Tag: sarah

Getting things done: how I take notes + snapshots of my moleskine + my nerdy highlighter system

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

Lots of folks have emailed me to ask me how I get everything done and what systems I have in place to keep myself motivated, on track, and organized. I love watching how other people work and learning what they do to stay organized–so I thought I’d share a behind-the-scenes peek into some of my systems. Here’s what I do when I start my day.

I have a lot of various systems and half-systems that work perfectly for me; a combination of analog and digital tools and, of course, several notebooks. I almost always start the day with a fresh list (on a real piece of paper) because it’s a way to clear my mind and it’s the habit that gets me into the day. During highly productive consecutive days where I’m focused on just a few things (a 3-day stretch of writing, or a week focused on creating a book), I’ll often use the same list for the whole week.

I’m well versed in David Allen’s Getting Things Done and the Action Method by Scott Belsky, and Stephen Covey’s urgent/important matrix, and I implement a bit of each across various projects (and type of work) that I’m involved in.

Here’s a quick behind-the-scenes look at how I take notes–using a fairly simple analog notebook (a moleskine) and 2-color highlighter system.

Making a list, the old fashioned way:

In the morning, after I wake up and have coffee (and do some reading or stretching), I open a fresh page in my moleskine. Based loosely in categories (such as errands, writer’s workshop, blog posts, guest posts, bills, etc), I’ll list out the things on my mind that I want to work on:

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Step 2: Adding a yellow highlighter (prioritizing).

The next step is pretty simple, but it keeps me focused. I take out my yellow highlighter and look back through the list and highlight the things that are the most important (or urgent) for me. Maybe I’ve got a big deadline, maybe I just got off a plane and I really, really want to clean up and settle back into my home, or maybe I’ve been itching to read a few books that I haven’t made time for lately. Whatever it is that’s the most important, I highlight. It’s a variation on writing a to-do list with only the three most important items, but it’s useful for me to add this level of clarity.

Highliter system--3-spread

Step 3: Highlight what you have done or accomplished in blue (reflection + tracking).

As I work through my ideas, projects, and tasks, I highlight what I did do in blue throughout the day. If something pulls me out or off of this list unexpectedly (an hour long call with my mom, an unexpected visit from the plumber, needing to fix my website if it goes down), I try to make sure to add this on and write it down to account for what I’ve spent time on.

At the end of the day, I can quickly see whether or not I was able to stay focused on the things I felt were most important. A successful day is one in which I can cross off all of those yellow highlights–that’s a slam-dunk day.

I rarely get everything crossed off. (That’s pretty normal).

Some days I’ve spent the entire day working and it feels like I’m making no progress on my goals. When I end the day, I like to recap quickly by looking at my notes and remembering what I did do (or noting if I’ve had a completely off or strange day), and then assess whether or not I made progress on the big things I’ve been wanting to work on.

Throughout the week, this system also serves as useful feedback. If I’ve had an item on the list for five or six days in a row and I’m still not making progress on it, I know that I need to adjust my strategy and spend more time focused on that piece. Maybe something’s holding me back (mentally, emotionally, logistically, structurally), or maybe I need to allocate more time (and energy) to the project than I anticipate.

Other systems I love + making sure it’s not all about “productivity.”

I love lots of systems–from David Allen’s Getting Things Done to Scott Belsky’s Action Method. Yesterday I saw Danielle LaPorte’s Entrepreneurial Time Management post which made me very excited (it’s similar to what I do, but mine isn’t defined as clearly as this–so this makes me want to up my game), and Amber Rae’s post in Fast Company about scheduling your days around your peak energy is GREAT. As always, the insanely organized Jenny Blake has an entire toolkit that I love drooling over and perusing to discover new things.

Lately I’ve been adding a short box to the upper-right corner of my page, asking myself (based on Danielle LaPorte’s Desire Map program) how I want to feel throughout the day. I’ll jot down the notes, something like: “Less stressed out, excited, productive, peaceful.” Writing them down and having them there to look at helps me remember what the point of it all is–not to crank through yet another list, but rather, to work on things (and in ways) that make me feel the way I want to feel.

But what else goes in this notebook?

Ahhh, great question. It’s a catch-all notebook that I use to take notes during meetings, calls, reflection periods, and on books that I am reading (or want to write). I use up 5-15 pages a day between notes and lists, and each notebook can last me for a month or several months, depending on how much writing and sketching I’m doing.

