Not thinking about doing it. Not writing about doing it. Not talking about doing it. And not waiting on it, or giving it more time.
Sometimes you just need to do it.
Anticipation can be deadly. Every time I have to jump into cold water or a cold pool, I can’t think about it too much. The more I think about it, the longer it takes to do it. The longer I think about it, the harder it gets to pull the trigger. The longer I think about it, the less time I spend actually doing it, and the more time I spend lost in thinking about it. The worst part is always the first three minutes as my body acclimates to the change in temperature from the outside air to the colder pool. And magically, after those three minutes, the sting wears off and I even begin to forget those moments pre-cold. Adaptation happens quickly. We forget our fears the minute we go ahead and get started.
The worst part is starting. Scratch that. Sometimes the worst part is the anticipation of starting. Sometimes the worst part is all that dang thinking you do before you start doing what you really need to just be doing. It’s all that thinking about starting that can paralyze you.
Pelican on the San Francisco Bay, November 2012 (see below for the photo-behind-the-photo).
This is my typical annual review, a process by which I review this blog, my life (although not all of it is shared here), the lessons I’ve learned, and some of the growth that’s occurred through projects and processes I have (or more painfully, haven’t) achieved and accomplished. This review is tailored towards this blog and my work in psychology, philosophy and online community building; I’ll share each of the sections of the review in categories accordingly, and it’s likely to be a lot longer than most blog posts.
Why An Annual Review?
I’ve been blogging here at It Starts With since May 2011, or for about a year and a half. Previously I wrote another blog for about six months, although I quickly tired of the title and theme and was frustrated with the design; before that I wrote essays for the local Examiner, many of which were cross-posted to create the early archives of this blog. Technically speaking, this site that you’re looking at didn’t exist until May 2011.
I engage in regular monthly reviews as well as a longer annual reviews similar to what Chris Guillebeau does–basically reviewing what went well and what didn’t go so well at year-end.
In the past year and a half, I’ve gone from zero subscribers and traffic and very little understanding of WordPress to designing my own website, playing extensively with Google Analytics and MailChimp, learning about subscribers, and interacting with a continuously-growing audience of some of the smartest and most interesting people I’ve ever met.
Where We’ve Been, and Where We’re Going.
More and more I’m convinced that very few of us truly understand the flattening and leveraging power of the internet: with consistent effort and publication of your ideas, you can find people and they can find you. No longer do we need to stay within the same location, job, city, or network, although the previous world constrains our thinking and perceptions of barriers more than we’d like to admit (or even understand). The best books I’ve read to this effect include Nick Bilton’s and Clay Shirky’s, among other of my favorite books from 2012.
In conjunction with this revelation that the internet allows us access and influence in ways not possible before, I’m also realizing how important understanding scale is for your objectives: and it’s not necessarily that bigger is better. Believe it or not, you don’t have to be the most important person on the internet (or in real life). The network size and community size you need is highly variable and doesn’t need to be that big–a lot is possible with access to just a few people, provided you cultivate the right niche and community. If you build a community of 100 people interested in knitting across your city, you can create a movement. The first YouTube video just crossed the 1 Billion threshold mark. The world is changing, as it always does. It’s exciting.
But back to this particular internet world, my blog:
Every year I sit down and look back at my piles of notes, writing, publication (on and off line) and the last year’s dreams. Dreams and goals are only as good as the number of times you revisit them to take steps or learn why you’re not doing what you want to be doing. Each annual review is typically a two to three-week process of reflection and discovery. Often I’m surprised, delighted, annoyed (and many other emotions)from discovering that in some ways, I’ve done more than I wanted, and in other areas, far less than I wanted. Continue reading “2012: Year In Review”
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.
___
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.
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.
