I turned forty-four a few months ago. I am now officially in my mid-forties—a realization which caused me to stop and reflect. In a season when I was making drastic changes and searching for balance, I had set the intention to escape autopilot living. The ultimate goal was to become increasingly present despite life’s inevitable distractions.
The morning after my birthday, I woke up thinking of a brilliant friend and mentor who celebrates aging with a yearly birthday challenge. Essentially, she chooses something that stretches her potential, takes her out of her comfort zone, and exposes her to a new experience or perspective. It’s inspiring. On my first full day of being forty-four, I decided to do just that and knew instinctively what my birthday challenge would be. I was going to embark on a Year of Joy. Let's back up for a moment, so I can provide you with some context. I’ve always thought society’s obsession with happiness was suspect. In a complicated world where human-ing feels tricky, I often wonder how people walk around with such playfulness and laughter. I am, by nature, an introspective overthinker. This quality makes me deeply empathetic, sparks my spirituality, and stokes the thoughtfulness of my writing but also blocks my happiness from time to time. (When one is over-analyzing conversations and choices while simultaneously over-preparing for imaginary worst-case scenarios, joy feels frivolous. Who has time for it?) In the past, I’ve written about the idea of happiness. I have pondered the happiest people I know and wondered why that emotion is so easy for them and so elusive for me. I once read that smart people are rarely happy because they spend so much time in their minds that they miss out on being fully present. If that’s true, I must be a fucking genius. I have Googled the definition of happiness which defines it as “the state of being happy.” WTF?! The definition of being happy is to be happy? How deeply unsatisfying. If happiness was on Tinder, I’d probably swipe left. Too fickle. Joy, though, has a different flavor to it. The definition of joy is “the feeling of great pleasure”. This makes more sense to me. Joy is about moments. There is no expectation to extend these moments into a lifetime of bliss. It is about being fully present for a few minutes and appreciating the circumstance or sensation. This I can do. So, I set out to learn more about joy. My investigation led me to a podcast which discussed cultivating awareness and presence by noticing delights in the world. Listen to that baby giggling. Delightful! Look at that fluffy Bernese Mountain Dog. Delightful! Notice the rich colors of the fall leaves. Delightful! While I wholeheartedly embraced this daily practice, it still felt as if I was observing things which happened to me and around me. What if I could take it one step further and purposefully create moments of joy in my everyday life? This way, I wasn’t waiting passively, but could actively architect a joyful feeling. With this intention, I began a Year of Joy. Each day, I plan a moment or two which makes me smile, in which I feel deeply present, which makes me laugh, or which inspires resounding gratitude. Because I suspect you might be curious, here are some of the ways I have cultivated joy over the past few months:
Maybe the thought of chasing A Year of Joy doesn’t appeal to you. It may sound precocious or overwhelming. While I respect that, I need to push back, just a little. Even if you have no desire to sign up for an entire year, I encourage you to take one small moment of reflection. Ask yourself when was the last time you felt joy? Does it happen often enough to lift you out of the grind and notice the awesomeness of life? In whatever way you can, I implore you to cultivate joy. It’s highly underrated.
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A few years ago, I had a sneaking suspicion that my work/life balance was not sustainable. In full disclosure, it wasn’t a whispering intuition. There was a forceful voice in my head yelling, “Hey Toots! Your obsessive need to prove your worth through your work is going to kill you. Get your shit together!”
