a child of the sun

poems

change comes

when we are ready for her

(we never think we are ready)

to grasp her hand

to accept her hand

to reach for her hand

if she offers.

 

gentle breeze

sweeping and swept up

into the tangible morning light

ephemeral as it is natural

as natural as it is to take Her hand

as supernatural as it is to accept her hand

and all you are called to do

is not

Let

Go.

 

Let them say

what a miracle

to be planted

to feel the dirt on your calloused feet

to see muddiness, grittiness, dirtiness

and say brother

 

all the while

gazing up

remembering

what it is

to be

a child of the Sun

 

Image may contain: tree, sky, outdoor and nature

on the scourge of graduating from notre dame

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I’ve been wanting to write about what it feels like to graduate from Notre Dame for the better part of the last year that I’ve been away from it. And I’ve tried, but things were too close to be able to see correctly, they were too much the water I was still swimming in.

At Notre Dame, one of my most impactful professors taught us something important about telling personal stories: before you tell your story, make sure the emotions around it are at least mostly healed. In other words, make sure you have reckoned with it, lived in it, breathed it, and know what you think about it— all this while understanding that inherent flux of life, memories, emotion. I am just now getting there.

It’s been a year now since I’ve left the place that my dad, previous to my freshman year, liked to call “Catholic Disney World”. The place where two of my older siblings also studied, prayed, celebrated, and lived. The place that shaped them so entirely and so lovingly (and sometimes not so gently), that any time they could, they reminded me to appreciate the best four years of my life while I was in them.

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A year out, I’m still living into what it means to have so fully and purposefully drank the Kool Aid that is loving your college experience, family, and traditions. Because, admittedly, the thought that your best four years are behind you is rather depressing. Yet, at the same time, dorm mass and football weekends and the Backer and cinnamon rolls at Waddick’s with best friends while the always-present snow falls outside—these years were deep years, shaping years, joyful years. How do you deal with both of these truths simultaneously? What do you do when, a year later, watching Notre Dame transform for football weekends from a few states away brings not only the old excitement, but a new and breath-taking nostalgia?

I did not go to the Michigan game this past weekend, and it physically pained me to stay away. I am in my second year of medical school, we have tests in a week, and I am not smart enough to be able to not study for a whole weekend and still pull a good grade. I watched the game and it was good, but not the heart stopping, emotionally-wrenching, all-senses experience that is being there. I didn’t get to see everyone who went who I haven’t seen in a year—people who were your favorite person to find in the dining hall or walking across South Quad on a Friday morning, but whom, miles apart, you may not feel close enough to to schedule a FaceTime session or visit with. (As an aside: TELL THESE PEOPLE YOU MISS THEM. Even if they won’t be in your wedding. Life is short, love is large. That is all). The people who made ND welcoming, warm, home.

For me, to go to the game would have meant choosing my old life rather than my current one. Not because visiting ND is not a beautiful and connected thing that keeps us ensconced in a wonderful community, but because it would have meant screwing myself over for tests and coming back exhausted when I needed to take care of myself. It would mean choosing a couple days to get to re-immerse myself in the beautifully built world of my old college life—one that made sense to me and is already a finished product—instead of staying in the still new-to-me place of St. Louis and medical school that was demanding and needing my attention.

The hardest part of your “freshman year of adulting” (as my rector at ND called it), is that everything is your choice. When you wake up, what you do, what you value, who you’re with—it’s all up to you in a wide, wide way that I, at least, never dealt with in college. I made some decisions— roommates, clubs, dining hall, abroad or no, Backer or Finnie’s (…Backer.). But now, all the decisions are mine, and they don’t read like a multiple choice test with only, say, four viable options. They read like the number of tulips on campus at Easter, or the candles in the Grotto—countless.

This is Terrifying. This is Hopeful. This is New.

This is going to be, without a doubt, ugly for a WHILE.

And it is empowering.

The first time I watched a game from my couch instead of from the House that Rockne Built, I wept. Real, fat, tears—and I don’t even like football that much (a sin, I realize). As lame as it sounds, I had real grief, a real crater in my chest that my college home previously occupied. How do you move on from that?

This strange and ridiculous grief lives and crawls around like any grief—which means you won’t move on from it. You will carry it with you, and it teaches you. Perhaps this is rationalization, or comforting and untruthful optimism. Or perhaps, this is what is real.