I have a two-color pen system that I (loosely) follow. Black are my ramblings, personal notes and lists; blue are my reading notes or specific program notes. If I’m reading a book and jotting down notes, out comes the blue pen. If I’m on a tele-call or taking a class; again with the blue pen. That way, I go back and can flip through and find my notes fairly easily.

A final note on systems and organization:

Of course, there’s a lot more than just a list and a highlighter–I use calendars, visioning days, big maps, plans, online notes, Evernote, Google Docs, and many other tools. More on that later. For now:

“The only system you need is the system that works” – tweet!

The ultimate metric for me, however, is whether or not I’m getting what I want. “The only system you need is the system that works” is one of my key phrases for evaluating–you don’t need to adopt any new systems or strategies unless you want to make a specific change. You don’t need to fix what’s not broken! If you’re not saving any money and want to save more, change the system (the one you’re using isn’t working). If you like the outcome you’re getting, however, you don’t necessarily need to switch things up, unless you’re up for an experiment.

The only system you need–is the one that works for you.

What other tips and tricks would you like to know about? I’m happy to share tons of my how-to’s and systems, and I hope to share a lot more of these in the near future. What works for you? What do you want to know more about?

 

Is It Too Late?

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

“For what it’s worth, it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”

– Benjamin Button

Start where you are.

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

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Where are you?

Just a few weeks ago: I’m sitting on the floor of an empty studio, barefoot, with not a piece of furniture in it. Boxes line the hallways and two giant moving trucks are parked out in the street. Every so often our dogs bark, whining about being pent up in the back. I’m helping my Dad move two states away, and the entire house has been up-ended. We’re sleeping on the carpet floor for two nights without beds. I have a radio interview scheduled and I’ve hidden in the bathroom to talk from my laptop to make this happen because their are painters next door.

Right now, we’re in limbo.

I ask if we can not use Skype video–as video is probably not the best medium at the moment, although I’m happy to talk — and right at the beginning, our interview accidentally goes to video. I laugh, and I tell my story: “Well, you caught me! I’m sitting on a floor right now, chatting at you while all the furniture is being taken out of my house … mind if we switch to audio only? Otherwise you’ll have me sitting on a floor in my yoga pants!” 

Right now, right here.

Let’s stop imagining the pretend perfect circumstances that might have maybe led to the possibility of your wildest dreams, and get real about the fact they haven’t happened yet. You are here. You are what you are.

Start where you are. Right here. Right now.

This is where the magic happens.

When you’re tired, worn out, flabbergasted, stressed out. You get up, you park yourself in the corner of the room, you duct-tape fabric ver the window to stop the glare, you polish your lips and you record that video interview anyways, even if you think the whole world behind you is falling apart. Do it in style. Make it happen.

Often all the things that aren’t right aren’t really problems–they are just crutches. “Well, I’ll do it once I have furniture in my house again. I’ll do it when I’m not so tired. I’ll do it when I’m feeling better. I’ll do it …”

Nope, sorry. This is it. Today.

I know very few stories of people who got set up in ideal circumstances and then made the magic happen. Rather, it’s about making the magic happen in any circumstance. (That’s true magic, right there).

Because if you can’t make it happen NOW… when will you?

Start where you are.

sarah signature

Bravery

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

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Bravery.

Bravery is showing up.

Bravery is saying what you believe in. Out loud. To the people who need to hear it. Even if that person is you. 

It’s having honest communication with your self, your teams, your communities.

Bravery is saying no when you know you need to. It’s saying no to the wrong things so that you can say yes to the right things.

Bravery is having the courage to quit when you know you’re on the wrong track, even if hundreds of thousands of people are headed in one direction. It’s knowing when the path you are on isn’t the one for you. It’s taking that scary leap, swimming upstream, or wandering down unfamiliar trails.

Bravery isn’t fun, macho, or full of gusto. It’s not always done in one big sweep.

Bravery is all the heroes in Boston, visible and invisible, local and global. 

Bravery is having the courage to stand out on social media and remind people to collect the dots, not connect them too early.

Bravery is saying something different and showing empathy for our peers around the world. It’s not jumping to conclusions too quickly. It’s remembering what we stand for and believing in the best of us.

Sometimes bravery is remarkable, unfathomable courage by the youngest and oldest of human souls who rush forward to help everyone and put their lives on the line to save others. The runners in Boston who kept running to the hospital to donate blood were Remarkable. Beautiful. Stunning. Incredible.

