Today is our 3rd blog birthday! To celebrate, we have some sentimental words + a sale & free print as our gift to you!
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Once I realized that Discipline is not a bad hang, I started inviting him in to spruce up other areas of my life. Meal prepping, writing when I don’t feel like it, practicing guitar, journaling, keeping my living spaces pretty—all these things require the wisdom and care of Discipline. I have found that my creativity, free-spirit nature, and whimsical planning are only as good as the boundaries of self-discipline they are held within.
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It happens pretty much every time. I freak out, start to doubt what I can do and believe that I don’t deserve any sort of success. I tend to run through these thoughts over and over in my head, and everything speeds up faster and faster, as if my brain is a steam engine nearing the last stop on a railroad track. When someone asks me, “What’s wrong?” or “How can I help you?” I don’t even know what to say. When I try to open my mouth to say what I need, I can’t even get the words right. At times, I feel like an imposter, not ready to face the real world like the cool, confident women I aspire to be like.
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It’s the beginning of a new season in your life. You’re committed to getting more clients, making more money, having more of an impact in your community. You’re setting your goals, your intentions, making your “must accomplish” list.
Flash-forward: It’s the end of the month. It’s halfway through the year. It’s December 31. Those goals you set? Halfway done or never touched. No progress. What gives?
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But after a while, and in my classic twenty-something fashion, I began to feel restless. I wasn't sure exactly what it was I wanted anymore. Because my heart is similar to Augustus Gloop in that it's greedy. It wants to know all of the outcomes. It wants to know which path to take before I have to take a single step. It wants freedom. It wants travel. It wants stability. And more often than not, it wants chocolate.
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When I was younger, I used to think that life would get better after college. Or once I was married. Or once I had a big girl job. If only I could skip to this weekend, or next month or a couple years from now, things would be better.
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Refusing to quit has undoubtedly served me well in my 24-years. It is the reason I can sing now even though I was described as a tone-deaf child. It is responsible for the 60 pounds I have lost and kept off in the last three years. It has been the backbone of healing and strength and the two Whole 30s I have completed, but it has also been harmful. I become faithful to a fault, unable to walk away from things, like a sport I am not good at, because I have something to prove. Because I think it makes me weak to leave something instead of toughing it out.
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I have come home every day for the last three weeks exhausted. My feet aching, my ankles covered in blisters from shoes that I believed to be comfortable but have thus far betrayed me, my back damp from sweating on the subway platform and my hair frizzy from the humid city air. (Gross, I know. I’m a vision.)
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I have a small poodle named Bella. She is scared of most things, and I do mean most things—the wrinkle of a grocery bag, the sound of her collar tag clanging against her food bowl, men—all these and more send her into a fit of shivers. Though the clinking of dishware doesn’t send me into fight-or-flight mode, I can relate to this pup saturated like a soggy sponge with fear and anxiety.
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As confident as I had been in my decision at the time, walking away from my glamorous magazine job—and along with it, my lifelong “dream” career—left an emotional scar that refused to heal, no matter how many times I told myself it was for the best. A year later, I was still feeling an incredible amount of doubt. Perhaps, even, a tinge of regret. And because I was scared of what people would think, I refrained from talking (or writing) about it.
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For the postgraduate seeking to transgress or assume an affirmative stance on an issue of importance to her, resistance comes in the shape of familiar inquiries: How will that pay your bills? Who’s going to want to buy that? Do you really think you’re capable? These are questions adults use to keep one another in their respective places, and it makes sense.
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I turned 24 on Tuesday.
My first instinct was to look at the people around me. The ones posting on social media.
They’d written books, were writing articles for magazines I still only dream will send me an acceptance letter one day. They’d started podcasts. Spent two years living in Asia. Found the loves of their lives. Wore diamond rings on the fourth finger of their left hands. Spoke at the United Nations. Worked in refugee camps around the world.
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Do you write? Hi, me too, and many of That First Year’s readers moonlight (or daylight—power to those with the full-time writing gig!) as writers. So I thought it might be helpful to make a list of 6 things that have helped me in my writing endeavors.
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Some of us create because it is what we want to do with our lives. Others create because it makes life a lot more interesting. Regardless, we are all creative creatures, whether that’s creating on a canvas, creating in the kitchen, or creating with a camera.
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Fast forward seven years: I sit in an English classroom as a young, impressionable seventh grader, soaking up every word from my teacher. After years of devouring books, read alouds, scripts, and writing poetry on love (which I knew so much about) and stories of an adventurous squirrel (which entertained my entire family), I made another career choice: I would be a seventh grade English teacher.
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