self-improvement – Erin Strybis

Lessons from 2019

The Cut recently informed me that although some people don’t keep a diary, most of us have inboxes that serve as a “fossil record of our lives.” In other words, ancient emails are a window into our stories. Reading this, a small chuckle escaped my lips. I’d been sifting through emails the day prior for evidence to corroborate dates for an essay I was revising. What struck me most about my old messages was their tone. My voice seemed strange yet familiar, young but not naive, kind yet scared. Who was this woman? Me but different.

On this 20th day of December in 2019, 48 hours from my 34th birthday and 12 days until New Year’s, I wonder: Who was I on the cusp of 2019? And who will I become in 2020? The whole truth lies not in emails but stories — lessons — from the time between.

One: Why does it ache?

Trapped with my mouth wide open and torso at a 45 degree decline, I examined vintage Chicago posters while the dentist finished cleaning my teeth.

“Well, that’s it,” he said, putting down the floss.

“So, you’re sure there’s nothing wrong?” I asked him, craning my neck to the side.

“Your teeth look great, though you’ll probably want to start flossing more — the gaps between them grow wider with age.” With the flick of his switch, my chair whirred to eye level.

I repositioned myself and tried again: “It’s just my teeth, they were so achy.”

For weeks they’d ached, pain fading in and out. They hurt first thing in the morning and at bedtime. They occasionally woke me up at night. They hurt whenever I switched from one activity to the next, almost as if my teeth were petulant children demanding my attention. I brushed, flossed and went back to work, ignoring them.

Little mouths needed brushing, dishes of every size kept piling up in the sink and deadlines too were stacking up in my planner. Visiting the dentist never made it on my lengthy to-do list; it got lodged in my brain someplace between almost out of dish soap and don’t forget to file your check requests before sabbatical.

“Right.” The dentist nodded.

I licked my teeth and tasted fluoride. “And now they’re fine,” I said. Coincidentally, the week I made the appointment, my pain disappeared.

The dentist shrugged his shoulders and stood to leave. We’d already gone over this — no evidence of grinding or gum disease. No cavities.

“Sometimes these things have a way of sorting themselves out.” He smiled and moved to the door. Conversation closed.

It bothered me that the dentist didn’t have an answer. What caused the pain? I wondered, picking up my complimentary toothbrush and toothpaste and summoning my driver. I zipped up my jacket and waved goodbye to the receptionist. Moreover, how did it heal?

Outside crisp leaves tumbled across the street and wind cut through my jacket. Fall in Chicago is a short, poignant season one must be careful not to miss. The neighborhood trees were showing off gold, crimson and burnt orange and I realized I had the entire afternoon free before my son returned from school. I could go for a run in the woods or cozy up with a good book. Maybe I’d start a chili.

Waiting for my ride it struck me: I was no longer in a hurry.

I’d replaced piles of dishes and deadlines with extra playtime and travel. After months of making appointments for my son but not myself, I had an eye exam, annual check-up and this dentist visit. I was officially on leave from work and yes, life was slow.

For now.

Eventually sabbatical would end and working motherhood would sink its claws back into me. I smiled up at the gray sky. I wanted to hold onto this feeling — hope — and carry it with me to the next season. I wanted to start paying attention to pain, and to its release.

Two: A messy dilemma

I hold two passions in my heart: one is my family, the other, my career. I’m lucky I landed my dream job as a magazine editor. I’m doubly blessed I realized my dream of becoming a wife and mother. I’m living the dream.

Yet these two dreams often seem at odds with one another, and though I believe that’s a false dichotomy, there are days I curse motherhood for crippling my career and days I blame work for my lack of presence with my family. Both are lies. Both are true.

When my son’s weeklong spring break from school approached, I submitted my vacation days and cleared my calendar just for him. In my planner, I sketched out daily agendas: on Monday, we’d go to Cafe Little Beans, on Tuesday, we’d stay home and watch Disney movies, on Wednesday, we’d take a nature walk, and so forth.

