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It’s that time of year again, when people set unrealistic goals that seem great while in a cheese-and-chocolate-induced haze, but suddenly feel impossible when it’s time to throw away all the sugar in the pantry or wake up at 5:30am to hit the gym before work.
While I don’t set resolutions, I do set goals throughout the year.
This is a positive story, I promise.
I’ve never been one to shy away from trying new things. Physical, mental, intellectual — very few experiences things fall into my “No” category.* So last summer when a neighbor invited me to sign up for a bike race hosted by her mountain biking group, it didn’t take much to convince me.
Little did I know at the time how much that race would change my life.
My brother died eight years ago, putting an end to a three-year roller coaster through hell that still doesn’t feel real. The shock of losing more than half of my immediate family fought with the relief that they were no longer suffering. That WE were no longer suffering. Because for three years my mom and I were trapped in cancer whiplash, unable to truly grieve my dad, then my sister, because there were more treatments, more scans, more prayers.
And then there wasn’t.
Today is my 50th birthday! That’s 18,262 days if I’ve counted leap days correctly. I’ve thought about this milestone A LOT in the past year, mostly with excitement, but also with a tinge of trepidation. Each new decade has brought more wisdom, less f—s, and an increased sense that the only person I need to please is myself — and the best way to do that is to follow my passions.
I’ve never based the main plot of a book on anything from my life — I slip real details into the side stories. The little scenes that may not stick with reader. The small opinions and observations and random conversations — those are often based on my personal experiences. A character hates nuts in baked goods? *waves hand* Hello! (My husband hate that too. A super random thing we agree on.) Has a dad that points at them and says ‘behave’ before they go out with friends? Me again.
I began 2024 hoping I would find my way back to writing and I now have TWO unfinished manuscripts. While I would prefer to have a complete first draft, I’m back on track and believe I’m heading in the right direction. And that direction is forward.
Around my 48th birthday, I got the idea to compete in a triathlon before I turned 50. I talked to a couple friends who regularly compete in them, and we agreed we’d start training together. Then time slipped away, I lost my nerve, and I hoped they didn’t remember that conversation. Cut to the beginning of 2024, aka the beginning of the end of my first half of the century, I got the bug again. But this time the friend I talked to about competing was in my weekly ice skating class (oh yeah, I did that for six months!) so there was no escaping my declaration to attempt a triathlon before my 50th birthday.
As you all know by now, I’m not a fan of New Year’s resolutions, but this year I kind of sort of have a few. I’m not calling them resolutions because then my weirdo brain will skitter away and any chance I had of succeeding will disappear faster than the eight dozen cutout Christmas cookies I made.
There are a million reasons not to write. Better ways to spend our time that don’t involve fighting with the little voice in our heads, the one who insists you aren’t good enough, that no one wants to read what you have to say. But I’m here to tell you — to give you permission — to tell that voice to shut it.
While I don’t necessarily view myself as brave, I think there are worse things I can do than try to channel that characteristic. Especially when I’m trying new things (that I’m not ready to talk about yet). As I tell new writers, no one else is going to do this for you — you have to believe you can and then you have to do it.