It’s a thing among motivated people to choose a word at the beginning of each new year to intently focus on; a goal word that keeps you moving forward with intention.
I used to be a motivated person.
I still pretend to be.
Last year I chose the word “discipline.” I told myself that the reason I wasn’t out there killing it was because after several years suffering from autoimmune disease I had lost all sense of structure.
It made sense. After such a prolonged illness, it’s not unreasonable to think that I’d lost my mojo. I just needed to tap back into that ambitious place within myself that had been sleeping.
It was time to dip my toe back into life.
When I’m feeling gracious towards myself I see that I did accomplish some things. I read some very inspiring motivational books. I rewrote my novel.
I reached out to literary agents. I even heard back from one and had a great dialogue (she ultimately decided to pass on my book, but it was further than I’ve ever gotten before.)
I studied copywriting and built a new website, and did some successful networking that turned into a few paying clients. I rebuilt my older website and began blogging more regularly.
But deep down, I knew there was still something holding me back.
Where once I used to be up every morning, showered and ready for the day before my kids were out of bed, I now lingered, inching towards the bathroom just as my younger son stumbled sleepily from his bedroom. I was lucky if I even brushed my teeth before walking him to school.
It’s hard to say how many hours I wasted on social media in 2019. I told myself it was a necessary part of building an online business. But truthfully, I deleted most of my Twitter posts minutes after writing them.
I mostly spent my days tumbling down random internet rabbit holes that had nothing to do with me or my writing business.
I watched way too much Netflix and read far too few books. I napped even when I wasn’t tired. I “ran out of time” to exercise.
I thought that maybe I was still sick (and truthfully, maybe I was and am). Maybe this was my new normal. Except sometimes I felt fine, yet I still couldn’t seem to get myself moving.
Maybe I was depressed. I certainly had cause to be, after such a long illness and a chronic diagnosis.
But none of that felt like the root of the problem.
Finally, right towards the end of the year, I had a serious sit-down with myself. After some serious prayer and contemplation, I admitted what deep down I’d known all along…
I was terrified.
The reason my focus on discipline had failed was because I was focusing on the wrong word. Before I could get busy killing it I had to address my fear.
My whole life I’ve always had a general idea what my next move would be. I chose between a few distinct and very clear options, and I moved wholeheartedly and confidently in that direction.
Go to college or not? Yes, college.
Major in psychology or social work? Social work.
Get married or not? Yes, get married.
Go to graduate school or not? Yes, graduate school.
And so my life went along neatly, spit spot.
Even when I made the decision to divorce my older son’s father, it was a this-or-that scenario. Yes, get a divorce. Then divorce was my project for a while, until it was over, and then I moved on to another project.
This time is different.
This time, the world is wide open, and entirely unknown.
There are so many what-ifs.
What if nobody reads what I write? What if I am a terrible copywriter? What if my husband invests all this money in helping me start this business and I can’t get it off the ground? What if I can’t overcome my crippling social anxiety to put myself out there in a credible way?
What if I fail?
What if people figure out what the insecure little girl deep inside me has always known… That I’m not nearly as talented and smart and confident as I let on?
What if they discover that despite all the outward public accolades and accomplishments, I am, in fact, more like the poet Emily Dickinson than my hero, columnist and novelist Anna Quindlen?
When Dickinson asks, “I’m nobody, who are you?” I want to jump out of my seat, wave my hands in the air, and cry out, “Me too! I’m nobody too!”
I memorized this poem in high school. It brought me comfort then, knowing that there was someone else who felt invisible. Dickinson seemed comfortable there. I have never been so sure.
My lifelong inner conflict between my deeply private self and this nagging sense that I have something to say has always been there. But only now, at 43 years old, am I being forced to address it.
I am yet again faced with a choice.
As always, it is a simple yes or no question. But this time, it is a very complicated answer.
I have studied enough. I have worked enough. I have experienced enough struggle, heartache, success, failure, wonder, joy, disappointment, betrayal, loyalty, kindness, and cruelty.
I’ve made it this far. I have survived. Now the question is simply…
Will I live, or not?
I wish I could jump up and wave my hands and say, “Yes, I will live!”
But I know I can’t truly live and be nobody at the same time. I either need to be brave, or stop pretending to be somebody I’m not.
So, my word for 2020 is not discipline. It’s not intentional. It’s not focused, or driven, or kind, or tranquil. These are all admirable words. But until I can be brave, I can’t truly be any of the other things to which I aspire.
My word for 2020 is BRAVE. And I’m terrified.
Copyright © 2020 Sara Beth Wald