Wednesday arrived and I loaded up my son Jack and our dog Gus into the car and drove to the forest preserve for our walk. The sky was clear and blue, pale green buds sprinkled trees, and when we approached a clearing, I let Gus off leash for a romp in the grass. Jack pointed and giggled as Gus sprinted out into the empty field. “Go on buddy,” I said, gently pushing him forward. The ground was moist and smelled of yesterday’s rain. With a little coaxing, Jack made a beeline for Gus, who appeared to be drinking out of giant mud puddle.

“Oh no! Wait. Honey, don’t go in there,” I yelled out, waving him back.

“Mommy! A mud puddle!” He said, stomping his feet with glee.

Too late. In an instant, Jack’s shoes were caked with black-brown mud. Then he plopped on his bottom and the mud speckled our dog’s white fur. Safely positioned on the edge of the puddle, I sighed, thinking of the bath they would need later. This was not on my agenda.

“Mommy!” Jack cried, pushing himself back up. “Come splash with me!”

I didn’t want to go in, but in that moment I knew I could either be the mom who played in the mud or killed the fun. I had only 10 minutes left for this walk and zero supplies for clean up. This would surely dirty my car, delay our daily agenda and screw up Jack’s nap schedule. Plus I was wearing white-soled shoes. No matter what, this was going to be a mess.

“Mommy! Mommy!” my son called again, grinning. Gus let out a little bark.

This time, I didn’t hesitate. I stepped out into the mud to play.

Three: Brave

What I remember most about our conversation was his attitude. Leaning over his scotch at the bar top, my friend was the definition of casual. This was the same carefree guy I knew from college and also someone entirely different. He was a pastor, after all.

So when I confessed to him over drinks I still had doubts about my faith, I couldn’t have predicted what he said next.

“Imagine how it feels when you’re the pastor,” he said throwing back a swig of scotch.

My mouth dropped. I stirred my seltzer water and searched for the right response. “You too?”

“I mean, who hasn’t?”

What I’d wanted from him was theology. Wisdom. A Bible verse to help me grapple with why my husband got sick and my dad got sick and why people kept getting shot by angry white men with assault rifles. I wanted an antidote to doubt.

Instead of that, he offered, “Me too.” My pastor friend understood the doubts and the questions and the creeping worry that death was just the end. What I wanted wasn’t what I actually needed. What I needed was a companion in doubt.

This conversation wasn’t an anomaly. I talked to many other pastors this year who echoed similar sentiments.

On a walk in the woods, I got to know a pastor who admitted she didn’t have the best answers to age-old faith questions related to suffering. At coffee, my pastor listened to my frustrations at length and nodded with understanding, quietly holding space for me.

Over pancakes, one very important pastor I admired told me he hoped I’d write about it — my doubts. I wanted to tell him I’d been trying to write about doubt and pain all year. Instead I sat and sipped my coffee.

I often wrote in the literal darkness. Early in the morning before my family woke. Late at night when they were asleep.

Entering the darkness in words doesn’t necessarily stump me, it’s the getting out that does.

Another pastor whose writing I adore wrote this of darkness: “Those of us who should follow Christ, therefore, should expect a lot of darkness. That is where God finds us and also sends us.”

Later, when it was time to make edits to a story I wrote that seemed too sad and irreverent, I discovered a shred of Hope threaded through my prose. I set down my red editing pen.

Perhaps exploring doubt is a sign of evolving faith. I’m finding there’s beauty in the darkness. I’m learning to pay attention to my pain — and joy. I believe I’m entering 2020 a little braver than before.

I wrote this post as part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to read the next post in this series “2019.”

What defines us

This is your Monday reminder that you are not defined by your number of followers.
You are not defined by a number on a scale.
You are not defined by a number in your bank account.
You are not defined by the number of checks on your to-do list.
The sum of these numbers is how the world measures worth — numbers don’t define you.

