I talk to myself. A lot.

I don’t actually speak to me, but to a future version of me. She’s wiser and more grounded. She has walked through the fire and come out the other side. She gives less fucks. I’ve named her Joy.

I met Joy through the process of a guided meditation which my mentor calls “Your Future Best Self”. Joy has been with me ever since.

The meditation invites you to envision a future version of yourself--ten or twenty years from now.

Settling into my breath, Joy began to appear. I envisioned her in beautiful detail—the silver of her hair, the slender shape of her body, the luxurious, flowy clothes she wore, and the simple jewelry she chose to accentuate with. Most of all, I felt her energy—calm, knowing, inviting, warm. I witnessed the way she drew people in. I could hear the sound of her laughter—explosive and boisterous, full of well, joy.

As the meditation came to a close, I was invited to write a letter to Joy. In it, I shared my hopes, my dreams, and my struggles with her. Joy wrote back and drew upon a depth of wisdom and love--imparting advice, and direction.

Let’s pause to acknowledge the ridiculousness of that last sentence because I can hear you judging. She knows that she’s writing to herself, right? Yes, thank you. I know that I’m writing to me from me. Until you try it, you might not understand the power of writing a letter to yourself. Pretending to be My Future Best Self offered a degree of separation from my current struggles. That space created room for wisdom.

Try it. I dare you! 

Soon, I realized I could talk to Joy whenever I wanted. Sometimes I write to her. Other times I speak to her in meditation or aloud as I am driving alone in my car. I ask her questions and wait patiently for her to respond.

What would you do, Joy?
What brings me closer to you?
What do you think about this opportunity?
Who would you ask for help?
How would you handle this conversation?

She always, always answers.

I know. It all sounds totally woo-woo. It’s a little out there. (Maybe for some, it’s really out there.) But here’s why it works, at least for me.

Joy is my North Star. She reminds me of who and how I want to be. The wisdom she holds, the warmth she emanates lives within me all of the time. The more I access those traits, the more I become her in real time.
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Joy is me. I am Joy. 

If you are familiar with Dr. Seuss, you may remember this classic passage:

The Waiting Place…
…for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
Or a bus to come, or a plane to go
Or the mail to come, or the rain to go
Or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
Or waiting around for a Yes or No
Or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.
              ~ Oh, the Places You’ll Go
 
These words perfectly sum up the theme of my life over the past six months—the purgatory of a mother who is not needed as often as she’s used to.  

As my boys grow into men and begin to venture into the world on their own, I found myself in this strange new parenting phase. I saw it coming and thought I was emotionally prepared. After all, they are becoming confidently independent, as they should be. My job, I decided, was to simply hold space for my kids—letting them have as much freedom as they could handle responsibly, and simply be available when they needed to talk, solve problems, or wanted to share.

However, as their lives grew bigger and richer, they had less and less time to spend with me. They were busy and content and I was still holding space. Alone.

Thus, The Waiting Place.

I was waiting for the phone to ring
Or a text to come
Or a problem to arise
Or a task for Mom
I was just freaking waiting.
 
Needless to say, boredom grew into loneliness and loneliness grew into misery. One day, listening to a podcast while at the gym, I was struck by a wisdom bomb dropped by comedian Tig Notaro who said, "The best gift you can give anyone is a well-lived life of your own.”
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Read that again. It’s profound.

It struck me that I was not living my own life. For nearly eighteen years, I lived for my boys and forgot about myself. While I thought I was personifying a deep value and joy for parenting, what I actually modeled was that my life was secondary to theirs.

Would I want my kids to be paralyzed in The Waiting Place? Would I want my life for my kids? No!

My greatest hope for my children is for them to live joyfully, passionately, and with immense gratitude for their blessings. I want them to wake with intention and live with purpose. Yet, I wasn’t doing that for myself.

If, like me, you have found yourself in The Waiting Place, here are the tools I used to extricate myself:

1. Make a list of hobbies and activities which make you happy. Be intentional about gifting yourself at least thirty minutes per day to curate this joy for yourself.
2. Schedule one event per week which you can look forward to. This can be a walk in the park, cooking a new recipe, meeting a girlfriend for coffee, or treating yourself to your favorite snack.
3. Plan your calendar. I have penciled in one adventure for myself and one date with my spouse per month. This gives me two moments of excitement to anticipate, fully thrive within, and remember fondly.
4. Learn something new. Take an online course, join a yoga class, talk to strangers while in line at the grocery store, join Duolingo and practice a new language.

 
As cliché as it sounds, life is too short to be wasting away, waiting for others to need you.

Take control and learn to love your own life.

And, as Dr. Seuss says,

Be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
Or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O’Shea,
You’re off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So, get on your way!