I had been working two jobs for almost five years, the result of my “side hustle” gaining traction and taking up more of my time. The money was rolling in and for someone who has a financial scarcity mindset, success not only felt like security, but it was also a source of immense pride. Look at me go! The Achiever in me tends to be my greatest strength, but also the poison which leads to a slow decay--physically, mentally, and spiritually. Long story short, I quit my day job and chose to try my entrepreneurial shoes on for size. Even though I was mentally SO ready to attempt something new, I was absolutely unprepared for the emotional tidal wave of fear that would wash over me. I nearly drowned. I had no idea how to work for myself--how to market my skills and expertise, seek opportunities for collaboration, or even budget based on an inconsistent income. I was used to being overscheduled from the time I woke up to the time my weary head finally hit the pillow at night. All of a sudden, I found myself with nothing but time...staring at my laptop, waiting for an email to arrive in my inbox. The lack of busy-ness was terrifying. What have I done? As I sat at the bottom of a deep, dark hole of self-doubt and self-pity, my mentor (a badass entrepreneur herself) suggested a lifeline in the form of a book. Reaching desperately for any shred of wisdom cast my way, I immediately ordered 10x is Easier than 2x by Dan Sullivan. This book blew my mindset wide open and forced me to pick up the pieces, assembling them in a new and provocative way. Let me give you the highlights… Those of us who are Achievers are ever-facing forward, chasing the next mountain to climb. However, as we reach one mountaintop, the view exposes another peak, then another waiting for our ascension. Rather than celebrating what we have accomplished, the finish line feels constantly moving. We are in the continuous motion of striving. It gets exhausting. Dan Sullivan teaches a strategy known as The Gap and The Gain, where he advocates for a pause. Instead of obsessively moving forward, it is crucial to take a moment and look behind you. Appreciate how high you’ve climbed and how far you’ve come. Celebrate the wins and use them as motivation to keep going. In a time when I felt on the precipice of failure, The Gap and The Gain helped me recognize the successes I’d had in the last six months leading up to the change in my career. It validated my drive and determination, reminding me that I could do (and have done) hard things. In a year, I would likely be celebrating the brave decision to begin this new adventure. The second knowledge bomb was the concept that we cannot make massive changes by doing the same thing we’ve always done. Old habits can lead us to minor adjustments and tiny moves forward (2x) but if we want to reach for the stars and increase our success tenfold (10x), we need to let go of 80% of what we know. Sullivan suggests an exercise which requires readers to look at the last decade (or more) of their lives and record the times they made a huge leap of faith. The instructions are to write down the cost of each decision (the 80% they let go of) as well as the value added as a result. In engaging in this exercise, I was shocked by the number of instances when I had reached for 10x in my life and found the cost was worth it every time. Now, I am in a season where I am attempting to 10x again. When I quit my job, I gave up my pension, my benefits, my financial security, my prestige, my accolades, and my identity. What I hope to gain is freedom of time, the opportunity to follow a dream, the expression of my creativity, and the ability to choose how I wanted to work and who I wanted to collaborate with. Writing down my past 10x successes was a visual reminder that I could absolutely make this work. It would simply take time, effort, and a steadfast belief in my abilities. Why am I sharing this with you? We often read of success when people have already climbed the mountain. They are at the top, basking in the glorious horizon. I want to share my experience while I am trudging one foot in front of the other, grinding towards the peak. I hope that by seeing me risk it all, by watching me trip and get back up, you might give yourself permission to do the same. I want you to chase your mountain top, but with the knowledge that the journey is sweaty, arduous, and downright fucking hard. But the view from the top makes it all worth it. As you sprint towards the final days of this calendar year and begin to look ahead to 2024, you might consider pausing to think about what you really, really desire. Listen to that little voice which whispers, “What if…” and give it time to dream. Don’t be afraid to take a risk. Apparently, the view from the top is worth it. For me, one of the first markers of aging was the drastic change in my eyebrows. No one told me they would fall off my face the day after I turned forty. Though I found this shocking, you probably couldn’t tell my facial expression. No eyebrows, remember?