You are not your career, your side hustle, your workout or your zip code.
You are not your accolades, your relationship status, your diet, your voting record.
You are not your skin, your hair, the clothes you wear, your tidy home, your Insta-squares.

You are a soul, longing for connection.
You are a beloved, gifted creation.
You are light, laughter, mercy, sweetness.
You are the author of a story that’s still unfolding.

They say keep chasing, striving, leveling up — when you achieve it, you will be happy.
They say you are not enough.
I say they’re wrong.

You cannot earn love; you already have it.
You cannot avoid pain by being perfect.
You are flawed, afraid and a little tender.
You are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Just as you are.

Self-love isn’t mediocrity — it’s a catalyst. Self-love isn’t selfish — it’s a revolution. Only when we free ourselves from the lies culture feeds us about who deserves love can we practice radical empathy for ourselves and others.

Are you brave enough to embrace it all — your shortcomings and strengths — and call it worthy?

This is the beginning of grace.

This year, I want to be brave

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he asked, looking at me in the mirror.

From height of my salon chair, I studied myself. Some iteration of long hair has been my look the majority of my adult life. My senior year of college I received a poorly executed shorter cut that left me emotionally scarred. It was almost as embarrassing as four-year-old me’s infamous bowl cut. I’d vowed to never go short again.

For months my stylist urged me to try a “lob”—I resisted. Now it was the middle of December, my birthday and Christmas looming. Yet I found myself longing to speed up the clock and turn the calendar to a fresh year. I needed to put the last year behind me. I craved change the way a desert wanderer craves water. I was thirsty for it.

“Oh yes. Let’s chop it.” I answered confidently. “This year, I want to be brave.”

I love the energy of a new year. There’s something about switching out my calendars and starting fresh that inspires hope and optimism in me. I love seeing others set new challenges and attainable goals for themselves. I even love the idea of resolutions, though personally, I don’t set them. I haven’t for years.

Instead each December my practice is to select an intention—a word or phrase on which to focus in the coming year. A new year’s intention is both a catalyst for change and slow burning theme that seeps into your dreams, eventually spilling over into real life and disrupting old patterns of being.

Last year my intention was “create and connect.” I hoped to build relationships with my network by continuing this blog. Though I work full-time at a faith-based magazine, I dreamed of expanding my horizons—exploring other topics and reaching new readers—via freelance writing. Most of all, I wanted to publish more stories and connect with others.

In early 2018 especially I wrestled with self-doubt and rejection. Rejection is common in publishing, but when you’re just starting out it can feel deflating. Amid a sea of unreturned pitch emails, I held tightly to the wisdom of established authors who’ve repeated this seemingly simple advice: if you want to be a writer, write. Easier said than done.

For me, writing is both a passion and an act of courage. When I write, I have to tune out my inner mean girl who claims my story isn’t interesting or helpful or original—and listen to my sure, strong voice. Anchored by my 2018 intention, I pushed past fear and pecked away on my laptop anyway. While I did, a funny thing happened: The more I wrote, the less I heard my inner critic. Because of this, I spent the last year immersed in creativity and connection. A few highlights:

I attended the 2018 Festival of Faith and Writing with my colleague and left SO invigorated. I went to Austin with my college girlfriends. I met some amazing youth at the ELCA Youth Gathering and penned a story on it. I blogged. I networked. I traveled to Boston and Florida to help produce four video stories. I clinked champagne at the weddings of life-long friends. I published a Coffee + Crumbs essay on working motherhood. I went to Disney with my sweet husband, son and college pals. I had heart-to-hearts with my old pastor and my father. After weaning my son, I finally developed a morning writing routine. I shared my son’s birth story with readers of The Everymom. I returned to my yoga mat and church sanctuary again and again for stability and inspiration. (Missing from this list are myriad milestones from Jack’s second year; more to come in a future post marking his birthday!)