Other times bravery is calm, methodical. Sometimes it looks quite peaceful. Sometimes it’s shaking off the noise and clamor and distraction and realizing with simple focus that your next steps require you to take those steps and walking forward is the best and happiest way forward.

Bravery might not be visible to anyone else at the time that you’re being brave. Bravery might be broadcast on national television (but that’s not the point).

It’s showing up, little by little. 

It’s putting yourself out there, even if “out there” is pushing past your own mental barriers.

It’s deciding that now is a better time than later.

Bravery is bravery, even if it doesn’t look that remarkable to anyone else. You are still brave.

It’s continuing to press on, even when your stomach drops in fear, your hands shake in nerves, and you collect sweat in your armpits faster than fog droplets in a San Francisco “summer” day. It’s taking a step forward in the midst of whirlwind gusts of wind and shouting into the windstorm, I’ve got this, dammit! I’m still going to do it! I have to! 

My soul tells me I have to do this, and I have to listen.

Start small. (It’s okay to start with a bang, too, but small is still very brave).

Watch for the mental overwhelm, and give yourself kindness and space to freak the heck out (although maybe not publicly just yet).

Be very kind to yourself.

And also, remember,

in your quest for bravery:

In order to do something new, you often have to let go of something old.

The trouble with starting something is that it requires a different behavior than what you did before.

We are creatures of habit, yes, but we are also creatures of continuous change.

Spring is the perfect time for creative bursting, for unfolding, for the skin-shedding, cocoon-bursting metamorphosis that transforms you towards your next self.

The world is waiting for you to grow into the next version of you. 

Bravery doesn’t always feel like bravery.

It can feel like whirl-wind, mind-bending, all-changing upset, filled with unpredictable whims and whammies, stomach upset and nervous twitters, body aches, starts and stops, trial and error, and a whole lot of messy.

Sometimes bravery feels nauseating, overwhelming, scary, and downright hard.

It’s still brave.

 

A little insider’s story–my story:

When I opened the doors and launched my writing class last week, I was terrified. This was my brain:

What if I wasn’t ready? What if no one showed up? What if nothing worked? What if this dream of mine, that I’ve been working and crafting and creating for so many months past, resulting in a big giant internet wall of silence? 

Intellectually, I know that I can do this. I’ve been ready to do this for years. I’ve taught workshop after workshop and coached folks for years. I have a chart on my wall of the things I’m leaning towards this year, and the one big thing not lined up for the longest time was creating a course for writers. I can’t confess to understanding all of the reasons that I’ve avoided doing it, but I can speculate.

It means so much to me.

I knew deep down that I would do it even if only one person showed up. I would do it even if no one paid me the first time, and I would keep honing my chops and my offerings until I found the right fit.

That still doesn’t mean I’m not incredibly terrified. I get scared! Scared SHITLESS. My brain, many weeks ago:

What if no one shows up? What if I’m a terrible teacher? What if I can’t get it all done? What if it doesn’t work? WHAT IF NOT ONE PERSON SHOWS UP? What it I can’t do it on top of the work I’m already doing? What if this isn’t what I’m meant to do? WHAT IF, WHAT IF, WHAT IF EVERYTHING???

WHAT IF IT’S ALL JUST WRONG?

So scream the fear-monster voices in my head.

Yes. They are there. I have them. 

When you get close to your dreams, fear can rage like a giant monster. Every thing that could go wrong seems to loom large. The website broke. I stayed up all night, nervous about prepping the materials. Funky characters showed up across my website. More things went wrong. Before launching the program, I waited for months. I studied stacks and stacks of books, compressing more knowledge into the course documents in order to make it even better. I stalled. And then stalled some more. I thought about not doing it at all. I almost said to myself, “Nah, one wants this. It’s not worth trying.” 

And then someone thanked me. People went out of their way to reach out and tell me how excited they were. 

Several more people signed up. The class started filling up before I had all my ducks lined up and my posts ready to go. (I have so much more promotion I’m planning on!)

In the form: “Yes. I’ve been waiting for this. This is exactly the class I want.” and “I’m so excited I cannot WAIT until the 29th!”

Holy shit. I’m so excited. And thankful. This is going to be good.

Today, with the class more than half full already, I could laugh away those fears and pretend with a big shiny smile that everything is all and well, but it’s not the truth. I’m scared, too. The fear monsters hit everyone. I don’t know all the answers. But I do love writing!

I’ve learned, slowly, over and over again, that the scariest part of doing anything is not doing it and wallowing in thought. 

And wrapping your thoughts around all those fears? That’s a scary space.

