myself who finds it hard to decide which coffee creamer she wants in her coffee on any given day). Decision making is not my strong point, it's true. I've wrestled with everything from choosing a major in college (understandable) to which shade of gray I wanted to paint a room (and for the record- there isn't just one kind of gray. There are purple grays, green grays, blue grays...and it DOES SO matter). *ahem* Really and truly, one of the worst questions you can ask me is, "are you SURE???"

Marketers know this and have zeroed in on it. We live in a culture that inundates us with choice. I remember it took me hours to register at Babies R Us when I was pregnant with Ella. I spent two hours alone in the bottle/nipple/breast pump aisle. Who knew that there were so many types of nipples?? Not this girl. If you don't have kids or care to look at bottle-feeding accessories, then make a mental note of how many different kinds of toilet paper there are the next time you're out grocery shopping: angel soft, quilted, with aloe, extra thick, scented, select-a-size, tube-free...the list goes on. All of this fuss over something you're ultimately going to wipe your ass with. Seriously.

If it takes me 15 agonizing minutes to decide whether I want Charmin, Quilted Northern, or the toilet paper with the cute teddy bear on it, you can only imagine the weight of topics like, "do we want a third?" or, "do I want to go back to school?"

My husband is a great decision-maker: "Let's have Chinese for dinner."" I'm going to buy that new set of speakers." "I'm going to be a vegetarian for a while." Even, "I feel like our family is complete." He says it and there's usually no looking back.

Me? Sometimes, I feel like I wait for the confirmation to come that I'm making the right decision. I look for the writing on the wall, wait for the impact of the 2 x 4 upside my head. But I'm coming to realize that those moments are usually few and far between, and those that experience them are probably more of the exception rather than the rule. I have to come to terms with the fact that sometimes- maybe lots of times- I just won't be 100% sure. I may have a hunch. If I'm really lucky, I may even be 90% sure, but that's all I'm getting.

But I guess if we were always 100% sure of everything, there'd be no need for faith...

P52 Challenge: "Made With Love"

I have posted several times how mommy-hood has turned me into a sentimental shmuck. Although I still continue to ridicule my parents for proudly displaying choice pieces of truly "special" artwork from my childhood, I can at least say that I finally have the perspective that comes with from giving birth (hell, I almost cried when I saw my daughter's very first poop. It was a true masterpiece). And although she still continues to grace me with those "masterpieces," she at least now balances it out using other mediums that are, ahem, less nauseating.

I love that she's crafty and artistic. I love that she tells me what she's painting as she's painting it, and how she'll stand back for a second and cock her head to one side, and then say "THERE. Whadya think momma?"

So I tell her that it's stunning. Because to me, it is. And although I'm pretty sure it might be something that, years from now, will make her cringe with embarrassment (especially when I decide to break it out at her sweet sixteen party), for me, it's like a good wine you keep tucked away- it will only become more cherished and beautiful as it ages. A simple piece of paper and washable finger paints that managed to capture the essence of my little girl.

This post is linked up to my3boybarians P52 photo challenge. :)

Coping With Anxiety: Alter Egos and Words of Reassurance

Phobias are weird, complex creatures. I've always thought of my emetophobia as an extension of me, in some perverse way- kind of like my alter ego. Some performing artists claim to have one that appears when it's time to go on stage. Beyonce's alter ego is called "Sasha Fierce." So for the purpose of this blog post, I used an online alter ego name generator (proving that there is in fact, a website for everything and also that I clearly don't have enough to do this morning). Anyway, according to this generator, my alter-ego's name is. . . brace yourself . . .

Silky Shalanda.

(I can't make this stuff up).


Kristin is the one who gets things done. She's the one who performs in front of groups of people, thinks on her feet, rolls with the punches, and enjoys taking risks. She's adventurous, spirited, often seeking out the comical in the mundane. But the minute her stomach starts to turn, twitch, or do anything else deemed "unusual," Silky Shalanda shows up. Total party pooper, this one. In the past, Silky has been known to cook her chicken until it has the appearance and taste of burlap. She doesn't want to do anything too strenuous, risky, or otherwise FUN because what if that would make her get sick? One of her more annoying habits was to ask "do you think I'm going to throw up?" Silky Shalanda's husband Jake- a.k.a. "Loose Goose Lucifer" (again, can't make this stuff up if I tried)- got tired of answering that question, but he almost always politely obliged her.