What I didn’t know last winter was how much I’d need my craft and community when we faced a family crisis last summer. Our circle of family and friends stepped up to the plate to help carry the heartache of my husband’s illness. Our parents especially went above and beyond to lighten the burden and for that, I am deeply grateful. God accompanied us in the pain, even though I couldn’t always see it. Writing through it—journaling for myself, reflecting here—helped me find hope when it felt like I was drowning. Yet I wrestled to put down big feelings on paper and with how much to share about that tender time in our lives. I still do.

My intention/word for 2019 is “brave.”

I want to be brave—take more chances, open my heart, speak my mind, live my faith because I’ve noticed the pay-off when I do. I come closer to living out my vocation when I am brave enough to reject the noise around and inside of me telling me I’m not worthy.

When I think of bravery, I think of my father. He survived four years at West Point. He flew Blackhawk helicopters in Desert Storm. He soldiered on through disempowering unemployment then reinvented himself. He’s not afraid to speak his mind, even if it upsets others. He taught me to always do my best, even if it’s not perfect. He leads with his heart.

In 2018, I was brave. I shared more than I ever have on this blog and social media. I shouldered the bulk of parenting duties while my husband received treatment this summer. I aimed to be openhearted in my relationships.

Still there were plenty of moments during which I despaired and cowered, paralyzed by fear. Hearing on the radio the cries of children separated from their families at the border, I drove to work, sobbing. Nights after one of many mass shootings, I laid in bed, riddled with anxiety, endlessly scrolling through my phone as if it were the Bible. Other times, I sat in my privilege indifferent to current events and the man asking for money at the Addison exit. I failed to speak out or act or donate or show up or say, “I’m sorry.” And while I don’t expect myself to get it right all the time and certainly don’t feel called to comment on every major news or life event, I do think all areas of my life could use a healthy dose of courage in 2019.

There’s a best practice in creative nonfiction writing described as “facing the dragon,” which means exploring points of tension in your story rather than avoiding them. This is key to honest, authentic writing. I also think it’s the key to living a more authentic life.

Before I saw a therapist, I struggled with acknowledging difficult emotions. In the beginning, when my therapist asked me how I was feeling, I usually answered, “Stressed.” I had a limited vocabulary for talking about pain.

One Saturday I arrived at her office and she handed me a stack of papers.

“Here, I want you to have this,” she said. “It’s a catalogue of emotions.”

“Oh this is great,” I exclaimed, flipping through it. There were dozens of words to describe the range of human emotions—angry, jealous, anxious, elated, scared, frustrated, depressed. Armed with my new knowledge, I began to slay the dragon in conversations with her and, eventually, others.

I want to slay the dragon in my writing, too. I want to lean into discomfort; to go out on a limb; to acknowledge my short-comings; to be a voice for the voiceless; to speak the truth in love.

This is why I write anyway, to inspire and encourage others. Not because I know what I’m doing, but the contrary. I want to pull up the veil in this image-obsessed world and show you about hardship—and joy—because we all need someone in our corner cheering us on, encouraging us to face the day, to remind us we’re not alone. Because, sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is just show up IRL.

This year I want to show up for my community;

For my spouse;

For my son;

For myself.

I want to have the hard conversation;

To donate time and energy;

To honor my limits;

To step back and just be still;

To give thanks;

To know nothing I say or do in 2019 and beyond makes me more or less worthy of the life-giving, centering love of Jesus. That’s the story I’m called to tell again and again and again as I share my life in word and image.

In 2019, I’ll be turning to the wisdom of author Cheryl Strayed, which makes me feel a little braver: “You don’t need anyone’s permission to be the author of your life. It’s yours. Write it.”

This year, I want to be brave.

Do you have any goals, resolutions or intentions for the new year? Anything you’re looking forward to in 2019? I’d love to hear from you! Message me or tell me in the comments.

Gets better with age

In my early twenties, I worked for a large, progressive Presbyterian church on Chicago’s Gold Coast. I’d graduated in 2008 with dreams of working for a magazine or newspaper, but this was the year of the financial crisis and although unpaid internships beckoned, I could not afford to take them. I needed a paying job. That’s how I ended up at the church.

