Now that I’m sharing this blog with other people and I hope they actually read it, I’m feeling self-conscious. Like these words have to mean something. Like I suddenly have to make a point with each post. I can no longer ramble and whine. I can’t talk about how I’m already looking forward to the nap I get to take tomorrow. I can’t repeat my excuses because someone somewhere will have heard it all before—and shouldn’t I be better than to let my fear of failure subdue me twice in one week? 

People don’t want to hear about the same struggle over and over again. They’re called progressive complications, after all. 

But here I am exhausted. Feeling like a fraud. Questioning my abilities (and my own sanity, because wasn’t that the whole point of this dang blog in the first place?!).

Sometimes I think it’s easier to imagine our lives as the stories we want to tell. It’s much more fun to get caught up in the idea of a daring adventure. That’s why we cut out the boring day-to-day stuff no one wants to read, right? But that’s the stuff we have to live through. It’s what we have to “figure out” and learn to find joy in. 

If I tried to rewind through the lessons I’m learning now and jump right to the part where I’m successful, I’m sure it would all feel meaningless. Never mind the fact that, at that point, I’d probably be ready to move on to another goal. 

Though, I’m not saying I’d turn down the success if it did try to come to me a little early. I guess what I mean is that I need to pay more attention to the moments I’d rather skip because they’re what’s going to teach me the most about myself.

(# Of words I wrote for my manuscript today: 310)