This Time Next Year
My hope for you as we embark on another trip around the sun
When I was in elementary school, I sat down on my bed and made a list of what I wanted to be when I grew up. I recall writing three professions. I’m guessing I wrote “teacher” and “veterinarian” as the first two options for they are popular choices for a 7 or 8 year old girl. While I cannot specifically recall items one and two from that list, I can vividly remember writing the third option. I’d saved it for last because I was afraid to speak it out loud for fear of being told it wasn’t possible.
When I’d completed my self-imposed assignment, I asked my dad to take a seat on my pink bed in my upstairs bedroom and review the choices I’d documented on my small lined notepad.
“I’m going to be one of these when I grow up,” I said as I handed over the paper.
“I see,” my dad replied. “Well, if you want to be a writer, you’ll want to remember it is spelled w-r-i-t-e-r and not r-i-t-e-r.”
His guidance was not unkind for he saw how I plowed through paperbacks borrowed from the library. I, like him, fell in love with the written word early in life. I think he knew my natural aversion to mathematics would pretty much rule out being a veterinarian. And I loved a lazy morning too much to acclimate to the early mornings of teachers. Books were my refuge, so I imagine he saw a natural outgrowth from reading to writing in this child who needed to spend more time with a dictionary.
I went on to work for my high school yearbook, study journalism at university, and get public relations jobs in entertainment and higher education. All these activities and vocations required writing, but it was a sterile and safe sort of writing. Documenting what and why for a news article or compiling a list of facts to promote a new album or university building. I was scared to write for myself. In my quest to overcome this fear, I enrolled in classes at UCLA that promised to help me develop as a creative writer. I learned many helpful skills, but my fear continued to hold me back.
When a job I loved careened off a cliff not too long ago, a mentor encouraged me to create something that was just mine – even if only for that season as I navigated my way out of the abyss and into a new vocation. I decided to resurrect an old blog and commit to writing at least one post each week. Substack seemed the natural corner of the internet for me to build this little venture. Since Substack encourages a very focused type of writing that easily allows for promotion by highlighting specific categories, I originally thought about creating a space that explored the fact that despite careful planning, I was living a life I hadn’t planned on.
But I’m not that serious of a person, and I couldn’t mine such a sensitive topic for content week after week.
Instead, each week I delighted in sharing articles I’d found and in recommending gift ideas that would hopefully help people feel seen and loved. I worked to rebuild my hope by continuously flipping the record, so to speak, when it came to my circumstances and experiences. I’d push past the volumes of expectations I’d failed to reach and identify the beauty in the circumstances that life had handed to me. I know many of my fellow music lovers will agree that often our most beloved songs come from the B-side of the record and not the chart-topping A-side.
As popular writers and influencers flocked to the platform, I watched the number of their subscribers swell while mine stayed below the number of recipients on my holiday card list. No matter. I wasn’t writing to grow numbers or please marketing departments. I was writing for myself, finally. The weekend I shared my 100th post, I found myself caught off guard as I’d not been keeping track of how many posts had been published thus far. I sat back and marveled at this thing I’d built in the background of a busy life.
And yet, I still felt that familiar flush of shyness and insecurity when I talked to others about my work here. I continued to feel a profound sense of awe at those readers who interacted with my work. Several incredibly kind readers pledged their support, and yet I was paralyzed by a fear of failure as I considered turning on the function that allows Substack writers to earn revenue.
This is where you find me today, sizing up the insecurity that held me back from writing for myself and resolving to seize the courage that will propel me past this paralysis. Part of that movement means turning on the ability to collect pledges from readers — an act that for some reason feels especially vulnerable to me.
The start of the year can feel like a smothering handful of weeks, can’t it? Everyone seems to be on a quest to be smarter, richer, and smaller. The proclamation of steps others will take to achieve this level of productivity are tiring after a while. If you step back from the goal setting, you see that what people really want is to feel differently – to be more at peace, enjoying more moments of bliss, and experiencing less instances of fear and worry. They want restful sleep and the admiration of their peers. They long to forget the panic of a low balance or past-due notice. I suppose I should say “we” instead of “they” for aren’t these all things people have desired since the beginning of time? To be the director of how we spend our time and to always know plenty.
In lieu of resolutions and in search of accountability, I close this letter to you with a hope that you’ll find me this time next year still building things for myself but better at preventing my inner critic from holding myself back. This time next year, I hope I’m not quite as shy when it comes to receiving support and kindness for the things I’ve built, and that I can proudly put my true desires at the top of the list instead of buried under the safe options that others might prescribe for me.
And I have a hope for you, too. This time next year, I hope to hear you have written twelve remarkable chapters of your life. I long to hear you have filled your calendar with more hobbies, adventures, and leisure than the year prior. That you called that faraway friend when they crossed your mind and sent more letters through the post (though, you’ll have to skip this last one if you live in Denmark).
I hope when we talk this time next year, I see you standing firm in the understanding that you are marvelously wonderful just the way you are.
To those of you who have pledged your support, subscribed, written encouraging notes, and liked my posts, thank you from the bottom of my heart. It is not an overstatement to say you are the reason that little girl was finally able to accomplish the goal she scribbled on a notepad decades ago. Thankfully for us all, she took her dad’s advice and learned to make frequent use of the dictionary.
This is so beautiful friend!
Keep going! ❤️