Be brave. Get started.

The best way to do anything is to do it. If you’re afraid of starting, make it smaller and simpler. Want to have a conversation with your boss about something you’re frustrated about? Don’t write a big report or delay on it. Write a quick, simple email that says: “I’ve got a couple of items I’d really like to talk to you about–including a couple of frustrations I’d like to work through. When’s the best time to chat, and is there a format that’s easiest for you?” Do it as soon as you know that you have to have this conversation. Stop by and say what you think. Look for solutions.

And be brave. I know it’s terrifying, I know it’s not easy, and I go through it all the time.

Be brave.

With big love this week,

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Just One

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

What would just one of something look like?

Not a diversity of items, but a simplicity of things. A specificity, a selection, and a deliberate choice between several?

Not three workout programs, but just one workout program.
Not seven yoga mats or towels, but just one.
Not eight new dresses or blouses, but just one. Your favorite one.
Not two sets of bedding, but just one.
Not four new books, but just one.
Not three bedrooms, but just one bedroom.
Not two cars, but just one car.
Instead of two sets of tablewear, just one set.
Instead of eight dreams, just one dream to work on.

Sometimes I get caught in the trap of needing more. I have a brown pair of boots, but now I need a black one. I have a black pair, but now I need a tan one. And I need a pair of rain boots. Four pairs of boots? Do I need four pairs of boots?

What would just one look like?

[Or none at all?]

You are / whatever you say / you are.

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

Perhaps Eminen had it right when he said, “I am / whatever you say / I am.” We are what we say we are. YOU are what you say you are. (Or maybe he’s completely wrong, because he’s suggesting that his identity is whatever other people say he is – so why argue with others, and just accept your identity as defined by others?) For the purposes of this post, I can’t get this idea out of my head: that I am whatever I say I am. And what we say about ourselves matters.

Sometimes our cognitive frameworks (put simply: our minds), get in the way of who we really are.

I’ll use running as a short example. For a long time, I said to myself “I want to be a runner” — I jogged and I huffed and I puffed, and I iced my knees and went back to swimming and looked longingly at the smooth runners pounding the pavement throughout San Francisco and gliding easily up and down the hills through the Presidio.  I dabbled in running, I took long breaks, and I never got past the “jogging” phase. For a while.

Then, somehow, I started running more and I would find myself making time for 6 and 8 mile runs and actually liking them. By all standards, I was a “runner.”  And yet when people would ask me if I was a runner, I would brush the thought aside, quickly dismissing it by saying:  “I’m not a runner … I’m training to be, but I’m not a runner.” In some regards, adopting new personal identities takes as much effort and training in the mind as it does physical training.

It takes a lot of time before we acknowledge within ourselves that we are what we do.

How long do we have to train before we become ourselves?

In July, I finished my first half marathon, and yet for some reason I still I didn’t picture myself as a runner.  Despite having run 13.1 miles through the hills of San Francisco, I still declined to acknowledge my status as a “runner.” Somehow in my brain, I couldn’t put “me” and “”runner” together in the same schema.

My Dad, once a great runner, finally had to correct me:

He said, “you know Sarah, you ran a half marathon.”

“I think you can call yourself a runner now.”

Our minds can be slow to accept the changes that happen so readily at our fingertips. Sometimes I still feel like the nervous, awkward girl from my teens and I wonder if I’m really capable of the vast amounts of responsibility and increasing autonomy in front of me. I won’t lie: sometimes I’m scared shitless by what there is ahead of me. I feel like my dreams are still “out there,” — and it takes time to switch my brain over to the idea that somehow already I’ve attained some of my dreams, and that life — and my goals — are expanding out in front of me. And that, through careful, repeated, steady progress, I can, and will, become better than I am today.

To what extent do we limit what we’re capable of simply by not believing in our own abilities? On several occasions, I’ve surprised myself in doing better than I thought I was capable of. I didn’t believe I could finish six miles at the end of a triathlon – and then I did it. I didn’t think I could run 13 miles — and then I did it.

The question, then, is: what are we capable of? More importantly, what are we capable of beyond what we imagine we can do? What sorts of things can we do, if we actually allow ourselves the possibilities to dream? It wasn’t that I couldn’t do it — it was that I thought I couldn’t do it. There’s a distinct difference – and to sell yourself short of your abilities by not believing in yourself is a terrible waste.

What are you not doing simply because you think you can’t do it?