On the day of the Michigan game, I had a lazy morning reading poetry and writing. The poetry was recommended by my best friend from Notre Dame, who was the one watching snow and sharing cinnamon rolls with me. I met with a couple friends for brunch, and gave advice that had been instilled into me during my time working for a summer program for Notre Dame. I studied outside on the balcony I share with my roommate, one of my best friends from medical school. When I first met her, I was not the scared or shy person I had tendencies toward in high school, because many aspects of Notre Dame loved me into being myself.

The worst part of sallying forth from college is that you have to become more of your own person. The best part of sallying forth from college is that you get to choose who that person is. Believe me when I say Notre Dame has not left me alone, not for one second or one day, because who we are made into there is the person we bring out into the real world.

This is where graduating is hopeful and exciting. We saw beauty. We were loved into ourselves in community. We were taught to work intentionally. We, all of us missing our university, found and fell in love with some form of beauty there. Whether you know it or not, you were educated by that beauty you now miss. The hole in your chest is painful, but it is also a call to go out and build. The call is not to rebuild or regress to your college experience, nor to have the most powerful Notre Dame Club in the Nation (Chicago will always be the largest). The call is to work from the nostalgia for the beauty you were invited into, and build something new from your longing in the place you are now.

This is not easy. We have never built. We have never had to choose. We were dumped in a treasure chest of wonderful things that already knew what they were doing, and we never had to learn how it all came together. That’s okay—we will make junk first, and again, it will be an ugly mess. Then we will try again, and again, and it won’t look the same as our first experience of that beauty, but it will be deep and meaningful and different and *yours*. That being, yours to share like you yourself were shared with.

This is long and rambly, but that is okay— it is from the place of longing that misses what ND represented while I was there. It is my junky first draft. It is an attempt to go out and create and be where I am now, being changed by ND as I was.

Graduating sucks. You will always miss ND.
Go build from that.

Go Irish.

 

 

Note: I don’t think that this is true for only ND. I think this is true of any beloved alma mater, but my experiences are with that one school in South Bend. Carry on!

Your Favorite Heroine

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If you’re a girl who read Harry Potter while you grew up, it’s likely you looked up to Miss Granger, the superiorly intelligent, spunky, and not always most beautiful girl in every classroom at Hogwarts.

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Or perhaps you read other books, like the more classic Anne of Green Gables, and looked up to the imaginative redhead who was as sensitive to beauty as she was to the slight pinprick of a slight.

Or maybe you saw Jo from Little Women, and followed her story of writing and romping with her sisters. You admired the girl who was so independent that she could not even be captured by a predictable plot.

Regardless of who you looked up to, you probably loved a certain heroine, and had dreams of being like her someday. Whether that be her intelligence, her beauty, or her kindness, you saw in her something that you wanted to be.

The common trait behind each of these female characters is good writing, and in good writing comes complexity—even in children’s stories. Each character has a good side and a bad side explicitly mentioned, yet we mostly focus on the good while we look up to them.

Hermione Granger is ostentatiously a Know-It-All in the first order. She is not the most socially intelligent girl in school, and she has a withering crush on RON WEASLEY for 7 years before she makes a move. She is, definitively, not cool. And yet, we see her for what she is more often than what we see her for what she is not.

Anne of Green Gables sees the good quite easily and is moved to great heights, but she also falls into the pits of despair just as quickly. She is the opposite of emotionally stable, even as she grows up. Anne has an enormous temper. And yet, we see her in the positive light of her imagination rather than in the dark side of what her sensitivity drives her too.

Lastly, Jo is stubborn. She loves her younger sister, Beth, for the softness and gentleness she does not have. She recognizes this weakness and this craving for independence in herself as she gets older, but the only thing we recognize is the strength of the other traits that exist alongside this.

We see book characters, thanks to the way the narrative is laid out, according to the good in them. We see and remember their victories much more than any loss they may endure. In other words, we give them the benefit of the doubt and the trust that they are a hero in the story, not a villain or an unimportant tangent.

This is not the way we think of ourselves in daily life. More often than not, we look at ourselves as characters in a skewed way, removed from context, and maybe even with the perception of ourselves as off or as simply bad. We do not give ourselves the benefit of the doubt, but perhaps put ourselves on trial to prove that the good is there, alongside the bad.

We take many stories—lovely and ugly—from our childhoods. We take stories about fairies, about others, about the worlds, and about ourselves. These can be true, false, damaging, uplifting, and everything in between, but the most impactful ones are often the ones we learn about ourselves.

When you encounter stories about yourself today, check them the way an author would check theirs. Check it like this:

Does this story get at the complexities of the character? 