My morning routine now includes brushing my teeth and painting on my brows. I don’t generally wear much make-up but there is something ghostly about a dark brunette with nothing framing her eyes. It’s just creepy. Today, as I gently dabbed undereye cream and moisturized my neck (in upward strokes, of course), I was struck by a hint of crow’s feet around my eyes and the emerging creases between my beautifully drawn brows. Don’t get me wrong, those wrinkles are supposed to be there, for I’m in my mid-forties. It’s just that for the last three or four years, they have been ironed out by a magical invention called Botox. Staring at my reflection, I wondered what I would look like if I stopped injecting my face with poison. (As much as I covet Botox and love the vibrancy it gives my face, the truth is that I am suffering through countless needles leaking a foreign substance into my body. Counterintuitive to my vegetarian diet and consistent workouts, isn’t it?) I have not seen my natural face since I turned forty. And, come to think of it, I have no idea what colour my hair actually is because I coat those “sparkly strands” with dye as soon as they dare show themselves upon my head. This morning, it occurred to me that I have no idea how old I truly look—without the Botox, the eyebrow paint, and the hair dye. That is fascinating. And fucked up. During Covid, many women embraced their grey, proudly posting photos of their natural beauty across social media. I began to take screen shots of gorgeous salt and pepper hairstyles and stunning women who fiercely owned the aging process. More recently, I have made a conscious effort to fill my Instagram scroll with women who are gracefully getting older and who describe their wrinkles as proof of wisdom. I’m all for it. They are incredible, bad-asses and I want to be just like them. Today, my morning coffee comes with a deep pondering about my own process. When will I be ready to meet what lies beneath it all? Will it be a slow tiptoe towards aging, or am I willing to cease the battle cold turkey? Am I confident enough to embrace the new (but old) face that looks back at me in the mirror? Will she still be beautiful, fabulous even? I am excited and terrified to find out. But not today. As the holiday season approaches, I am always wary of wishing someone a “Happy Holidays” or a “Merry Christmas”. Though well intentioned, these statements are laden with assumption, aren’t they? At this time of year, I prefer to make deeply uncomfortable eye contact and inquire “How are you, really?”
Some of you come alive at this time of year, sprinkling glitter and powdered sugar everywhere you go. You hum carols, string lights, and smell like gingerbread. You will likely set up your Christmas tree on November 12th. You excitedly pull out your Santa hat earrings and ugly sweaters, and ensure your stash of charming hostess gifts is sufficient for the lineup of events on your calendar. What fun! Others feel a sense of dread, obligation, and overwhelm during this “festive season”. In past years, I, too, have succumbed to my own prickly Grinchiness. I craved the day when I could stuff my Christmas tree back into its ridiculously tiny box—which is not unlike attempting to force Pilsbury dough and back into its can. Exhale. Christmas is over for another year. In recent years though, I have reflected on my cold Christmas heart—which felt two sizes too small--and decided there must be a better way. I was tired of white-knuckling my life for the month of December. I wanted to join the joyous singing with the rest of the citizens of Whoville. The shift began by giving myself permission to examine traditions and ask what worked and what didn’t. I kept what felt fun and discarded the rest, even when it meant throwing away what has always been done. As a result, the boys and I have stayed in fancy hotel rooms on Christmas Eve and had pizza by the pool. We’ve dined in luxurious restaurants instead of making turkey dinner. We’ve gone for long walks in the snow on Christmas morning, searching for dazzling Christmas lights. Christmas began to feel like an adventure. I also embraced the idea that Christmas is more than one day. It offers a full month to celebrate with people I love, play with my kids, and create moments of joyful memories. Last year, my boys and I created an “advent calendar”. One evening in November, we sat down, and wrote slips of paper containing creative games, festive outings, and bonding opportunities. We jotted down ideas such as:
So, give yourself permission to let go of anything which doesn’t serve you during this busy time of year. Don’t be afraid to create your own brand of magic, carve new traditions, and invite your kids to provide input into the redefinition of this holiday season. I wont' wish you "Happy holidays." Instead, from the bottom of my heart, know that I want you to really be okay. Love, Kel Seven days. Seven nights.
