The Audacity

Taking a page from the book of 28-year-old me

Do you ever wonder what your life looks like from the outside? To be honest, I don’t spend much time there. Mostly, I’m sure, because, whatever it looks like from the outside, it feels really freaking good on the inside. For the most part….sometimes. 

When I last regularly wrote, regularly practiced the discipline of creation, I was 10 years younger. Ten. Years. Younger. That’s not to say I’ve created nothing since then. It’s just been such a blur: Of doing, of chasing, of having, of wanting, of acquiring, and repeat. To write then, conjured up an imposter syndrome deeply rooted in my fears of not being enough: Not being enough of an expert. Not being smart enough, qualified enough, wealthy enough, experienced enough, old enough. Over the past 10 years, that brand of imposter syndrome has dissolved and finally I felt I might move on and into myself.

But instead, I find myself confronting now a different, and perhaps even stronger brand of imposter syndrome: The fear that I’m too much. That I have no validity in feeling my not-enoughness because I’ve been lucky. Lucky enough. Lucky enough to be in a happy marriage, have healthy children, things I do that I love and make me money. “Lucky”, of course, being the intersection of relentlessly and sometimes impossible hard work, but lucky, nonetheless. 

Back at 28, no one, in my mind, wanted to hear from a newly single mother, on her way to falling in love with herself and the world and her then-best-friend-now-husband. No one wanted to hear from someone who recklessly quit her stable job to take a gamble on a yet-to-be-proven company, or to pursue her dreams of writing songs. Who was I to give advice on loving your body when I wasn’t even sure I’d ever loved mine before, or could or would in the future? Who was I to give advice on the “right” road to walk when I walked out of a 3,000 sq foot home on the right side of town to opt into a totally new world which included $50,000 of credit card debt, a falling-apart-rental on the “wrong” side of town and no real idea what I was actually doing? 

And now, at 38, who cares about the struggles of insecurity and loss and friendship and walking up so many freaking hills when my life, generally, looks pretty great: When those 28-year-old’s leaps mostly panned out, and the credit card debt has been eliminated, and possibilities exist for me and my children, and my life is good. Who cares?

I had the audacity, somehow, 10 years ago, to care more about what I wanted to do than what I thought other people would approve of. And now, I’m looking to that girl- 10 years my junior- to inspire some of that audacity- NOT to complain about the struggle (because, honestly, I’ve grown to call the struggle my best friend and where all the magic and good stuff happens). But to share the struggle; and the luck, and the work, and the good and the hard parts. 

My life is laced with goodness. My children are sweet. My husband and I fall asleep and wake up every morning professing our love for one another over and over again. There’s kitchen dancing and belly laughs. There’s butterfly kisses and bedtime songs. There have been so many dreams realized: A whole family built and extended and built again, a Broadway musical co-produced, teaching at a college level, writing songs people have actually heard, growing a business into multiple businesses making multiple millions of dollars each year, children who are thriving, a move into our dream home…so much not-even-goodness, but true greatness. 

But, like with anything, it’s come with steep sacrifices and deep disappointments: The loss of important friendships and relationships, businesses and strategies that have had to be reimagined multiple times of enormous financial loss or lack of clarity. A Broadway musical- one that was beautiful and important- that opened to only close before reaching 100 performances. The feelings of inadequacy and yin and yang and hoping for <this> while also desperately yearning for <that> (by the way, I’m a Gemini, making this all the more exhausting).

The truth is: Every day I’m a lot grateful and so filled up. And every day I’m a little disappointed and more than a little bit confused. I know this is life. Or, at least, it’s my life. But I think it’s universal. And I think that’s why I feel called to be here. With you. With me. Whoever that is, at this point.

When I think of returning to writing, it feels synonymous with returning to myself. Maybe these will just be breadcrumbs my kids might look back at some day, getting to know their mother at a point in her life they face themselves. Maybe it won’t even get to be that, and maybe it doesn’t need to be, but maybe it could be the place where I can be whatever it is that I am- good or bad or lucky or flawed, or…realistically…all of those things, all at once. Where I don’t need to be a brave leader. Or a solid anchor. Or a creative inspirer. Where I can be a little bit audacious in believing that the feelings I have are so true for so many of us, that that alone makes them worthy of being shared.

I am the culmination of a trillion tiny moments, interactions, personalities, ideas, inspirations, paths I’ve walked, regrets that have burned in my hands, and cups that have been filled by the love and grace others have shown me. I bet you are, too. And maybe, then, this isn’t about my story, but rather about the permission for all of us to unfold our stories. That living alone gives us the permission slip to share our experience so others know there’s a light in even the darkest hall, and a black hole, even in the brightest universes. Maybe we’re all alone, and maybe that’s exactly what ties us all together.

Thanks for coming along on the ride. I hope you’ll stick around and enjoy witnessing as I get to know myself through writing again. I’m scared to death I might hate her…and somehow even more scared I might love her. But that’s for another day.