            Does this trait make sense in the context of the story, or does it assume the worst?

            Does this story ring true and authentic, or does it reduce this many-faceted character to a flat pancake of who they actually are?

It is a big ask to try to have someone go from thinking of themselves as an antagonist to a protagonist. It is difficult to switch one word in the thought, “I am bad” to “I am good”—even if the latter statement is the truest.

One step on the way there, though, can be switching how we ask questions and make assumptions about ourselves. Instead of assuming the worst traits or the worst stories, let’s ask how our favorite author would write about this character—good and bad—if they liked them. We may find a happier and truer story in this gentle way than we could have otherwise imagined.

We may just find ourselves on the same side as our childhood heroes.

DIY: 10 thoughts to grow a better human

resolutions

Even though January is almost over, resolutions are still a thing.

Really? Yes, really.

And, more generally, I think we are all constantly trying to grow.

Two things to note first:
A. Wanting to grow doesn’t mean how you are now isn’t good. This is a paradox, yes, but that doesn’t make it untrue.

B. Growing isn’t something we do only by ourselves or only for ourselves. In some ways, we are the ones who put in effort and grow ourselves. But in bigger ways, our communities, loved ones, and what we believe in (i.e. God, our faith) are our gardeners. On the other point—we don’t grow just for ourselves. We learn how to become the best gift we can so we can ultimately give ourselves away.

With those two things noted, here are the ten things I’ve been taught. Writing these reminds me that they are important—note the word reminds, because I definitely don’t follow these perfectly either.

1. Work with what works.
Don’t set goals that you do not actually give one single fck about. i.e. for a while I wanted to be in the habit of eating salad everyday, but I hate salad. There is an objectively good thing there—eat healthier. However, there are often many ways to overall big goals—don’t choose the path you hate the most. I.e. if you want more time to read, a lot of people would suggest waking up earlier. Try it. But if you hate waking up in the dark, may I suggest going outside the box and trying night reading? You don’t have to always choose the most challenging route if it’s not a long term solution.

2. Don’t let perfect be the enemy of good. And don’t let good be the enemy of done.
Whenever I have a goal, I like to do this really annoying thing of making it all of my goals and dreams at once or, alternatively, nothing. This means I like to think when I wake up on the first day of the year, or on my birthday, or on an arbitrary Tuesday, I will change twelve things about my life. This, shockingly, does not work.
When we have a big goal, we are inspired by it and want to go whole hog on it from the word go. But we are bad at it, and inevitably fail, and then end up quitting the whole thing because we made the options be perfect or fail.
Set yourself up for success. If your goal is to move more, don’t make a marathon in two months your goal—make it walking for ten minutes a day. Eventually, that will be habit, and then you can take your next literal and figurative haha step towards the big dream that inspires you.

3. Find someone who’s good at it.
Finding a mentor is important for logistical reasons, but it also boosts morale. Someone has actually done the thing you think is impossible! There are a million ways to still tell yourself that you in the particular couldn’t do it, but no longer can you tell yourself that it is outright impossible. Mentors are also great for reminding you that they too probably felt uncertain and incapable at times (and probably still do occasionally).

4. Don’t punish yourself.
Please don’t decide that tomorrow you’re going to crack the whip on yourself. Think instead of how your favorite teacher treated you. If you’re anything like me, you probably liked teachers who were both kind and believed in you enough to challenge you beyond where you were at. However, their criticism of you and demands on you were constructive and reasonable. This good teacher built you up so you could be better and know more. They left you feeling overall stronger, not weaker, than you were before. While you may have been humbled, you were not hurt. In the same way, your aspirations should give you hope, not give you anxiety. Remember the learning process is a process, and to not freak out at yourself everytime you’re not an expert by day three on the path.

