Don’t Doubt the Process
Most creatives will tell you they struggle with self-doubt. This is something I battle against on a daily basis. Sometimes, it’s a moment by moment struggle. I wonder if I’m a terrible writer, and this is why my dreams haven’t been fulfilled. I wonder if I’m wasting my time, and the time of those I love. I wonder if I heard God wrong, and this is not my purpose. I wonder a lot. It’s a big problem.
It gives me hope to see that the authors who inspire me were also stricken with similar challenges: the wait, rejections, and debilitating self-doubt. I guess I’m in good company.
#trusttheprocess #workinprogress #selfdoubt #creative #sylviaplath #writingcommunity #writerslife
Wait For It…
One of the hardest parts of being a writer is waiting. Rejections are a close second. Waiting is far more difficult than the “not for us” responses, at least it is for me, because waiting brings with it the unknown. For a person who suffers with anxiety, the unknown is our arch nemesis, our antagonist, or ultimate villain, if you will.
I’ve had an achingly long season of wait, and I struggle to see an end to it. At times, I feel angry at God because I don’t understand the purpose of the wait. I can’t comprehend giving someone a purpose and then pushing pause on the action. Today, I realize it’s not up to me to have the answers. It’s up to me to write the words, share the feelings, and express the pain that people bottle up inside. What God does with the story is up to Him. I’m just here to write it.
#writerslife #writingcommunity #waitforit #trusttheprocess #workinprogress #godsgotthis
Grief Comes With a Price
The past few days have been rough. A lot is going on with family, and some of the struggles I’ve battled have reared their ugly little heads, yet again. See the thing about trauma is you don’t truly overcome it. You learn to travel it like a well-worn path in high grass.
At times, the journey is easy, and I stop to admire the butterflies and hummingbirds zooming past me. Other days are stormy, and I’m lucky to pull my feet from the muddy path. What I’m learning is that both journeys are necessary. Both journeys are me.
I’ve had a lot of grief in my forty-two years. Some days, the sorrow is manageable, and I feel productive and positive. Many days it’s not. The sadness lingers behind my eyes, and I have to remind myself to take another breath. I’ve learned to not rush through those days because they hurt. Instead, I try to sit with the discomfort that only grief can bring, and in doing so, I try to learn from it.
I am sure that many of you who are reading this can relate. See, grief doesn’t just come with death. It is an overwhelming loss that permeates the soul. Whether it be the loss of a childhood, a dream, a relationship, or even a loved one, grief comes for us all.
Today, I refuse to run from it. Today, I choose to learn from it because grief is a teacher that comes with a price. A price that shows us the cost of love. And love is always worth it, even when it hurts.
Finding Contentment Where I Am
I am exactly who I am meant to be in this moment. That’s taken years of therapy to say and actually mean. As an author, I spend loads of time in my imaginary world dreaming up all the stuff and things. This can be a blast, but it can keep me focused on fantasy instead of present in reality. If I am too forward thinking, I lose track of the beauty of this moment’s blessings, and that can lead to disappointment and even bitterness.
One of the ways I keep myself grounded is to be content with my life as it is now, and not lose myself in how I dream it could be. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll always be a dreamer. I just won’t trade in my joy from today for the possibility of tomorrow. My mind is a beautiful place to visit, but my reality… my reality… is an incredible place to live.
#bloomwhereyoureplanted #bepresent #dreamer #workingprogress #content
A Joyful Noise, Indeed
This morning, my husband and I went to a coffee shop, Joyful Noise Coffee, in Sun City, CA. I had a rough night last night with acid reflux, and unfortunately, we don’t have any bread in the house. So, we decided to give this place a try, and I’m so glad we did.
We had the lavender, lemon scone, the lemon, poppyseed scone, and we shared an Asiago bagel. I had a vanilla latte, and my husband had a black out coffee (also known as a red eye). Everything was tasty, but the customer service made this beyond a five star experience, for sure.
If you find yourself in Sun City, we highly recommend this coffee house.
Joyful Noise Coffee Address: 26924 Cherry Hills Blvd, Menifee, CA 92586
Don’t Quit!
It’s easy to want to give up when you’ve faced rejection after rejection. I know this from personal experience. Waiting for a dream deferred is painful, but like anything that grows your character, it is a necessary part of the process. If you’re battling the silence of waiting, or picking yourself up after another rejection, you’re not alone. The only way you truly fail is to quit. So don’t…
#workinprogress #writingcommunity #authorsofinstagram #trusttheprocess #dontquit #waitingonadream #writeon
Repair What’s Broken Inside of You
Mary Beth Keane said, “We repeat what we don’t repair.”
Read that again!
Sure, it’s difficult to face the darkest places inside of you, but I’m telling you, friend, it’s totally worth it! When you can stand illuminated and watch the darkness flee… nothing feels more free.
Stand secure in the fact that life doesn’t have to remain what it is today. You can be better. You can overcome. You are worth the hard work. Don’t live another day believing for a second that you aren’t.
#bettertoday #worthit #workinprogress #trusttheprocess #icandohardthings #worththework #facewhatyoufear #standinthelight
Finding Joy While You Wait
It’s been 16 years since I began my adventures in publishing. Though I’m not where I want to be, I am grateful that I’m not where I once was. That’s progress, friend.