Excellence rarely exceeds expectations, my coach always taught me. By the time you’ve attained a goal, your mind will be seeking new ventures and tasks to tackle. You won’t realize how quickly you’re growing until you’ve already surpassed some of your earlier expectations. Despite proving to myself that I was now capable of running further and further distances, I kept pushing the boundaries of a “runner identity” further from my reach, not reconciling this state of being with who I was becoming. I was limiting myself by dreaming too small.

Three months later, I have another confession to make: Much like I never considered myself a runner, I’ve also never considered myself a writer. I didn’t realize that I wanted to be a writer even after I left school and (somewhat sheepishly, I must admit) — I found that I missed writing papers. I wrote ridiculously long emails to friends and drafted papers about topics that had no audiences. I wrote aimlessly in notebooks and spiral bounds and in the margins of books. Post-it note littered the pages of my magazines with ideas about how I would respond to the authors. I had anonymous conversations with myself, in my head, and imagined ideas for possible stories and fiction books. On long drives, runs, swims, and bus rides, I found myself crafting stories and books in my head.

I dreamed about writing books and short stories, but was too busy with my “work” and “career” to actually focus on writing. Somehow, I started a blog (it starts with) in order to let myself keep writing. My friends in the design world (and I love design, by the way) think I’m crazy for wanting to write so much. It was a bit aimless, I’ll admit, but the pull and tug to keep writing was there. Somehow, I was marching along a path that I knew I had to do. A year or two after graduate school, I found myself in a long conversation with a good friend and mentor, and I said: you know, I think I finally know what I want to be when I grow up:

I want to be a writer.

She looked at me with a funny look on her face:

You ARE a writer, she said. And again, I found myself subject to the same “closed-mind” problem as before.

How much of who we are is limited by the way we think about ourselves? Are we much more capable that we admit, or even dare to dream? How long does it take – and how many examples does it take – to become convinced that we are, in fact, what we do?

Who are you? Who do you want to be? And who is it that you say you are? This is important. Are you what others say you are? Or are you what you say you are?  More importantly — do you dream big and admit your capabilities to yourself?

Today, it is with pride that I stand up and admit – to me (and to you): I don’t want to be a writer someday.  I AM a writer. And I freaking love it.

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What’s your biggest, scariest dream? How would you describe yourself , if no one were really paying attention? Leave your answer in the comments below.

Why I Write

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

Someone asked me recently why I write, and I thought to myself, it’s because I must write. My brain knows that I have to do it. I can’t possibly imagine myself not writing. The question was silly, so it seemed. But then I woke up in the middle of the night, thinking to myself: I write because I have to. I write, because I need to.  And I realized that I ask other people all the time why they do what they do, what motivates them, and how they achieve their goals. And thus, in response to that same question I always ask others: this is why I write.

Asking me not to write is like asking me not to think. I write, because it helps me understand the world. It lets me put thoughts down in a place outside of my head, look at them, wonder about them, and push them further. I write, because it’s how I think.

I write, because I love stories. I am continually inspired by the people around me, and know that everyone has more experience and stories to share than could ever be recorded. I love hearing what people have to say, and learning from the amazing adventures of people around me.

I love ghost-writing. I like being able to help someone put ideas into word, to craft their mission statement, to fulfill their potential.  I have worked on many occasions as a ghost-writer for students and international people who have learned English as a second language. I know that for them, they must be much more articulate in their native tongue; I like being able to help translate these ideas and visions into print. I write, not because other people don’t have ideas, but precisely because they DO have ideas. If I can help capture your spirit, your ideas, and your thoughts in the tangible, printed form, I can think of no better gift to give you.

I write, because I love people. I am fascinated and star-struck by the wonderful, creative, talented, motivated, exceptional people around me. I can’t get enough of you. I think of life as the greatest blessing, and I love learning from other people.  When I get too busy, too full of myself, when I feel depressed, or when I get distracted: the people around me gently re-direct me towards a better being, they help me figure things out, they keep me grounded, they lift my spirits. I write about other people, and this act keeps me grounded by granting me a wider frame of perspective.

The interviews that I do are by far one my favorite things to do. I love talking to new people, listening to their stories and travels, and learning something new. You know the feeling you get when you walk away from a store, just having purchased something? With a delicious new gadget in hand, wrapped up in tissue paper and placed carefully into a shopping bag, ready for your eager consumption? The shopper’s high is the best metaphor I can find to describe what happens to me when I walk away from an interview. I’m happy. There are other forms of work that tire me out and leave me exhausted: listening to stories energizes me.