Old habits die hard, it's true. And so it seems, alter ego's have a knack for popping up long after they've worn out their welcome. I'd rather that Silky vacate the premises indefinitely, but she does come around less and less these days, thankfully. In the meantime, I've set a few personal and realistic goals in regards to my anxiety and one of those is to stop asking inane questions (to be fair, I've always known they were inane, but again, old habits are hard to break). As a little girl, I remember asking my parents quite often if I was going to throw up nearly every night at bedtime (I had a scary projectile vomiting experience when I was about 4 that woke me up in the middle of the night and that I suspect was the catalyst for most of this). I asked them this same question every night, like clockwork, even when I felt fine. And every night, they'd reply- "no, you're not going to get sick." (Sometimes it was more like, "for the love of God, NO, stop asking THAT!" But you get the idea....) At the peak of this phobia a few years ago, I once again found myself asking the same question to Jake. And his response was the same as theirs, often times in the same weary tone of voice. . . "No, babe, you're not going to throw up. I PROMISE you." It's kind of like asking him, "hey, do these pants make me look fat??" Any husband who doesn't want to ultimately end up sleeping on the couch knows that there's a very correct answer to this question. In the same way, my husband (God love him) had become conditioned to giving the correct answer when I asked him if I was going to throw up. Of course not. It's what he knew I wanted to hear in that moment.

Now, if I really stop to think about it, there are a couple of obvious problems with this scenario. I'm asking for reassurance about what my body is doing and ironically, I'm the only one who really knows what's going on. Anxiety? Heartburn? Stomach bug? IBS? Even *I* don't ultimately know if I'm going to get sick, so why on earth would my husband or parents know? As a child, I think it's one thing to take your mommy and daddy's word at face value because they're your world and often times, your sole source of comfort. But as a grown adult...well, I should know better than to rely on anyone else's interpretation of what's going on in my small intestines. (But hey, that didn't stop me from trying).

My emetophobia therapist just posted a blog article on seeking reassurance from other people in times of anxiety. Check it out, because whether or not you struggle with a fear of throwing up or being sick, EVERYONE struggles with anxiety and part of our nature as human beings is to seek reassurance in times of stress- it's how we cope. But, as her article points out, it can often do more harm than good, especially in the case of this kind of anxiety. When you tell a loved one that "no, you're not going to get sick," you unknowingly reaffirm that this is something they should continue to be afraid of and, to go one step further, that it is something actually dangerous to them. Every time I asked my parents- and consequently each time I asked Jake- if I was going to throw up, their well-intentioned words of consolation were actually doing more harm than good. (And to be fair, had they said, "well yes, Kristin, I think you are probably going to throw up..." there would have been mass hysteria, so I can't blame them). It's tempting to want to do whatever we can to console the people that we love and to, in the very least, temporarily take the edge off of their fear. But it's a very short term solution to what is often times a long-term battle.


So the answer to that question is different these days. The last time Silky Shalanda showed up (which was several weeks ago) and asked Jake if she was going to throw up, he simply replied without missing a beat, "I don't know. But I DO know that you're going to be okay, no matter what."

Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but oddly enough, Silky Shalanda left after that and I haven't seen much of her since then.

So now, this will become my answer to Ella and Milo when they need reassurance, for whatever reason. I know that I'll be tempted to tell them what they want to hear, but I hope that I remember my therapists words- and my own personal experiences- so that I promise them only what I do know. And that is simply: "mommy will be right here, no matter what happens."