That’s how long I will be forced to spend with myself this week. Yep, I said forced. How astute of you to notice. I am an extroverted introvert by nature. At work, when my role and the expectations are crystal clear, I easily put my leadership pants on. I am charismatic and confident. Strip my professional identity and throw me into a social setting? I suddenly become awkward and uncertain. All the confidence I have leaches out of my body and I’d rather be at home in my pajamas. That said, I am happiest at home in my pajamas with others. I am madly, obsessively in love with my husband. I adore my children and jump at the chance to hang out with them. I’m even thrilled to meet a girlfriend for coffee, provided I can be home in my pajamas by 8pm. Are you sensing a pattern? My life rarely requires pants. This week, I will be on my own. My husband is traveling, and my boys will be staying with their dad. I have seven days and seven nights to spend with me, myself, and I. The problem is this bitch is boring. I’m a recovering workaholic which means for the last twenty years, I have not developed a repertoire of hobbies which I’m passionate about. I worked and I dedicated my energy to my family. Full stop. One of the reasons I recently decided on a drastic career shift was because I desperately needed to create more balance in my life. I want to discover who I am separate from my job. Now that my boys are on the precipice of becoming men, I am challenging myself to become whole and happy apart from them. Our lives are no longer intricately intertwined, which is exactly as it should be. It seems the Universe heard my intentions and promptly presented an opportunity for me to walk the walk. Fuck. I don’t want to spend the week merely surviving, counting down the hours as they tick, tick, tick slowly by. Nor do I wish to numb myself in front of a screen—mindlessly scrolling social media or watching movie after movie. And, let’s be honest, I’m not one to go out at night strapping on my heels and sipping martinis with the girls. (Do I still own heels?) Which leads me to ask… What brings me joy? What makes me feel fulfilled? What feeds me with purpose? Logical Kel understands this week provides me with sacred time to dive into self-exploration. It’s a chance to grow and thrive. Emotional Kel is scared shitless. Can I come out of this with my sanity intact? I’m trying to embrace the opportunity (which I am fully aware other women would give their right arm for) and move towards it with a positive mindset. I’ll let you know how it goes… In the meantime, pray for me. Text me. Send Xanax. It was only Wednesday, and I was already frazzled. I was having one of those weeks where there simply weren’t enough hours to get it all done—unless I chose to forgo sleeping…
I had asked my sons—14 and 16 years old—to prepare supper that evening. I had a day chalked full of commuting, lectures, and meetings and if the traffic gods allowed, would walk in the door with twenty minutes to put food in my face before both boys needed to be driven to soccer practice. Used to a certain level of responsibility being placed upon them, they agreed. My kids have always been expected to contribute to our home, but I don’t believe in paying them an allowance. We all live here together, and it takes a team to keep the ship afloat. Besides, they make 90% of the mess, so they should in fact clean it up! Additionally, no one pays me to cook, clean, and do the laundry… I digress. The stars and planets aligned, and I was indeed able to make it home for dinner that Wednesday. As an added bonus, I even had time to change into my comfy clothes before jumping back into the car that evening. I was SO looking forward to having dinner and sitting down to connect with my family. However, when I walked in the door, I did not hear the joyful sounds of productivity in the kitchen, nor did I smell the spicy sweet tomato sauce simmering. The kitchen was empty of people and food. WTF? Almost immediately upon my heels, my oldest son sauntered through the front door. “Hey Mama!” “I hope you brought dinner with you.” “Nope. My brother was going to cook.” Little Brother looked up from his cellphone with a face of utter confusion. It would have been comical, had I not been starving. “I thought we were going to cook together when you got home.” The three of us stared at each other in silence, the atmosphere thick with tension. In that moment, did I react with a calm, firm response and with the intention of leadership and problem-solving? Hell no. I sat down on the kitchen floor and sobbed. It wasn’t about the dinner. All of the overwhelm and stress that had been building up leaked out of my eyeballs. My sons stood in front of me, horrified. Gathering some shreds of dignity, I picked myself off the floor and walked upstairs to my room. “Mama are you angry?” they called. “Yes.” (Maybe not enough dignity yet. Must. Calm. Down.) I’ve thought about this moment in retrospect. Should I have acted with more maturity and been forgiving of their miscommunication? Perhaps. It certainly wasn’t my shining moment as a mother. But what happened next makes me think that my show of emotion wasn’t entirely negative. Fifteen minutes later, there was a gentle knock on my bedroom door. “Supper is ready. Please come downstairs,” the boys tentatively invited. Physically and emotionally exhausted, tears still slipping down my cheeks, I sat at the kitchen