Unsurprisingly, working for the Lord wasn’t lucrative (still isn’t) but what my church communications job lacked in $$$ it made up for in other benefits—a chic location, colleagues and congregants with plenty of character and a relaxed workplace in which I could cut my teeth. Somewhere around my third week on the job, I stared out the antique window of the old parsonage-turned-office, at the bustling city street below and wondered: Is this it? Is this my life now?

I was privileged to have a secure, stable job but I couldn’t shake the feeling as though I’d abandoned a dream. Should I have moved to New York and maxed out my credit card on a fancy, insanely expensive publishing boot camp for recent grads? Should I have gone after that unpaid cub reporter internship in Louisiana? Or that unpaid magazine internship in Indianapolis?

Instead I was in a church, copyediting bulletins. And while I was grateful for the work, honestly, the thought of it didn’t exhilarate me. On the other hand, I had a two-bedroom apartment with my college girlfriend, health insurance and funds in my bank account. I was lucky. Though I pined for the freedom and flexibility of college life, I slowly assimilated to my 9 to 5 — meeting deadlines, taking lunch breaks to explore the city or chat with new friends, and navigating workplace politics and conflicts.

My first real job out of college exposed my inner demons, in particular, my penchant for perfectionism and people-pleasing. I struggled with confidence in my body, my work, my voice. I struggled with contentment in my relationship (long distance with no end in sight, everyone else seemed to be engaged) and my career path (describing my job often resulted in the response: So, you’re a church secretary?). In a way, I lived small. I read others’ blogs with delight and envy. I didn’t think I had the talent to write my own. I half-heartedly applied to grad school because it seemed like a good idea at the time (???). (It was not a good idea; I am grateful I did not get in.)

For five years I worked for this church, watching colleagues and friends come and go on to more exciting adventures. I replaced my old dream with a new one—advancing my career. I took on new projects, eventually landing a promotion. With new responsibilities and pressure, I agonized over my work, sometimes overextending myself. I secretly agonized over my slowing metabolism and weight gain, overanalyzing everything I ate and feeling irrationally guilty when I missed workouts. My third boss there, an amazing mentor and wise sage, once told me in no uncertain terms that I needed to see a therapist. (She was right.) She also gave me some advice about aging I’ll never forget.

“Your twenties are hard,” she told me. “But your thirties? That’s when it starts getting better. You’ll feel so much more confident in your own skin. And wait until you get to your forties–you’ll love yourself in your forties.”

Today I turn 33.

So much has changed for me since I was naive, young lass in the city. I’m married to my college sweetheart, we have a car, a dog, a mortgage and toddler (#adulting). I managed to land a job at a magazine I love and still pinch myself everyday because jobs like this are rare. And while I’m proud of my beautiful family and the trajectory of my career, what brings me the most happiness can’t be layered in a resume or posted on Instagram.

Here it is: I’m much more comfortable in my own skin now than I was at 23.

Aging well isn’t about looks–it’s about what’s on going on inside us. The inner work I finally did with a therapist acquainted me with my flaws, bad habits, negative self-talk and uncomfortable emotions. Because of her, I’ve recovered from crippling perfectionism and people-pleasing. I make mistakes all the time. I disappoint people regularly. I still feel bad about both. But it doesn’t derail me the way it once did.

After leaving my first job, I discovered yoga. Nearly two years ago, after my son was born, I ditched dieting for good and began practicing yoga regularly, which transformed my mind and body.

Today I’m so much more self-aware, confident, wise, grateful and compassionate because I’m older. I’m living bigger than before. When I get it wrong, I’m grounded by grace.

My boss was right. Like a fine wine, we get better with age.

Holy attention

pexels-photo-1050304 — photo credit: rawpixel.com/Pexels.com

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about attention.