"Sweet Shot Tuesday" aka (When It's Okay Not to Share)

I'm always complaining to Jake that we have so many pictures of the kids (duh) but hardly any pictures of us WITH the kids. I want more family pictures. I want Ella and Milo to remember what I looked like now- before all the gray hairs and wrinkles settle in for good. After reading a post on clickinmoms with tips on how to include yourself in pictures with your kids, I decided, "it shouldn't be THAT hard, right?"

And once again, I was reminded that I needed to take that expectation bar that I already thought I had placed low enough and lower it once more. And then again. Nope. Maaaaybe just another inch. Okay, right THERE.

This picture, while by no means perfect, was one of my favorites from that afternoon. I kiss Milo like this all the time. Kiss him while he's nursing, kiss him while he's looking off in a different direction- just press my lips against his soft, chubby cheeks and smell his delicious baby-ness. I love it when both of my kids nap at the same time- don't get me wrong- but I have grown to really cherish those afternoons when Milo wakes up early from his nap. It's almost as if he knows this is one of the only times he doesn't have to share his mama.


Linking up with My3boybarians "Sweet Shot Tuesday." :-)

P52 Challenge: "Resolution"

Some of you may already be aware that I'm starting to get into photography (you know, in all of my spare time). :D Thanks to Pinterest, I stumbled across this lovely blog, and started working through the 31 Days Photo Series. (Extremely helpful, especially for someone who still considers herself a novice).

So I've decided to participate in m3b's P52 Challenge- posting one photo every Friday (using the weekly assignments given) from now through the end of the year. This week's topic was simply called, "Resolution." Somewhat ironically, I scribbled this quote (one of my all time favorites) in between pages of unfinished potential song lyrics, journal-type entries, and random moments of personal breakthrough over the last two years:

"Above all, be true to yourself, and if you cannot put your heart into it, take yourself out of it." ~Gerard Way


Anything worth doing is worth messing up a few times until you get it right. So for me, 2012 will be about being less-than-perfect, but more than willing...

"E" Stands for Extrovert

I have often said that God has a sense of humor, but never has it been so apparent to me than since I had kids. For example, I'm an introvert. Not the "socially-awkward-hermit" type, thank you very much. I just prefer to process things internally. I recharge by going off by myself. I have a few very close friends as opposed to a mile-long contact list in my phone of people that only "kinda" know me.

And then somehow, I managed to give birth to a raging extrovert. Of course, we didn't know this right away, but it became apparent rather quickly. She has big eyes like her momma, big mouth like her daddy. :D (love ya, babe!)

I sometimes still don't know how to handle her. She sings loudly in the grocery cart at the store (complete with hand and arm motions). She hams it up for bystanders. Introduces herself often to perfect strangers and invites them to come to the playground with us (and in most cases, we're not even heading to the playground, so this is usually news to me). People, animals, yes- sometimes even plant life, are all subject to her queries. And what do I while this is happening? Stand around awkwardly and pretend to play with my iPhone because, for the love, I just want to get in and out of the store without having another innocent shopper or street walker find out that Milo pooped in the tub last night.

So Little Miss Congeniality started preschool yesterday. And in typical Ella-bug style, she marched right in to her classroom, introduced me and Milo to her teachers (not even kidding), found her cubby and immediately started baking a purple cake in the play kitchen. Yep, that's my girl. Later, friends texted and called to see how I was holding up. "*sigh* I guess I'm hanging in there..." I typed, as I sat with a mug of coffee in my hand while Milo took his morning nap and I suddenly found myself reclaiming my living room. And while it's true that, once upon a time, I cried for an hour when we moved her from our bedroom precisely two feet across the hall to her nursery, I was shocked at my own level of emotional stability yesterday. Turns out all of us were ready (well, as ready as we could be) for her to reach this milestone. I did get a little bit nostalgic when I walked upstairs into her room and saw "Monkey" (her most beloved stuffed animal) lying on her bed. People told me children grow up fast, but I guess I just always thought they meant the "slow" kind of fast. Or that maybe they'd turn around and say, "gotcha! just kidding!"

Turns out, they weren't joking. It's actually the fast kind of fast. The "I-can barely-remember-when-you-were-a-baby" kind of fast.

