What Comes Next

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What steps do we take once we make the decision to take charge of our lives?  Push past discomfort.  Connect.  Listen.  Act.  Start questioning what I really need.  For example, I have a difficult time relating with some people because I know I am being performative and looking for approval.  I want to be liked.  But as I’m moving forward with my life, I know this isn’t a realistic expectation—not everyone will like me.  This is an unhealthy habit that no longer serves.

I am also questioning if I have to look a certain way to accomplish something.  Does it need to look a certain way to accomplish the goal?  I know that is relative to what you are doing—I mean, there are certain steps to putting out a fire or to solving equations.  But I don’t need to wear a certain outfit to be a CEO.  The result is still meaningful even if it doesn’t look how I thought it would.  I’ve said it before that something can look like a million bucks and not function for shit.  Appearance means so little in the grand scheme of things but we are trained to judge instantly because we have to recognize danger. 

I mentioned in a previous article that people have always thought I was too much.  The truth is some people confuse passion with crazy and I am an extremely passionate person.  I care that people wake up and live their purpose.  That we do better.  Live better.  Be better.  It’s scary to be raw and to see what we really need because we are trained to want it all and that, to be worthy, we need it all.  The truth is I am happy and it is ok to be happy—because happy is a decision.  What I fill my life with is also a decision. Knowing and understanding that people will not change is a decision.  You can accept them as they are and not as you want them to be.  But we can decide what our lives look like.

I wrote a small note about giving up the need for acceptance after realizing that the direction I’m shifting is starting to take shape:  I’m done with external accolades.  I don’t care if they write, “She was a hard worker” on my grave.  I’d rather see, “She loved hard, fought hard, thought hard, lived easily, laughed easily, and gave life to those around her.”  Who actually gives a fuck how many hours I worked?  That’s a dime in your bottom line, not mine.  That’s a machine I didn’t build.  You see it crumbling around you, disintegrating at your feet like sand carried out by the waves.  You cling, hoping it will come back, that it will be what it used to be.  Me.  I’m riding the wave, going out to sea.  I may get pulled under but I always come up for air.  You try to nail your life in the sand.  I build ships to carry me where I belong.         

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