I write, because writing helps me to remember things. Writing lets me put down into a more permanent state the fleeting emotions and whims of each stage of my life. When I look back on my writing, I can dive back into the feeling of being twelve and awkward, fifteen with teenage angst, seventeen and leaving my family for a small college in Ohio, twenty-one and beginning graduate school in the biggest city I’d ever lived in, and twenty-four and headed home to California again. When I go back and look at my scribblings from my younger years, and the diaries of my middle-school, high-school, college, and even last year’s writing, I can see how I’ve changed, grown, and become different. Sometimes I don’t like to look back at my old writings: my memories of the harder times are tough to look at. At the same time, having the drafts, the memories, and the experiences are each lessons I can learn from, despite how embarrassing or hard it is to look back on things past (there even posts from last year I can’t believe I wrote!).

I write, because I want to be a better person. There’s nothing harder than looking at yourself squarely in the metaphysical mirror and really asking yourself what you want to be, who you are, and why you do what you do. I write to explore myself and to figure out what I want and who I am.

I write, because I love ideas. Writing helps me think. I love thinking about new ideas, about shifting our imaginations towards different ways of conceptualizing the way we work, why we do what we do, and the physical, tangible places and spaces we live in. (Oh that’s right: my day job, in architecture / urbanism / design). I love capturing a thought or an idea into an “ah-HA!” memo to myself, even if the memo becomes an impossible-to-read post-it note that sits unreadable next to my bed, because I was too tired to turn the light on in the middle of the night and the markings on said post-it end up being completely illegible.

I write because if I don’t, I can’t sleep at night. I often wake up in the middle of the night thinking of new ideas, stories, and things to share. My family is all-too-familiar with my 3AM emails and text messages (thank goodness for “silent” on cell phones).  I sometimes sit up for hours at night, reading by myself, mulling over new ideas.  If I don’t write it down, I’d be up all night, churning, wondering and thinking.

I write, because writing well is a great form of listening. If I’ve done my research and looked carefully and critically someone else’s work, the act of responding, through writing or listening, means that you’ve heard someone else’s ideas.  By meditating over the concepts and presentations of others, you can push yourself and others to develop new connections, possibilities and ideas. Much of the writing I do is not possible without the help and inspiration of others.

I write, because I have things to say and ideas to share. We are meant to be connected to each other, and writing, speaking, talking, laughing and drawing are some of the ways in which we share ideas. I love sharing my ideas and my thinking. And I hope that you, readers, find some use in what I say and why I do what I do.

A facebook addict’s confession

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

I have a confession to make:

Sometimes I think I am addicted to the internet.

And more importantly, addicted to the Facebook.  You know the one. You’ve probably seen the site once or twice.  It’s shiny and it’s blue and all your friends are on it? Yeah, that one.

A month ago, I had a friend tell me that I was addicted to Facebook, and I quickly denied it. I brushed it off, telling her that being addicted was “impossible.” Then I walked straight by her front door and said, “mind if I use your computer real quick?” And there I was, inside someone else’s house, checking my Facebook and ignoring the world around me.  I’m not sure I even stopped to see her roll her eyes at me — I was glued to the screen.

It gets worse. For two weeks, I would wake up in the middle of the night (usually around 2 or 3 AM), panicked that I had forgotten to reply to a certain email or a particular threaded comment on Facebook. You may be laughing, but I was dead serious.  I’d get out of bed, open up my computer, check the update, reply to a few emails, and then close the laptop and go back to bed.

I’m not addicted, I told myself.

I’m just going to move my laptop to my nightstand because it looks better there. And then I don’t have to get out of bed to turn on my computer.

And then the Facebook and endless swirls of internet browsing and other social networking tools crept into my work life. I added a google gadget to my homepage so I could “sneak a peak” here and there on my work breaks. I caved and started going to the full site to check out photos while I was at work (man I love those photos!).

It got so bad, I would switch over to the internet between saving massive files because I figured those 2 minutes for saving were lost time anyways.  Instead of working better, I found myself working longer, later hours, trying to get everything done. When I finally did leave the office, I found that I was thinking in 20 word phrases when I was out supposed to be enjoying the real world. My mind frame on Baker Beach wasn’t about the wind and the sand sticking to my arms, instead, I was thinking, Hey, when I get home, I’ll post: “Sunny glorious day at the beach with @friend and @acquaintence, could this day get any better!?” My status-centric thoughts began to invade the present moment; excuse me, I have to ignore what you’re saying because I’m in the middle of taking the perfect picture to upload to Facebook.

