Why in the hickity heck did I create this goal for myself? To write. Every day. When I’m not in the mood. When I feel my body deflating like a balloon a week after the birthday party, hovering sadly at counter height. There’s resistance, too. Can I just… not? I try to wriggle out of it like a pair of jeans one size too small. Can’t. I. Just. Not. Ugh.
But there is no not. There is only do.
Because of that, the line I’ve drawn—set, reinforced, and turned into a blazed trail—I lace up my hiking shoes and walk it. Past meadow flowers and grasses. I do the thing.
And usually, it gets better.
The tightness in my chest loosens. The restrictive jeans turn buttery soft. My mind’s grip relaxes. My scope widens.
I don’t let my mood decide. I decide. Then my moods show up like little asshole gnomes in my garden, stomping my flowers. I can’t beat them. So I join them. Ignore them. Go about my business—replanting what they’ve torn out and minding my own work. I’m here to write. Every day.
Some days, my mood shows up like asshole gnomes. Other days, it’s like the entire Amish community banding together to build a house. It can go smoothly. It can go rough.
It can be easy. It can be hard.
Drawing the line—writing no matter what—makes it obvious how seductive not-doing can be. Resistance never goes away, so I outsmart it. I make personal lines I don’t cross. I reinforce them. I reinforce them. I reinforce them.
It’s hard. And also, not doing it is hard.
Because I want to write. And I know the feeling of guilt—the disappointment in myself when I don’t. The push to do the thing, the pull to avoid it. How many times the not won? I couldn’t say.
But the accumulation of saying and not doing—I know that weight. I carried it. It became me. The me who didn’t. Who said I would and didn’t. Who felt shitty about it, and then felt shitty about feeling shitty.
When I lay my head on the pillow at night, the questions used to ping around: Did I do all I could? Do I feel good about this day? Yes. No. Yes. No. Lighting up, poking me awake.
No longer.
Now I sleep like a freaking baby.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 