Here we are again, in mid-November. This year has flown by, and been filled with so many good things, and lessons that I've learned. New people have entered my life, and I've been able to reunite with old friends. It's been a whirlwind of new experiences, letting go of the fear of the unknown, and finding myself.
Although I approach each new year with a list of reflection on lessons learned in the past year, I also set goals that I hope to accomplish in the upcoming year. I have found over the last decade that it's a good time to take stock of where I'm at, and where I'd like to be.
I've had goals that have been deeply personal, goals that have involved soul searching, sacrifice, and hard work.
This year, I managed to accomplish all of the goals I set down. I think that's a first for me. It's the first time that I knew halfway through the year the things I set out to do were attainable. It's the first year I had enough faith in myself.
This road hasn't been easy. I started the year with silly things like "I want to lose ten pounds and have dancer abs by next year." I'm here to tell you I lost 15 and do have dancer abs. I wanted to run my first 5k in 2019. I ran two, and ended up walking a third one (Okay, I walk/sprinted two of them, but it was still an accomplishment at 41). I wanted to learn conversational Spanish, so that I could communicate with my family. (I'm not brilliant, but I can make myself understood and translate while someone is talking to me.) I wanted to read 30 books, and I'm sure that it comes as no surprise to anyone that I surpassed that goal early. Every year I have a goal to have adventures, and go someplace I've never been. I'll say that I think meeting my family in Barcelona qualified for that.
The biggest goal I had for 2019 was to publish my book, and have my first author signing. My head is still spinning that not only have I done that, but I have author events set for next year already!
In the early moments of the year, I started listening to a podcast called "Having it All" by Matthew Bivens. He suggested setting a word of the year, and my word was "evolving." I have been evolving to become the woman I have always known deep down that I could be, I just didn't always know how to connect with her. Sometimes fear has held me back.
One of the goals for this year that I'm still struggling with, is to stop waiting for the shoe to drop when everything is going well. Sometimes we just have to let things go well. I can't enjoy everything I'm creating if I'm too busy bracing myself for the next bad thing.
I've learned this year that I will have ebbs and tides. My family lost our matriarch this year, the woman that helped raise each of us, and taught us right from wrong. The flip side of that is that I gained a whole family in Spain. I get to write letters to them, and voice message with them. I get to learn my grandmother's history. I lost, someone, but I gained someone.
I made a promise that for 2019 I would allow myself to have real downtime, days of rest where I don't do anything. That's a goal that is continuing in 2020, as a more specific "one day a month I get a day to do nothing but read."
One of the biggest changes in my life this year is one that surprised me. I have a record breaking relationship right now, of four and a half months. He tends to have a calming effect on me, and be a positive influence. A good example of that is last night (sometime in the middle of the year I decided to start grad school- more about that shortly). I had homework, and was so frustrated with it. He let me vent (and yes my venting was loud). Afterwards, I apologized, because I felt like he came out to see me this weekend, and ended up spending hours beside me while I focused completely on research papers. "Not every day is going to be a trip, or a big adventure. There are going to be days like this, where your focus is on other things. It's okay. I'm okay with that, and I"m proud of you."
He seems to balance out my intensity. Maybe I'll keep him around awhile longer.
I guess if I had to sum up what 2019 taught me, it was to take chances, but keep working hard! I've had to take the chance to allow myself some vulnerability with him. I had to take the chance and publish my book. That's not to say my life is perfect. If it was, why would I need goals. Why would I need reflections. Take the chance to get into grad school.
Okay, so about grad school. About halfway through the year I realized that I was going to hit all of my 2019 goals. I've been wondering about going back to school for a couple years, and wasn't sure. it seemed like the right time to lead myself down that path.
I've been struggling with what my word for 2020 is. I think my word is "building". I want to keep building on what I've started growing.
In 2020, I want to run my first OCR. For those that aren't sure, it's my first obstacle course race. I've improved my running abilities this year, and now want to build upon what I started. I want to sell 100 books. Is that a plausible number? I have no idea, but I have a good marketing plan in place, and supportive people behind me. I want to pull everything out of my grad classes that I can learn. One day a month, I will allow myself a day to rest, and reset. In 2020, I want to keep building on my relationship, and keep allowing myself to show both strength and vulnerability. It took me a long time to realize those two things are part of the same coin.
