The only future we habitually see for ourselves is the one our past illuminates.
The moment we take a flashlight, intentionally aim our gaze, and look at what lies beyond the shade of the past, we see what’s truly possible for us.
It’s a counterintuitive process.
It takes courage and energy.
It’s what intentional living is all about.
You can be an aspiring writer without writing.
You can be a former writer without writing.
But you can only call yourself a writer today when you have proof that you’re currently writing.
How likely is the scenario you’re worrying about?
And how impactful or life-threatening is that scenario?
Now, how much mental bandwidth is worrying about it taking up?
Are your worries proportionate to the actual danger?
Should you be worrying at all?
If not, could you stop right away?
Of course, you and I both know that’s not always how it works, my friend.
Because even if we know rationally that we shouldn’t worry, the worrier mind tends to scoff at answering rational questions.
Yet today, I had an insight: maybe those questions aren’t meant to dismiss the worrier mind at all but empower the sane mind, temporarily suppressed and overpowered?
Maybe they can provide enough encouragement to make the sane mind stand up for itself again and say, “Enough is enough.”
Maybe that way, the sane mind will put the worrier mind back in its place, reminding it of the only task where it truly shines: protect us from life-threatening risks.
Or maybe not. I don’t know, my friend. You’ve seen me: I’m just another human with good days and bad—productive days and lazy. Days of irrational fears and worry, and days of relaxing, dreaming, and visioning.
But this I do know: worrying too much has never improved my mood, and I doubt it has ever improved yours.
So if you’ve had an overactive worrier mind lately, trying won’t hurt.
Let me know how it goes.
There’s nothing wrong with chasing quick wins, as long as you define them well.
Because the first quick wins are usually internal and invisible.
Only when you’ve won some battles against the inner critic who wants you to give up do the external quick wins kick in.
And that’s how it’s supposed to be.
I can choose to procrastinate on a project for weeks – then finish it all in one go, right before the deadline.
In absolute terms, I might have been very efficient with my time – but the time I saved, I spent frustrated with myself.
The long-term effect on my self-image: I’m a procrastinator.
What if I work a little bit on a project every single day – and have it finished well before the deadline?
I might spend more time in total – but every day, every moment spent makes me feel good about myself.
The long-term effect on my self-image: I cultivate an identity of discipline and consistency. I do what I believe to be good for me. I build character. Taking small daily actions towards a goal becomes part of my identity.
What’s more: I avoid the frustration and resentment that comes with procrastination (=not doing what I know I should be doing), and feel good about myself instead.
Long-term, the benefits of small daily actions always outweigh huge last-minute efforts.
I can’t do this yoga pose – yet.
I can’t speak Spanish – yet.
I can’t keep my attention stable during meditation – yet.
I can’t do this – yet.
(Inspired by The Practice by Seth Godin. Highly recommended.)
If writing and creating every day were as vital to my survival as drinking water, ingesting food, and bonding… What would life look like?
Biologically, all behavior is driven by pain, pleasure, and the triggers and habits that come from repeated reaction to those stimuli.
So I eat because I want to escape the pain of hunger – or heartbreak, sadness, and frustration.
I connect with others because I’m neurologically hardwired to feel pleasure when bonding… and pain and deprivation when I’m abandoned.
Similarly, I write because I want to escape the frustration of not being able to put into words an insight.
I also write because I enjoy the rush resulting from finding the words that convey what I want to say.
I write because I love the tingling in my back and neck when I combine those words into sentences with just the right rhythm, just the right cadence capturing the meaning, context, emotion of what I want to say…
I write because writing wrests the essence from the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions racing through my mind and body.
I write because when when I write, I feel that at last, I can make sense of life.
And the more meaning I find, the more likely I am to write.