5. Find a place to sit somewhere between empathy and encouragement for yourself.
This one is actually maybe the hardest for me personally. It’s really easy to flip-flop between being ruthless with yourself and just kind of giving up on your aspiration. Good news though: this type of thinking is actually a logical fallacy that we humans enjoy as a thinking shortcut. The fallacy is either-or thinking: instead of seeing possible actions and outcomes on a spectrum, we see option A OR B, with no in between. As a little reflection would teach us, this black and white thinking is usually not the full reality in front of us.
When we are trying to do something new or different, we have to be like good parents to ourselves. If you were potty training a two year old and they failed a couple times, you wouldn’t be like, “Well, I guess this whole bodily fluid control thing isn’t gonna work out. That’s life.” NO. You would keep trying and do different tactics and work with them until they figured it out. You would encourage them. You would read them Everyone Poops. You wouldn’t just chalk it up as an L and take it.
On the other hand, you wouldn’t scream at a two year old for not understanding how the porcelain throne works. You would not shame them or call them an idiot or tell them, “Well you’re never gonna figure this out so you might as well not try, Judy.”
This example, while weird, also makes sense. However, we talk like this to ourselves all the time when we try to learn new things that don’t come naturally to us because we have never lived them out before. The meaning of this point is that we have to find somewhere that allows failure without telling us failure is all we’re ever going to be able to do in this pursuit. It’s a really hard idea to hold because it’s fully of uncertainty and we humans hate that. Yet, we have to try.

6. Make a plan.
Figure out tiny steps. Write one tiny step a month that you do a few times a week. Get good at that step. Next month, move to the next step.
Don’t make it an impossible plan. Do no make your to do item something akin to “Never gossip ever again in my life” or “Eat only kale for the foreseeable ever and into the afterlife.” You’re not giving yourself a chance.
The big goals are sexy, and the small goals like “at least floss once a MONTH, maggie” are not exactly something you want to share. Remember that these little goals are part of the big one. That, in itself, makes them exciting.

7. Keep track.
Find a piece of paper, a phone app, or the blank back of your hand to keep track of you doing the things you planned for correctly. Keeping track helps you see where you go wrong, and when, how, and why you went wrong. You are, in some ways, your own scientific experiment. Don’t get mad at the experiment for going a way you don’t want—just take note, tweak the variables, and try again.

8. Celebrate small victories.
When you do notice you are doing well and following through, please, please, please take a moment to see that. It can be really easy to lose sight of the fact that doing the small, good thing is in itself an accomplishment on the way to a big goal. Be nice to yourself and recognize that even making a little change is a big deal.

This point actually ties to the name of this blog—tiny little lights. When you think of a string of fairy lights or christmas lights, they make the whole place grow. They are made, though, by individual lights brought together. Changes are like that. One tiny light won’t light the whole room—but many things brought together will.
Also, don’t be an asshole to yourself by making a “small victory” something that is actually huge. A small victory is the flossing once or working for an hour one day on something you’ve been meaning to. A small victory is not “I have permanently erased all my flaws and am a beacon of humanity.” Perfectionism, I see you.

9. Accept that you’re going to fail, it will piss you off, and it will make you better.
You. Are. Going. To. Be. Bad. At. It. Accept this a little bit, and move on. Otherwise, everytime you fail you will be derailed and eventually have to start all over again.
One bad day does not make a failure.

10. Follow the cliché: we overestimate what we can do in a day, and underestimate what we can do in a year.
This is sort of a culmination of all the points, but it needs to be stated by itself. We create impossible hoops for ourselves when we put ourselves in a pressurized tank of shoulds and musts and either-or scenarios. We often want x by two weeks from now or to become Y within a month. We try to make drastic changes when in reality we would do better and more by seeking little victories day by day. We would do better to be gentle.
This point relates to believing in yourself and the aspirations you’re aiming towards. In the words of Elle Woods, “You must always have faith in people, but, most importantly, you must always have faith…in yourself.” When we try to put ourselves on a strict diet or limited improvement plan, we are implicitly setting ourselves off for a drop off after that time period ends. Believing in yourself means trusting that you’re not going to suddenly not care about your dreams anymore or that doing something slowly means you’ll never complete it. You have the resilience and grit to become many of things you want to be in some fashion—you just have to believe that.

photo by @adamjk

Instagram and Self-Compassion

Self-Compassion, Social Media

Scroll.

Scroll.
Heart that.
Scroll.
Hate that.
Scroll.
Oh, that looks fun, wish I’d been invited to something like that.
Scroll.
How is she literally always in a different location?
Scroll.
There’s that one person who I met twice who I really only kind of envy-follow.
Sugar Bear Hair Ad.

 

This is approximately what happens in the first ten minutes of my morning everyday, and man what a way to start your day. And by “a way to start your day” I, of course, mean “propably a really terrible way to prime your emotions for the next 17 hours ahead.”

Like most people, I know I shouldn’t do this, I know I should limit screen time, and I know the deleterious effects it can have on our mood, self-image, and understanding of other people. But scrolling on social media is designed like a slot machine that keeps you around until the next like, comment, or meme happens. If you’re lucky, sometimes you even hit a real connection point with a long-distance friend or relative.