In 2020, I will take a girl's trip, and I have will plenty of adventures. I'm even willing to see another castle or three. After all, isn't figuring our way out through life a grand adventure?
Showing posts with label writers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writers. Show all posts
Sunday, November 17, 2019
Wednesday, October 23, 2019
'Til I see you again
It's been awhile since I've written here. I've been busy with adventuring, grad school, my volunteer activities and the new boyfriend. I guess you could say I've been busy living my life. Only today, I needed to come here. I needed to write.
I'm not here to talk about any of those, although - there will be some upcoming posts. I swear.
As most of you know, my newest adventure has started. I'm officially a published author. My book "Spoons and Needles - The story of how addiction impacts a family," has finally been released. It's started a roller coaster of emotions.
See, I didn't get here without loss. Many of you know my story. You know how much was lost to me, and what I went through. Writing was an is the only way I know how to heal. It's the only outlet I had.
Let's talk about my book first. "Spoons and Needles" is a fictional book, based on real emotions. It is told from the perspective of an addict who overdoses, an addict in recovery, the daughter of an addict, the father of an addict, and the mother of an addict. It follows their emotions, from anger, disbelief, blaming themselves. These are all real, true emotions that the loved ones of addicts face. It's painful.
It's painful to look at yourself in the mirror and say "Why didn't I know?" It's painful to wonder "What could I have done more?" and the biggest hurt is always "Why didn't they love me enough to not do that?"
My novel reads like a young adult novel. I'm okay with that. I wrote it because that's how I felt those emotions. I felt alone in my hurt. I felt like no one else would understand. I was angry at them, I was angry at myself, and I was angry at God.
I reached out to addicts, and police officers. I talked to parents of addicts. I read everything I could find on addiction and recovery. I read studies. I found out I wasn't alone. In fact, 13,000 children are currently in foster care in the state of Ohio because their parents are addicts. Ohio has the second highest rate of deaths in the nation due to overdoses. In 2017, 4,293 overdoses were reported.
So let me tell you. I don't feel brave. I did what I know how to do, and put my emotions onto paper. All day today, I have heard two things; Gina's laughter, and Dane saying "You got this, sis." and both things have hurt.
Hearing those things have hurt, even though I know they would be proud of me. I would take back all the pride if I could hear those things, those real voices just one more time.
So here I am, a published author, with her first author signing at the Findlay Library on November 9th.
This novel is bittersweet. I know I'll have a couple angels touching my shoulder that day.
I'm not here to talk about any of those, although - there will be some upcoming posts. I swear.
As most of you know, my newest adventure has started. I'm officially a published author. My book "Spoons and Needles - The story of how addiction impacts a family," has finally been released. It's started a roller coaster of emotions.
See, I didn't get here without loss. Many of you know my story. You know how much was lost to me, and what I went through. Writing was an is the only way I know how to heal. It's the only outlet I had.
Let's talk about my book first. "Spoons and Needles" is a fictional book, based on real emotions. It is told from the perspective of an addict who overdoses, an addict in recovery, the daughter of an addict, the father of an addict, and the mother of an addict. It follows their emotions, from anger, disbelief, blaming themselves. These are all real, true emotions that the loved ones of addicts face. It's painful.
It's painful to look at yourself in the mirror and say "Why didn't I know?" It's painful to wonder "What could I have done more?" and the biggest hurt is always "Why didn't they love me enough to not do that?"
My novel reads like a young adult novel. I'm okay with that. I wrote it because that's how I felt those emotions. I felt alone in my hurt. I felt like no one else would understand. I was angry at them, I was angry at myself, and I was angry at God.
I reached out to addicts, and police officers. I talked to parents of addicts. I read everything I could find on addiction and recovery. I read studies. I found out I wasn't alone. In fact, 13,000 children are currently in foster care in the state of Ohio because their parents are addicts. Ohio has the second highest rate of deaths in the nation due to overdoses. In 2017, 4,293 overdoses were reported.
So let me tell you. I don't feel brave. I did what I know how to do, and put my emotions onto paper. All day today, I have heard two things; Gina's laughter, and Dane saying "You got this, sis." and both things have hurt.
Hearing those things have hurt, even though I know they would be proud of me. I would take back all the pride if I could hear those things, those real voices just one more time.
So here I am, a published author, with her first author signing at the Findlay Library on November 9th.
This novel is bittersweet. I know I'll have a couple angels touching my shoulder that day.
Saturday, May 9, 2015
It's a dog eat dog world.