table as my children served spaghetti. We ate in silence, and tears fell from their eyes too. They weren’t used to seeing me break. “I’m sorry,” I began. “Yes, I am disappointed that supper wasn’t ready, but I overreacted. I’m crying because I’m stressed and tired.” My sons walked over and wrapped their man-sized arms around me. “We’re sorry too. We called our coaches to let them know we wouldn’t be at practice tonight. We didn’t uphold our end of the bargain, so we don’t think it’s fair to ask you to drive us.” All of this to say, my friends, that in showing my vulnerability, my children realized how much they take for granted. My tears drove home the knowledge that their contributions matter and that one person cannot be expected to carry the load alone. We try so hard to shield our children from guilt and shame, from knowing that they hurt our feelings or let us down. Looking back, I see this slip in my armor as a teachable moment for my boys. I hope they reflected upon my meltdown in a way which makes them better humans and better partners in the future. I’ll admit that sobbing with snot running down your face is a wee bit over the top. You’d likely handle the situation with much more grace than I did. Either way, our little family team grew stronger as a result, and supper is now ready as expected. I am a voracious reader who is a ‘lil obsessive about personal development. The Buddhist in me believes my purpose in life is to grow and evolve thus I am constantly in search of ways to improve as a human. It's gross, I know. A few months ago, I read Hal Elrod’s book, The 5am Challenge--an inspiring story about the author’s cancer journey. Hal passionately explains that his life was saved, in part, by a deeply intentional morning routine. By starting each day focused on his mental and physical health, Hal forged an iron strong mindset which became not only a crucial component to his healing but also led him to become wildly successful in his relationships and his career. The book ends with a challenge to readers—a dare almost. Set your alarm clock horrifyingly early and see how it changes your life. Huh. That might be worth a try. In full disclosure, I’ve always been an early riser. In college, I chose jobs which began at the crack of dawn and set me free by the time most others were on their lunch break. I was a barista. I took the early morning shift at the gym. With tales of massive cash tips, my sister tried to entice me to become a server at the restaurant where she worked, but the thought of staying up until 2am made me nauseous. Not worth the money! When I was a teacher, I would arrive at school at 6:30am so that I could leave by 3:30 and take on the remainder of my day. Getting up early gave me freedom. However, waking early for work felt easier than waking early by choice. Regardless, I promised myself I would stick with The 5am Challenge for ninety days. Starting the following morning, when my alarm chimed (because I don’t believe in beginning my day with a heart attack prompted by an aggressive beeping noise), I would roll out of bed and put on my workout clothes. Next, coffee. Because I’m not a total monster. Coffee first, life second! I would enjoy the precious caffeine without the distraction of social media. I simply sat alone with my thoughts. Then, I would move my body for at least thirty minutes. Following exercise, I would meditate, chant, read, journal, or listen to a podcast to complete my morning routine. All of this occurred in calm, peaceful silence before my family woke, bringing love and chaos to the day. The first few days felt exciting and new. I kept waiting for the novelty to wear off. But do you know what? It didn’t. I became addicted to starting my day by nourishing my body and my spirit. No matter what else happened over the next 24 hours, I started with self-care and the best of intentions. I might go on to have writer’s block, be late to soccer practice, or scorch the supper, but at least I freaking meditated that morning! Ninety days turned into six months. Six months turned into a year and the 5am Challenge is still going strong. I fully acknowledge that I lost many of you at “5am”. However, if you are still reading, it’s likely because you have some curiosity about dedicating time to your health, even if the suggestion of an early morning makes you itchy and slightly queasy. Don’t let the “5am” trip you or stop you completely. Give yourself permission to create your own rules. Maybe you simply wake up one hour earlier than normal. Perhaps you work from home and can take a midday “recess” break. Stay up one hour later and finish your day with reflection. I have a friend who ends each day by eating candy in the bathtub, surrounded by candles. When my children were young, I gifted myself with one hour in between the time I left work and the time I picked them up from childcare. Find a way to make yourself a priority! However it may look—5am, 2pm, or 10pm-I challenge you to make intentional self-care part of your daily routine. Try it consistently for ninety days and discover the difference it makes. You never know, the habit might just stick! Or, text me and tell me how much you despise it. I'll be awake. A few weeks ago, I enjoyed an incredibly romantic vacation in San Juan del Cabo with my husband. We were on a kid-free trip, celebrating our ten-year anniversary and had set the intention of planning a new chapter in our marriage.