I’ve written about my own experience of going without social media for Lent (i.e. 40 days) before, and while much of that is still true (i.e. wow I use this for comparison and unrealistic expectations WAY TOO MUCH), there are other effects that I’m only now starting to notice. The highlight reel effect—i.e. when you compare your behind the scenes, unedited life to someone’s picture perfect moment—is talked about a lot, and it teaches us not to compare a perfect image to what we might look like when we wake up in the morning. I know this. However, one thing I didn’t notice until recently was the emotional highlight reel I may unknowingly compare myself against.

For the most part, especially on social media such as Instagram and Facebook, people announce achievements, parties, life events, cute dogs, and who their #MCM is. This can be a good thing, and it can act as a way for people to share the joy in their life with others. This i a good thing. However, social media conspicuously lacks any hint of negative emotion a real human might experience. It’s sharing, but it’s only sharing the pretty emotions. It’s connecting, but only at the surface level of experience that is easy or fun to accept, and this is dangerous.

The lack of imperfect emotions—like sadness, jealousy, or bitterness—on social media makes sense. It’s the same way as when you first meet someone: you’re not going to lead with your scars or pains in the first five minutes of conversation. Telling people about the ugly parts is vulnerable, and you’re not going to be vulnerable with your whole newsfeed. This would be akin to getting therapy by getting on the PA system at your school and listing off your emotional wounds, 140 characters at a time. Ugly (i.e. not easy to process and hard to fix, not wrong) doesn’t feel fun to share in real life nor on social media.

The problem is not that we carry a box for sharing and a box for hiding on social media. The problem is that in real life, eventually the surface shell fades away to the vulnerable and soft underneath as two or three people become friends. In real life, we hopefully let people know that the image we once presented is actually much more deeply nuanced than our original presentation. On Instagram or facebook, the relationship doesn’t really progress to this in real life, let alone within the platform, especially when it concerns following people we don’t know in real life.

And we are innundated by it. We reach for the images and feeds whenever we have a moment alone, or are bored, or don’t want to look awkward in real life. At least, I do this. In our moments of boredom or awkwardness, we see pictures of life presented as it seemingly “should” be: life without pause, without acne or wrinkles, without loneliness or confusion, and without complications. Essentially, we see image after image of what life seems to be like for everyone else, and this life looks nothing like our own. Our own life is filled with incongruencies and is not quite as aesthetically pleasing as everyone else’s apparent lives, and we keep scrolling with the feeling that perhaps our lives and our normal daily happenings are not as good as everyone else’s.

Maybe this is true—I don’t personally know who you follow, and therefore maybe they are the one lucky human out there who truly has perfect emotions and a perfect body and a perfect life. For the grand majority of the population (i.e. like >99.5%), our daily lives have good cups of coffee and burnt eggs, scenic walks and accidentally stepping in dog shit, big accomplishments and big setbacks. And we have unpredictable emotions all along the way.

Be gentle with yourself the next time you scroll, or maybe try to not scroll at all. Have a little self-compassion as you surround yourself with perfect images—it really is okay to not feel perfect all the time, let alone look it. If and when you wake up tomorrow morning and turn to check Instagram, take it with a grain of salt and a hint of humor. Social media is where we show others what is easy to see, not where we show them what is the most true to see.

 

What If It’s Not True?

Anxiety

 

I didn’t know how to pronounce the word “epitome” until I was solidly in my second year of college.

There are at least three light switches from my childhood home whose functions remained a mystery to me even after 22 years of living there.

I didn’t know how to ride a bike until I was at least 11 (which isn’t surprising, given my general lack of athletic prowess).

Despite being miles behind on some of these basic developmental milestones learning curves, the most surprising thing I picked up on late in the game was this:

As a person who has had an anxiety disorder since at least middle school, a worried and foreboding narrative has been in my life for almost as long as I can remember. One would think I would thus know how it works. Here’s the issue though: It’s one thing to know you have a disorder, but it’s a whole other game to know what that means in your daily life.

In college, thanks to support by a crew of wonderful teachers, mentors, a few priests, and definitely nothing I naturally was inclined to do, I was given this wonderful idea: our fears and narratives we’ve traveled with are not necessarily true. In fact, these stories could be farther from the truth than any other dream we could come up with.

WHAT. (!!!!)

This seemed too good to be true. I’d been carrying these heavy things for years, and I might not have to anymore? How could I have missed something this big? The revelation was about the scary story I told myself: What if it’s not true?