From the time I could pick up a pen, I knew that when I grew up I would be a writer.
I would tell ghost stories to anyone who would listen, write the 12 page reports when an assignment only required three and kept a diary every day.
Now that may seem over exaggerated to some, but there are people who can tell ya, I was driving everyone nuts.Other kids wanted to grow up and be nurses, firemen, doctors, lawyers. Not me, I wanted to tell stories. I'd get that dreamy little look and say, I'm going to be a writer.
In third grade, we had to interview someone who did an interesting job for a paper. I interviewed my great-Uncle Jimmy, who was a judge.
As I sat there with my little pen and notebook, I found out the favorite part of his job, was marrying people. He liked to bring people together, he said.
Years later, I remembered that and asked him to officiate at a wedding.
It was then, I knew what I wanted to do. I knew I'd still tell ghost stories, love stories and write silly historical interest things. In fact have a novel that I'm not brave enough to give to anyone sitting on a flash drive, begging the what ifs.
This is all pertinent to this week.
This week has been a rough one. I won't go into extreme details. My entire life goal has been to tell stories about people, interesting people, what do they do in their day to day? What makes people tick? Why do they have these strange little quirks? What are they learning?
After a couple of particularly rough days with little sleep,a lot of anger about the way something was handled, and frustrations about the casual callousness of the modern world, I went to see Vicki.
As I sat with her, I cried..."Maybe I'm too soft to do my damn job the way the modern age thinks it should be done. Maybe the only way to be good at this job is to lose the compassion you have for people and not be trustworthy."
Vicki hugged me and said, "Your compassion and trustworthiness is what makes people open up to you. don't lose that."
For years I have managed to put on a good tough outer shell with people. I stand there and pretend that I don't care about what's happening, pretend it doesn't bother me. Then I go home and write.
I was told this week to remember I am an observer in the lives of these people, and I do remember that.
I know myself and know I will never be a cut throat type person.
I also remember that I'm a human being. I find myself cheering for people when they do well and crying for them when things are bad. I don't mean to, but aren't we all connected? When one person experiences happiness or tragedy, doesn't it have a ripple effect to the lives of other people?
In the modern age, we all rush to tell as many people as possible what is happening right now. Does that give us time to feel what is happening and truly experience the moment?
What's the line between having a story and still respecting the pain and tragedy people are going through?
Even as an observer, you feel the impact when you see a rescue team cry at something. You feel the emotion when you watch an EMT who talks to patients and their families with an incredible ability to keep everyone around them calm. You feel the impact when you observe these people and know who the knowledgeable person is, who the take charge person is, who the responsible person is.
Watching those teams work together, you can't help but gain an incredible amount of respect for each of them and the way they do their jobs
In that respect, there is trust. A rescue crews first priority is rescue and care. Their first priority is not to make sure the public has information. Which sometimes puts my job at odds with theirs.
What I think though is this, part of my job should be patience. Let them do their job and then I can do mine. I think patience is something that is often forgotten in this world of 24/7 everything.
I read once that reporters are something like 75% less likely than other people to have families, to be involved in communities, to have a regular church to attend.
Are we so busy being observers that we forget to live?
I have joked often that I am the Carrie Bradshaw of the Midwest, with my funky fashions, reflections on love and life and even my blog that has a readership of...oh about ten people. I don't feel so Carrie Bradshaw right now.
At the beginning of school, I had to take an ethics class. An ethics class I will admit to getting an A in, but only because numerous times I argued with the professor about the public's right to know against an individual's right to grieve privately and not have their pain splattered all over.
I always argued that compassion should be a part of our world. Unfortunately, not many felt that way.
My favorite stories are the stories that tell about a persons life and how they overcame struggle. It always has been.
I think more and more about the Peace Corp, but am still not brave enough to start that application. I think I just keep waiting for someone or something to ground me to one place and make that place "home."
At the end of yesterday, I had someone actually tell me they felt I handled my week in a tasteful manner. Those words meant more to me than the person could ever know.
For the rescue crews, I want you to know that while I'm observing, I see you when you're hot and tired and sweaty and sunburnt. Someone sees how you guys keep pushing even though you're exhausted. Someone sees the tears you cry on a bad day and the triumph on a good day.
I was in a place this week where either way I went, something I did was going to make someone mad. The question was, who did I care more if I hurt?