I’ve made so many Facebook posts, I’m sure all of my friends have hidden me by now. I’m that terrible person who clogs up your news feed and changes their profile picture incessantly. If I have any friends left, they are either my family, my poor grandmother who doesn’t know what a “news feed” is or how to find “those picture albums!” or other people, like me, addicted, devoted, and stuck. And perhaps a few creeps who know far more about me than they should.

Then disaster struck: my computer broke. I got the ominous quiver of a screen going black, and then the screen gave out. I could no longer see anything on the computer. I tapped on the screen a few times. Hello? Is anyone there? I looked up from the screen, stretched my cramped back, and realized it was after midnight and I ought to be in bed. I blinked a few times. Now what am I supposed to do?

It was like going cold turkey. Jumping into a bucket of ice water, if you will. I got shakes and quakes and all that’s associated with the withdrawal from anything that you crave and are addicted to. My mind started to think obsessively in status-related updates. Three sleepless nights ensued. If that’s not an addiction, I’m not sure what is.

And then I broke free. I got home after a week of being computer-free (well, computer-free at home; I still have a computer at work). I made dinner, wrote on a REAL notebook with an ACTUAL pen a few drafts for future posts. I sat and read a magazine outside and found myself occupied by consecutive, related thoughts for over three hours. The broken blood vessel in my eye finally healed because I was no longer staring at a screen continuously all day and into the wee hours of the morning. I could read books and sit still for longer than 15 minutes.

Distracting. That’s how my Facebook-centric life was.

The short (albeit unanticipated) break from my computer and social networking addiction gave me a chance to breathe — and to reflect.  Now I’m wondering why: why is an internet post to a random audience of two or three hundred people (most of who really just don’t care) so important to me?  Am I telling myself, hey, look how important I am? Check ME out because I’m having FUN? I certainly don’t rant and rave about the trivialities about my life: you won’t find me bemoaning breakups or glorifying parties or spending (too much) time talking about work (Hey guys, talked to the civil engineer for an hour today and we really nailed that cobble energy dissipater detail…that concrete is going to be washed, man, and the pH will be soooooo neutral). In fact, most of what I post on Facebook is just a tiny sliver of my actual life: I’m much more boring at work, sitting behind a desk (or as it happens today, in a coffee shop, writing) to warrant writing any post about my regular daily life.

Saturday morning? Slept in, and it was glorious. Didn’t you want to know?

P.S. My shirt is purple.

The truth is, if I posted about my actual life — and not just the happy-wonderful facebook-fantasty life that shines through on my rainbow-colored posts — I would bore even myself some times. I work. I sit around. I run a lot. I eat food. Some of it’s good, and some of it’s bad. I try pretty hard to eat the good stuff. Which brings me to my first post-obsession observation: Most of what I say on Facebook is irrelevant.

My second observation was that anything in excess can be destructive. And those Twitter feeds, Gmail popups, Facebook status updates, and continuously updating internet content can quickly become overwhelming and time consuming. For me, the balance was off: I was spending far too much time on the internet. My work was suffering, my writing was suffering, and I couldn’t focus on the tasks at hand because of my compulsion to be on the computer.

Third: living life in public is interesting — and I’m not convinced it’s the healthiest thing for all of us to do.  Living online — and putting information about ourselves online, shared with thousands of people — can be highly damaging if we don’t take some efforts to manage our public personas and understand how personal branding and networking can (positively and negatively) affect us. One only need to look at the results of the Live in Public movie experiment to see how quickly and drastically life online can change.  We’re quickly – and dangerously – learning lessons of personal branding, social networking, and making mistakes in the virtual public realm. Did you hear about the guy who married two women and his second wife posted it on Facebook? Whoops.

Living online should not replace living real life. And it shouldn’t distract you from real life, either.  There are wonderful, amazing benefits to having social networks, sharing information, and being a part of multiple online communities. But when life behind a computer screen inside a room replaces life outside in the world, you’ve got to wonder if the swap-out is a good trade.

But man, is it fun. And this post is not designed to de-rail the wonders of social networking: far from it, in fact. The Facebook is wonderful for many reasons (as is email, Twitter, Linked In, and many other social networking applications).  You won’t see me deactivating any time soon. I love staying in touch with friends, getting updates, hearing about new events, and seeing the beautiful, prolific photo albums of my friends on their travels. I’ll continue to be a Facebook fan. Just not an addict. Because I’d rather be spending time hanging out with you (OMG, IRL?) in person. After, of course, I post this article. On Facebook.