If you have had a mental illness for most of your life, it can take a long time to understand how exactly that illness plays out in your day-to-day. If you have been telling yourself a story for your whole life, how would you know that it was inaccurate or overtly critical of yourself? In all likelihood, you wouldn’t know that, at least not with your small sample size of just yourself. At least, I definitely did not know that.

I had always thought the way I negatively talked to myself or predicted the future was what everyone did. To an extent, everyone does do that—but not to the level of daily, hourly, or about everything. That’s a heavy load to carry, and it’s something that I learned doesn’t have to be as true as I was once convinced it did.

If you’re telling yourself a negative narrative, please know that other possibilities exist. It seems almost too good to be believed, but the constant thought you have carried that you are not x or y enough could really (and in full reality) be totally false. This was the best news I had ever heard, because I was unaware until that point that our fears don’t create us. Just because our inner bully is telling us we aren’t smart, or not capable, or not enough, doesn’t mean that it’s true. You don’t have to accept the worst story you’ve ever heard as true just because it’s the thing that fills you with the most fear.

Knowing this doesn’t mean it will be easy to erase that narrative, and I’m guessing if you’re anything like me, it will take more than an off-brand blog post to convince you of this. But if you can let this in for a minute today, it will be a minute well spent. Knowing that your scary stories might be bullshit won’t free you completely from them, but that knowledge will give you something you didn’t previously have: a choice in what your story becomes.

2018: St. Paul Is Super Relatable

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You sit down and pull out that one random and multicolored notebook that you’ve had since you were inspired by the beginning of 2014 to start a journal. It has a hodge podge of pages that are random attempts at the following: gratitude lists, stream of consciousness, and a bad poem you wrote after a break up you were STILL not over (just me? oops). You wonder how high the chances are that you will set off the fire alarm if you try to burn that page.

You sat down, what for again? Oh right—to write down a brand new list of New Year’s resolutions for 2018. Nevermind the fact that this notebook was part of a short-lived attempt at a resolution in the first place. What will this new year be full of?

When I sat down to write things down that I WOULD do, DAMMIT for the next year, I looked back at the promises I’d made to myself in the past: promises to care more about health, or faith, or kindness, or accomplishment. Some things really did get better or got done, but many of the ones that were most important to me didn’t. Why?

First of all, maybe I just really am not built to ever be able to do a pull-up. That’s under consideration for this year.

More importantly, my resolutions in the past were for a fictional person. This new person would pull a reverse Cinderella—when the clock struck midnight, she would drop any bad habits or unfortunate coping mechanisms and suddenly pick up the habits that it takes other people months and years to build. But God, planning to be a new person is so fun—and you can use those colored pens you forgot you had.

As fun as the planning is, it’s less enjoyable when the big plans you make never pan out, because you never created a way for them to pan out. I, at least, would create resolutions that didn’t take into account that I would get tired, or frustrated, or sick, or be a human. None of that was allowed in the new year! Either-Or logic would then take over: either I stick to this perfect new way of existing, OR I get discouraged by messing up once and quit the whole thing by January 5th.

I write all this because I think this is a common experience. In the words of my boy St. Paul: “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.”
(Literally never has a saint been more relatable. I will fight about this one.) While I think the not doing what we want to do thing is a common part of the human experience, I also think knowing this about ourselves can help us make resolutions towards being better that fail less. If we plan for failure, at least we won’t be scared of it. If we plan for the fact that we are a bit scatter-brained, then when we are lost and confused by our big ideas, we will know it’s okay. If we see the problem coming, then we are much less likely to give up when it comes.

This year for resolutions, I am making a plan for who I already am, not who I want to be someday. And instead of saying “I will do x, y , and z for the next 365 days or die trying”, I want to say “What is a choice I can make today, this week, this month that will help me towards the good things I want to live out?” Instead of making a rigid plan that I will almost definitely end up not following within one week, I’m going to treat the process like trying to unlock a safe: listening and trying to find the click when I hit the right number, keeping what works, and moving on methodically to the next thing. Logistically, this means is I am going to try to do better and keep track of three small habits a month. I will try to learn what works and what doesn’t, what brings joy and what definitely does not (will be writing on this more in the future!).

My only real resolution is this: to sit next to the smelly and ugly fact that perfection is not possible this year. I’m going to try to give that fact a big embrace, and then introduce it to my other favorite fact for 2018: just because you will never be perfect, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t give your hopes a grand, ugly, and perhaps successful try.