As I write this post, one of my novels is out on submission. This novel is near and dear to my heart because it was the book I was writing when my dad passed away. In fact, I finished it five days after he died. I took all of my sorrow and pain and channeled it into this work in progress, and when I typed the last words, my cheeks were damp with tears. To say this book is a piece of me, is an understatement.
I don’t know where you are in your waiting game. Perhaps you are waiting for a new job, a child, a spouse, or something else entirely. Whatever you are waiting on, I know one thing for sure, you’re probably sick of the wait. I get it, friend. Waiting can be excruciating. Waiting can feel pointless. Waiting… well… it can suck.
I’m not going to deny that I’ve struggled with depression while I’ve waited. In fact, if you know me personally, you know I’ve been to some dark places during this season of wait. I’ve allowed doubt to cloud my judgement. I’ve sobbed in the bath. I’ve done my fair share of emotional eating, and probably ate your share, too. Let’s just say, I haven’t always found the joy in waiting.
Then, one day after another literary rejection, something sparked within me. I’m not entirely certain where the feeling came from, other than the Holy Spirit, but the pain didn’t feel so… well…painful, for lack of a better word. The wait didn’t feel so burdensome. Somehow, I had found peace in the uncertainty. Even more surprising, joy bloomed in my soul.
So, how did I do it? How did I transform my depression into joy while waiting? All I can say is I have an incredible husband, a supportive family, and doting friends—my therapist is fantastic, too.
In the end, though, I think the joy came from my resilient heart. It was okay if my publishing adventure was still loading because I had learned, through my wait, that flowers bloom, butterflies flutter, love inspires, and joy really does come in the morning… if you know where to find it.
When Covid Strikes: What Causes False Negative Tests (Superpowers or?)
Covid has invaded my house.
Nine days have passed since my son brought the yuck home from his middle school, and though everyone in my house has tested positive, I haven’t. This is truly weird, since I have most of the symptoms.
The last time our house was infected with the VID, the same thing happened. I tested negative while my husband tested positive. We both had the symptoms. We both took forever and a day to heal, and yet, every time I take a Covid test I have to mark the spot on the form which says I’ve never tested positive for Rona.
I’m not sure why this is. My husband says it’s my superpowers. My bestie believes my body may fight off the virus so swiftly that there aren’t enough antigens in my system for a positive test. I’m sure there’s some real scientific explanation for these strange and unusual occurrences, but I’m going to go with superpowers… because yeah… that just sounds cool.
Stay healthy and safe, friends.
Grief Doesn’t Have an Expiration Date
I can’t believe it’s been almost a year since my dad died: 361 days to be exact. Last week, I sat at my desk working on attendance during my lunch break, when a song played on my phone: “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin. The intro was soft and hazy, like stepping into a cloud, and I thought, Why don’t I listen to this song more often? It’s so chill.
Grief struck like a rock hitting a windshield: suddenly and destructive. The sorrow seemed to come from nowhere, and instantly my cheeks were damp with tears.
“This isn’t even Dad’s favorite song,” I stammered, unsure of why Grief was invading my lunch break.
That’s the thing about Grief, though; the bastard doesn’t care when he shows up. He’s like the uninvited fly, buzzing by your ear. This constant reminder that you are plagued by your loss, regardless of how much time passes.
At first, I was shocked by my sadness. Then, I was inconvenienced by my sorrow. I shook my head a few times to get back to my senses. I had to teach a class in five minutes, and I couldn’t do so if I was sobbing. Where had this come from? Why could I feel my dad’s presence in my office, as though he was standing just behind me peering over my shoulder at my computer screen?
”I’m never listening to that song again!” I lied to myself.
Grief isn’t comfortable for me. I liken it to wearing a wool sweater in the middle of July. So, instead of allowing myself that moment, I pushed past it, as I have done many times over the past 361 days.
“Grief, I’ll deal with you later,” I said.
But, Grief waits for no one. Instead, he sets up camp just behind your eyes and applies unnecessary pressure at the most inopportune times, like right before your lunch ends and fourth period is about to begin.
A few hours later, my sister called me. We talked while she drove our grandmother, our father’s mother, to Walmart. We both shared about how difficult these last 361 days have been. How we still expect our dad to randomly call our phones and leave us one of his epic phone messages, or laugh his contagious laugh in our ears while calling us his infamous nicknames: she’s Nai Nai, and I’m Froggy. But that isn’t going to happen, and that brings fresh tears to my eyes as I write these words.
“This sucks,” I choked on a sob.
”I know,” my sister’s voice quivered. “I can’t wait to hug you,” she added.
“See you on the 23rd,” I whispered.
”I’ll call you later. We just got to Walmart. Love you,” she answered.
”Love you, too,” I replied and ended the call.
Then, I made room for Grief. We hung out for thirty minutes and remembered my dad: the larger than life man who always had a song on his lips.
I cried. I remembered. I always will.
That’s the thing about Grief… he isn’t going anywhere. He is my worst enemy and my greatest confidant, regardless of whether it’s been 361 days or 722… Grief has no expiration date.