Give Yourself A Chance To Get Good

Posted on by Sarah K Peck

For the most part, I don’t like doing things that I’m not good at.

I prefer doing things I’m good at. Especially as I get older, I find I dislike being “bad” at something. The more expertise I gain in my respective fields, the more I find I enjoy — and gravitate towards — things that I’m already good at.

When we were children, we spent ample amounts of time being frustrated, learning and figuring out new things. We did it every day, a hundred times a day, sometimes even a hundred times a minute.

On a single day in Kindergarden, we learned how to tie our shoes, comb our hair, dress ourselves, how to share and play with others (sometimes not so well), what splinters were, whether landing from a big jump was painful or thrilling, how to make daisy chains, what paint is, what happens when put stuff in our noses, and how to stand in a line to get lunch. The teacher had activities for us planned every fifteen minutes and our brains were always expanding, never saturated.

As a result, we were tired — we conked out for nap time twice a day and consumed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and goldfish and apple juice. We were constantly running around, wondering why on earth adults were so tediously repeating to us that we ought to “slow down!” (Of course, as every five-year-old knows, why slow down if I can get there rightnow?)

And then, somehow, we became adults. We made it through the awkward-bobbly teenage angst years and even through college and asserted our independence, autonomy, and maturation through increased levels of responsibility, decision making, and ability. I have a general understanding of what a 401K is and why I need it; I believe in the time value of money through compounded interest; I hope to make informed decisions when voting in a democracy; I show up to work on time; I’ve made a life list and learned how to say no; I understand the value of saving for a rainy day, and I am, to every five-year-old, a boring adult.

Now what? Am I done learning?  I like to think that somewhere inside of every adult still lies our inner five-year-old, the monkey-ish person who bounces in meetings and runs in the halls instead of walks, who says what they think, and asks the most obvious (and the most interesting) questions about how the world works, and why it works the way it does.

I like to look back at my 5-year-old self and take a cue from the crazy girl running around on the playground and try to remember what it felt like to be at that pace of learning, growing, exploring, and being frustrated. When I get frustrated with learning new things, especially if I shy away because it’s hard or difficult — or i’m not yet any good at it — I think about how i would measure up to my 5-year-old self.

Quite frankly, she would probably kick my ass at her skill-acquiring ability. Granted, the complexity of the skills we learn as adults may not be comparable to our abilities as a kindergardener. But there are still lessons:

  • The first time trying something new is usually filled with effort, struggle, energy, and a low satisfaction-to-energy ratio. Why fall on your face 20 times trying to do handstands if you’ve already perfected sitting in a chair comfortably?  If, however, you only did what you were good at, then you would be done learning. Imagine, then: nope, I’m not going to try that because it’s something new. Can’t do it, sorry.
  • In work, it can take slow, dedicated, frustratingly long amounts of time to get good at something. At times, I’ve contemplated leaving my job because of the day in and day out exhaustion-frustration of tasks being difficult and new. But what holds me to my desk is the fact that I’m learning, no matter how discouraging it can be — and that staying at home, or doing something I already know how to do will not yield the same satisfaction or sense of accomplishment when I tackle, acquire and absorb new skills, techniques and knowledge.
  • The downside is that you can’t always tell how long it will take to “get good” at something. You don’t remember how long it took you to learn how to tie your shoes — now you just know how to do it.  And you do it automatically. And you’re probably pretty glad you practiced every day of that month in kindergarten, because the more you practiced, the more quickly you learned the skill.  You won’t be good at something for a while — not until you put in effort, energy and perseverance.
  • It’s inherently humbling to be in an entry-level job: the tasks vary from ridiculously easy to frustrating, over your head, and complicated. Sometimes the most difficult challenge of new tasks is figuring out how to figure them out: learning how to learn. Each day I walk into the office prepared to be surprised, to learn, to explore, research and discover. I’m never “done learning.”

And sometimes, it takes a long time to get good at something. It’s been said that it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something.  Given that a year is (roughly) 2000 work hours, then figure it takes a least five years to become good at something. That’s five full-time years — it will take longer if it’s a hobby or a part time endeavor. Get grinding … see you in 5 years. So if you’re struggling in the first 1, 2, or 3 years of a new job, first, breathe a sigh of relief: you’re right where you should be.

Give yourself the chance to learn.  Leaving because learning is hard is never a reason to quit. The lesson in not giving up?

Give yourself a chance to get good at something.