Lately it feels like everything is scrambling for my attention. Unread emails. Missed text messages. Facebook notifications. Shows to watch. Articles to read. New podcasts to play. The pull of infinite content, waiting to be consumed.

Do you feel it too?

We have work to do, bills to pay, children to raise, relationships to nourish, bodies to feed/exercise/clothe/rest. We belong to faith communities and organizations and gyms. We have second jobs and side hustles and volunteer gigs. Lunch dates, dinner dates, brunch with friends. Never stopping. Never slowing. Go. Go. Go.

Our lives are full. Our attention—limited. We feel overwhelmed.

I have this theory about attention. It’s kind of like water from a well. The well is deep and expansive, filled with cool, refreshing water we can share with others. On good days, we share water generously and have plenty left to nourish myself. Sometimes we hoard water, and we become bloated. Sometimes we waste water and only have a little left for ourselves. If we’re not careful, the well can run dry.

In this moment in time, I believe we’re all thirsty for something better. We are all parched.

So what do we do? How do we fill up our well?

First, we need to examine what true attention really is. Ever been in a really good conversation with someone where it felt as though you were really seen and heard? They allowed you to talk as much as you needed without feeling ashamed or embarrassed, nodded their head at all the right times and asked engaging questions. Didn’t that just make you feel warm, cozy and joyful?

My late grandpa was a lot like that–an attentive, compassionate listener. If he engaged you in conversation–and chances are certain that if you looked like you needed company he would–he’d give you his undivided attention, nodding his head and asking questions.

My grandma told me recently that often when new members of their congregation, Christ the King Lutheran Church, were asked why they joined, most had the same answer. (No, it wasn’t Jesus.) They said they came because of Richard (my grandpa). Imagine that!

I think one of the joys of my grandpa’s life was learning about others and encouraging them. He was warm, kind and generous to everyone he met.

There are a lot of things to pay attention to these days–but certainly paying attention to people seems like a good place to start.

Whatever it is that clamors for your attention, consider this: Paying attention is an act of love.

That’s what the award-winning film Lady Bird asserts in this exchange between Christine (Lady Bird), a senior at a Catholic high school, and her teacher, Sister Sarah Joan:

Sister Sarah Joan: You clearly love Sacramento.

Christine ‘Lady Bird’ McPherson: I do?

Sister Sarah Joan: You write about Sacramento so affectionately and with such care.

Christine ‘Lady Bird’ McPherson: I was just describing it.

Sister Sarah Joan: Well it comes across as love.

Christine ‘Lady Bird’ McPherson: Sure, I guess I pay attention.

Sister Sarah Joan: Don’t you think maybe they are the same thing? Love and attention?

Amen, sister!

This scene is wedged within tense moments between Lady Bird and her mother, who relentlessly criticizes her. We see her mother’s behavior throughout the film and notice it is a demonstration–though a harmful one–of her deep love for her only daughter. That difficult relationship comes to a head when Lady Bird’s mother finds out her daughter applied to and was accepted accepted into a college outside of Sacramento she was forbidden to attend. As punishment her mother stops talking with Lady Bird and ignores her completely.

Lady Bird’s mother vengefully rescinds her attention, her love, from her daughter and gives her the silent treatment. It is painful for Lady Bird and painful to watch.

An aside: Ever given someone the silent treatment? Ironically, this ‘punishment’ takes an incredible amount of attention to pull off–and for Lady Bird’s mother to do so for a long time indicates the depth of her disappointment and love for her daughter.

Although we never see Lady Bird and her mother reconcile, there is a moment at the end of the film when Lady Bird calls her mother and pours out her heart to her over voicemail, making me hopeful that they someday will.

**I wholeheartedly agree with the writers of Lady Bird: attention is an expression of love. And I’ll add–sometimes, attention is holy.**

Ever have a heart-to-heart with someone that leaves you feeling relieved and understood? Ever lock eyes with someone and feel like they saw your soul? Ever receive public or private praise for something you worked hard on—even when you thought no one was noticing? This is holy attention. This is love in action, life-giving and nourishing and focused and pure.