Each morning, we would wake up at 5am and take our coffee down to the beach. There, we would sit in the sand until the sun rose and the sky turned from inky black to shades of cotton candy pink and creamsicle orange. As my husband practiced yoga, I would meditate and watch the world slowly come alive—crabs emerging with curiosity from their labyrinth beneath the sand and birds swooping mere inches above the waves, searching for their breakfast. Each night after walking the vibrant streets and devouring decadent food, we would end up at the pool in our resort. With the epic combination of waves crashing on the beach in the background and lively music playing in the foreground, we would spend hours talking and sipping expensive tequila. At some point, I would inevitably end up in the water, floating on my back and gazing up at the indigo blanket of stars. It was magical. After three or four days, my husband turned to me and said, “I really like Vacation Kel.” “I like her too,” I responded. This vacation version of me was relaxed. She laughed a lot. She danced in the kitchen and did handstands in the pool. She was playful and present. I began to wonder how I could bring her home with me. Granted, Vacation Kel did not have any responsibility. She simply ate when she was hungry, drank when she wanted to, napped in the middle of the day, took long walks, and indulged in reading, lovemaking, and sunbathing. Vacation Kel was free of commuting, chauffeuring teenagers, answering emails, washing mountains of laundry, and the never-ending to-do list which ran constantly through the forefront of her mind. Still, I loved her energy and didn’t want to let her go. There must be a way to bring small elements of her into my daily life… On the plane ride home, I continued to ponder and realized that the first thing to disappear as the wheels touched down upon the runway of reality was my ability to play. I very rarely engaged in an activity simply for the sake of joy. Could I be so bold as to implement joy and playfulness into my daily routine? The following weekend found me sitting not poolside but field-side, watching my boys play soccer. I love watching my kids express their athleticism, their comradery, and their leadership on the soccer pitch. And, as an added bonus, I absolutely adore the group of women who mother these young men. The “soccer girls” are hilarious, authentic, bad-ass females who talk about life and parenting, and who are always out for a good time. All of us are on the precipice of watching our teens grow into young adults and are experiencing the bittersweet realization that they will soon leave us. Thus, we are all at various stages of rediscovering who we are without our children. One of the women announced that she had recently joined a soccer team and was loving the workout and the hilarity of chasing a ball down the field at her age. “You should join!” she dared me. “Yes! I’m in!” Impulse replied before logic caught up. Have I ever played soccer before? No. Is that important when joining a soccer team? Likely. Nonetheless, I went out the next day and bought myself a pair of bright pink soccer cleats. They brought me joy. When I told my boys that I had joined a team, they were so proud of me! They immediately took me to the field for a training session so that “I wouldn’t embarrass myself.” Fair. In between sprints, burpees, drills, and positioning instructions, we laughed and laughed at my lack of talent. That Sunday night, my forty-four year old self showed up to my very first soccer practice ever. Pushing aside doubt and nerves, I stepped out of my car into the pouring rain and ran to meet my team. Lacing up my bright pink cleats, I reminded myself of the reason I was there. No pressure. No ego. Just joy. Over the next week, every time I felt my quads burn and my body ache, I smiled. The pain reminded me that I had chosen to do something silly, something playful. There was no responsibility involved, no intention other than to experience a new adventure and have fun. Now, every Sunday night Vacation Kel comes out to play with her friends. The more she shows her joyful face, the more she seeks to integrate into daily life. These days, on my morning runs, I sprint towards the invisible finish line, not only to strengthen my muscles, but to feel the sensation of going fast. When we were kids, we ran just to run. Not to exercise, to lose weight, to burn calories. Only for pure joy. In fact, I recently read a statistic that said, “95% of adults over the age of thirty will never sprint again in their lives.” * WHAT?! Will we also stop splashing in the pool, letting ice cream drip through our fingers, and rolling in the grass? I don’t want to live that kind of life. Now, I choose to crank up the volume when a nostalgic song comes on the radio. I make a point of taking a mid-workday dance break and I am teaching myself to play the guitar. Why? Because it’s freaking fun! Full stop. Vacation Kel is changing my quality of life. I’m really glad I brought her home with me. *https://www.artofmanliness.com/health-fitness/fitness/the-grown-ups-guide-to-sprinting/#:~:text=I've%20seen%20a%20statistic,many%20adults%20out%20there%20sprinting. They say write what you know.