I hope Vicki is right. I hope that compassion and trustworthiness trump callousness.
I would tell ghost stories to anyone who would listen, write the 12 page reports when an assignment only required three and kept a diary every day.
Now that may seem over exaggerated to some, but there are people who can tell ya, I was driving everyone nuts.Other kids wanted to grow up and be nurses, firemen, doctors, lawyers. Not me, I wanted to tell stories. I'd get that dreamy little look and say, I'm going to be a writer.
In third grade, we had to interview someone who did an interesting job for a paper. I interviewed my great-Uncle Jimmy, who was a judge.
As I sat there with my little pen and notebook, I found out the favorite part of his job, was marrying people. He liked to bring people together, he said.
Years later, I remembered that and asked him to officiate at a wedding.
It was then, I knew what I wanted to do. I knew I'd still tell ghost stories, love stories and write silly historical interest things. In fact have a novel that I'm not brave enough to give to anyone sitting on a flash drive, begging the what ifs.
This is all pertinent to this week.
This week has been a rough one. I won't go into extreme details. My entire life goal has been to tell stories about people, interesting people, what do they do in their day to day? What makes people tick? Why do they have these strange little quirks? What are they learning?
After a couple of particularly rough days with little sleep,a lot of anger about the way something was handled, and frustrations about the casual callousness of the modern world, I went to see Vicki.
As I sat with her, I cried..."Maybe I'm too soft to do my damn job the way the modern age thinks it should be done. Maybe the only way to be good at this job is to lose the compassion you have for people and not be trustworthy."
Vicki hugged me and said, "Your compassion and trustworthiness is what makes people open up to you. don't lose that."
For years I have managed to put on a good tough outer shell with people. I stand there and pretend that I don't care about what's happening, pretend it doesn't bother me. Then I go home and write.
I was told this week to remember I am an observer in the lives of these people, and I do remember that.
I know myself and know I will never be a cut throat type person.
I also remember that I'm a human being. I find myself cheering for people when they do well and crying for them when things are bad. I don't mean to, but aren't we all connected? When one person experiences happiness or tragedy, doesn't it have a ripple effect to the lives of other people?
In the modern age, we all rush to tell as many people as possible what is happening right now. Does that give us time to feel what is happening and truly experience the moment?
What's the line between having a story and still respecting the pain and tragedy people are going through?
Even as an observer, you feel the impact when you see a rescue team cry at something. You feel the emotion when you watch an EMT who talks to patients and their families with an incredible ability to keep everyone around them calm. You feel the impact when you observe these people and know who the knowledgeable person is, who the take charge person is, who the responsible person is.
Watching those teams work together, you can't help but gain an incredible amount of respect for each of them and the way they do their jobs
In that respect, there is trust. A rescue crews first priority is rescue and care. Their first priority is not to make sure the public has information. Which sometimes puts my job at odds with theirs.
What I think though is this, part of my job should be patience. Let them do their job and then I can do mine. I think patience is something that is often forgotten in this world of 24/7 everything.
I read once that reporters are something like 75% less likely than other people to have families, to be involved in communities, to have a regular church to attend.
Are we so busy being observers that we forget to live?
I have joked often that I am the Carrie Bradshaw of the Midwest, with my funky fashions, reflections on love and life and even my blog that has a readership of...oh about ten people. I don't feel so Carrie Bradshaw right now.
At the beginning of school, I had to take an ethics class. An ethics class I will admit to getting an A in, but only because numerous times I argued with the professor about the public's right to know against an individual's right to grieve privately and not have their pain splattered all over.
I always argued that compassion should be a part of our world. Unfortunately, not many felt that way.
My favorite stories are the stories that tell about a persons life and how they overcame struggle. It always has been.
I think more and more about the Peace Corp, but am still not brave enough to start that application. I think I just keep waiting for someone or something to ground me to one place and make that place "home."
At the end of yesterday, I had someone actually tell me they felt I handled my week in a tasteful manner. Those words meant more to me than the person could ever know.
For the rescue crews, I want you to know that while I'm observing, I see you when you're hot and tired and sweaty and sunburnt. Someone sees how you guys keep pushing even though you're exhausted. Someone sees the tears you cry on a bad day and the triumph on a good day.
I was in a place this week where either way I went, something I did was going to make someone mad. The question was, who did I care more if I hurt?
I hope Vicki is right. I hope that compassion and trustworthiness trump callousness.
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