I have a hypothesis about our current technology-ridden context. What if we are all feeling so exhausted and scattered because we’re not being intentional with our attention? What if we’re not using it wisely?

How many of us struggle with the dance of dividing our attention, knowing we have, on occasion, failed in our relationships or commitments or even our self-care simply because we feel as though there isn’t enough time?

Here’s the hard truth: Our attention has limits.

We’re only human after all.

If I do a time audit of my day, what might I find about my attention? I think I would be surprised to find the amount of attention I waste on social media–on my phone–rather than noticing the world around me. I want to spend more time cultivating relationships, including the most important relationships–with God and family and myself.

So how do we start living in away that honors what we really love?

We remember attention is holy.

We understand attention is a gift.

But here’s the secret: there is a way to deepen your reserves of attention. And that means giving that holy attention right back to yourself. Nourishing yourself with water from your well.

Listening to the voice inside of you that declares: THIS is what makes me happy. THIS is what I really want and need to do today.

I have this nagging pain, can you heal it?

I have this burning desire to dance, will you let me?

I am feeling stuck, can you help me get unstuck?

Will you pay attention?

Here is a new definition of self-love for you. It’s not getting a pedicure, taking a bubble bath or winding down with a glass of wine–though any of those things are justifiably nice. Self-love is paying attention to the voice inside you that is wild and free, and really listening to it, and seeking to align your actions with your innermost healthy desires.

When we give ourselves the kind of holy attention we crave from others, imitating the kind of holy attention only God can give us–pure, adoring love–it is easier for us to then share our attention with others.

I think about the way, as a mother and on my good days, I give holy attention to my son. How can I give more of that away to people who matter (and less to social media, to my worries)—including me? How can I spend holy time and attention immersed in prayer?

Notice–without judgment–where you spend your time this week. How can you redirect it so that you are giving holy attention to yourself–and to everyone and thing that matters most to you?

Why I don’t set New Year’s resolutions

. . . and what I’m doing instead in 2017.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want the next year–2017–to look like for me. Have you been too? Maybe you’ve made a resolution to lose weight or to save or make more money or to get involved in local politics or to start making it to work on time. How many times have you said this to yourself, “This year will be the year I finally … (fill in the blank with your just-out-of-reach goal here)”?

For most of my adult life, I was the queen of resolutions. In late December, as New Year’s Eve approached, I’d write in my journal all the hopes and dreams I had for the year ahead, all the ways I’d improve myself–bad habits I’d break (stop procrastinating), good habits I’d pick up (flossing), goals I’d accomplish (run a half marathon). I’d copy my list of resolutions neatly in the back of my planner, excited and eager and hopeful for a fresh year, a blank slate, a new story to write.

As each new year went on, though, inevitably I couldn’t live up to all dreams I had for myself. When I’d turn to the back of my planner and check in on my progress I’d feel good about what I was pursuing (training for that race – check!) and guilty about the habits I just couldn’t seem to shake (still procrastinating, ugh) or make (still not flossing, whoops). Because some of the visions I had for my life were just that–visions too aspirational or unattainable–I ended up putting myself through a lot of unnecessary, internal angst by focusing on my unmet resolutions rather than what I had accomplished with a little determination and focus.

Once I resolved to eat nothing but beans, vegetables and proteins for the entire year (I know, strange). Something I read had convinced me that this diet would be the solution to the body image issues that plagued me because with it I would finally lose the weight I desired and keep it off too. I wasn’t perfect, but I actually kept up with this weird diet for several months until I realized how unhappy I’d become and how unrealistic it was for someone like me to eliminate several food groups from my diet (I am a moderator, not an abstainer; for more on this idea, see this post).