What if the only thing I know right now is how much I don’t know? If we had to play the game of labelling seasons of life, my forties would be titled, “What the Fuck?” My family, my lifestyle, my ambitions, my roles, my desires are changing in ways which keep me up at night wondering, “What's next?" Everything I thought to be steadfast and true in my thirties is unravelling like a spool of yarn as I enter my mid-forties. I’ve spent the last two decades of my life hustling, working my ass off to build a beautiful life and epic professional reputation. I wanted the best and I wanted to be the best. I knew that my thirties were going to be a decade of being in the weeds—parenting small humans, scraping by financially, and failing at work/life balance. I was okay with all the sacrifice and sleepless nights because of my unwavering faith that it would all be worth it in the end. I knew exactly where I was going and how I was going to get there. From the time I was a wee babe in my twenties, I have always known the trajectory of my life—personally and professionally. First you land a boyfriend. Then you lock shit down with a ring. Marriage. House. Babies. Puppies. Happily, ever after. Turns out, The Plan didn’t go as planned. I checked all those boxes but when it got to the “happily ever after” part, the house of cards I had built crumbled to the ground. I found myself broke, devastated, lonely, and starting over. The saving grace was that I had a plan for my career. I even weathered some unexpected but exciting pivots and like a good ‘lil soldier, marched my way to the top of my profession. But after twenty years of hardcore hustle, I found myself freaking exhausted. Tired of the life I had worked so diligently to construct, one that left me too depleted to find any joy in what I had earned. The Plan had let me down again. Then, I did something stupid. Scratch that. I did something brave. Scratch that. I did something stupid and brave. “Strave”? (Note to self: Trademark new word.) I quit it all and gave myself permission to throw away The Plan. Once again, I am broke, devastated, lonely, and starting over. Life is funny like that. I find myself in a season of life where I am without a plan, without direction, without an intention. In professional transition and with children who are almost grown and need me less. I am a writer who isn’t writing. A speaker who isn’t speaking. A teacher who isn’t teaching. A mother who isn’t actively mothering. A wife who isn’t… Well, if the definition of “wife-ing” is feeding and fucking your husband, at least I am killing it in that department. Aside from the resounding endorsement from my well-satisfied husband, I find myself pondering my purpose. Who am I? Who do I want to be? What could my future look like? How big can I dream? Sitting in this purgatory is wildly uncomfortable but I am trying to do just that. Sit. As someone who has been obsessively inclined towards action my whole life, I am doing my best to be still and not rush blindly forward. I don’t know what comes next and instead of letting that admission crush me like a cockroach on the sidewalk, I am learning to embrace the unknown. It’s really fucking hard. Having faith in the seeds I’ve sown is not easy. While there is so much that I don’t know, there are a few things I audaciously hold true: I know that the professional trajectory I envisioned no longer suits me. I am done trading my time and mental health for money. I know that even though my path isn’t well-lit (yet), I have spent decades cultivating skills and relationships which have the potential to serve my career, whatever that may be. I know that I have diligently labored to raise self-assured, good human beings who will go forth to make their own mark on the world. I know my boys will always love their mama. I know that I want to see the world and embrace the discomfort of being immersed in various cultures, languages, and religions. I know that in the past, taking risks has paid off exponentially. I guess I do know a few things after all. While some self-prophesizing asshole once said, “Hope is not a plan” I disagree. Right now, I only have hope. I hope for a future which is deeply fulfilling and this hope will inspire action when I am ready. I hope that one day (soon, please), I will wake up with clarity and assuredness. I hope that my “Hustling Thirties” and “WTF Forties” will pave the road for my “Fabulous Fifties.” Come to think of it, “No-Fucks Fifties” is more on-brand for me. I hope for an era when I can live the life I want without fear of judgment or failure, where I’ve put in my time and deserve to live unapologetically. In fact, I don’t hope that decade is coming. I know it. |
AuthorKel Cleeve. Archives
April 2024
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