Time for you to spread your first set of wings, baby girl. We love you.

New Years and Little White Flags

It's January 3rd and everyone is probably off to a great start. We've cleaned out our closets, purged our pantries, stocked our shelves with nutritious foods, dug out our gym membership cards and hit the ground running (some of us, quite literally). Maybe we've decided that this year is the year we're finally going to lose the weight, stick to a routine, take that trip, start the new business we've been talking about for years, quit making excuses...the list goes on and on.

Like everyone else, I sat down last week and wrote out some commitments (I refuse to call them "resolutions") for 2012. And as I skimmed them over, I began to notice a theme. Almost all of them centered around the idea of "following through." Some pertained to art projects, others to my social calendar (such as it is with two small kids), or implementing new ideas for music lessons. Some of it even came down to finishing remaining chapters of a few books. And as I took stock of the list, I realized that I have become the queen of unfinished projects, bouncing from one thing to the next. On rare occasions, I stick it out and see something through to completion (thankfully, my degree in music education is one such example). When we moved into our new house this past summer, I sacrificed sleep in the name of getting boxes unpacked and put away. I just wouldn't let myself rest until our kitchen looked like a kitchen. (But I suspect that had more to do with me being anal than anything else). On the flip side, I'm notorious for getting half way into a painting or a new book and not finishing it or fleshing out a new idea for another blog or song, only to let it it sit around until it goes stale.

There are several reasons why I think I do this. I suspect some of it is possibly a mild form of ADD. (If you really want to see me in full ADD mode, just send me to a craft store. One time, I almost hyperventilated when I brought out my Pinterest app in the middle of Hobby Lobby). Occasionally, I've fallen in love with the idea of something and then when I start it and realize it's not at all what I thought it would be, I find that to be reason enough to drop it like it's hot.

But the God-honest truth is that most of it is fear-based. There are two kinds of fear, though. There's usually an initial fear about logistics. How am I going to pull it off? How will I find the resources? This kind of apprehension, in my opinion, is both necessary and good. It usually propels us forward to find solutions. But many times, the "how's" can quickly evolve into the "what if's." What if I invest everything I have into _______, and it sucks/no one likes it/it's not the best of the best of the best? This kind of fear is crippling because we'll almost always find more reasons to stay right where we are than where we actually want to be. And it's tricky because it can often disguise itself as apathy. All of the sudden, we start dismissing our "crazy" ideas. We say we don't care. We tell people we lost interest. But what we don't want anyone to know is that we've had little white flags tucked away somewhere within arms reach. We want to give ourselves an easy out, just in case.

(Oh, and just for the record, when I say "we," I basically mean "I").

So there, I've just outed myself once again. For the better part of the last five years, I've been working to stop giving myself easy outs, or "just in cases." I never went anywhere without an emergency plan, and then a backup emergency plan in case that emergency plan fell through. And at the end of 2011, do you know what I had?


Two unused emergency plans.


Because I didn't take any risks big enough to even come close to needing them. And because I want to hold more in my hands at the end of this year, here are a few of the things that are on my list of commitments...

--to read 12 books, start to finish. (Doesn't seem like a lot for some, but trust me, I'm not an avid reader so that will be an accomplishment). :)

--to collaborate on and complete a Christmas album (Jake and I have been talking about doing this for at least 3 years now).

--to actively flesh out ideas for a new photography blog/business (as I can afford to get more gear).

--to write more, submit more articles, and lock down more freelance work. (I want to get published some day. There, I said it).

--to begin mentoring/teaching piano lessons to children in the elementary school here in our neighborhood.


I write these not because I'm seeking affirmation or a pat on the back, but because I know that accountability is everything when it comes to taking risks. If we don't tell people what we're doing or what we're about, then we can tell ourselves that it doesn't matter if we haven't followed through with any of it. But maybe it actually does matter. Maybe, in fact, something that fails (even fails miserably) is still worth more than something that hasn't even come to fruition.

So maybe, this year, it's time we put away all of our little white flags for good.