Part of my problem was that the resolutions I set were just too idealistic. To “never eat gluten again” or “always be early to meetings” just isn’t realistic because life is never all or nothing, life just happens. Grandmother’s extra-special 80th birthday cake, a business lunch that runs late–happens and often bends or breaks a resolution. Unfortunately my all-or-nothing approach to resolutions made it hard for me to jump back on the horse when I faltered, leading way to self-loathing.

The other issue? I had so many different resolutions going at once, I couldn’t keep them all straight. Though I had good intentions, I couldn’t see that I was actually setting myself up to fail by dividing my attention, rather than honing in on a few attainable resolutions. Maybe you already know this for yourself–I obviously didn’t–but eventually I realized New Year’s resolutions were doing me more harm than good.

I know I’m not alone in my resolution angst. This study found that 81 percent of New Year’s resolutions fail. So why do we make them, year after year, even though it’s unlikely we follow through? I think the answer has something to do with this generation’s zeitgeist of self-improvement, coupled with the many messages we receive from media and marketers who capitalize on our deepest desires to become “better” than before.

My philosophy today: I don’t make New Year’s resolutions.

I suppose I could just be more practical and focused, lowering the bar a bit when it comes to resolutions. Do I still have habits I want to break or form? You bet. Goals that I want to accomplish? Sure. But I no longer use the New Year as my starting line for improving my life in those ways.

Instead I use the start of a New Year as an occasion to set one theme or focus I can pursue year-round. It’s an idea inspired by one of my favorite authors, Gretchen Rubin, who has written quite a bit about choosing a one-word or phrase theme for the New Year.

Your word or phrase can be just about anything–its purpose is to be a guiding beacon as you approach a new year of life. In the past, I’ve chosen “presence” (2016), “love” (2015) and “peace” (2014). When I look back on the past three years, I can see a marked change in the way I approached my life and ways my word helped me transform on a conscious and subconscious level. Gone is the creeping remorse of unmet resolutions of years past.

In 2015, I made a life shift toward a different career track. My company was restructuring our department and my dream job had opened up. So had a few management opportunities within my existing team. Both paths seemed intriguing and out of reach, but I knew I had to take a chance or risk the regret of not knowing what might have been. I applied for my dream job–a lateral move for sure–an incredible chance to do what I love every day. For work. It seemed a bit, well, unreal.

Fast forward a few weeks, and they offered me the dream job, the job I never thought I’d have. I was overjoyed and relieved and exhilarated. Due to a variety of factors, the next year in that position would be more challenging than I’d ever anticipated. When occasional moments of doubt or envy set in, I needed only remind myself of the love that inspired my career decision and those feelings dissipated.

Having a theme or focus for the New Year has been uplifting beyond measure, it’s like having a handy compass whenever you need direction or motivation or feel as if you’ve lost your way.

For my focus in 2017, I’ve chosen the word “courage.” In the past, I’ve often allowed my fears to hold me back from being my most authentic self or pursuing big dreams. This year I want to break up with fear and cultivate courage.

I want to be brave enough to create, to tell my unique stories and share others that need telling. I want to disagree, to disappoint, to say “no,” to say “yes,” to live out my faith and values in ways that might be counter-cultural.

I want to be courageous in the ways I love and care for my family and friends, showing up for them, being open and vulnerable and true. I want to be brave enough to speak up for what I believe or what I need, even when it’s unpopular or unsettling.

I want to be brave enough to live and love imperfectly in a world obsessed with picture perfect people. I know there are times that I’ll fail and give in to fear, but I’m using this space, this post to make a public promise to myself that I’ll keep pushing and trying to be courageous, and be gentle with myself when I’m not.

Being courageous means working to silence the tiny voice inside my head that says, “You are not enough,” and replace it with a message of love, a message that says, “You are enough.” I draw strength from my belief that God made me, and everyone else in the world, in God’s image.

I am enough, and my stories matter. You are enough, and your stories matter too.

I choose to be courageous in 2017. What do you choose?

Do you have a one-word or phrase focus for 2017? Share it in comments section below. I’d love to hear from you!