If the bars I set for myself turn into expectations, then no wonder I can’t celebrate clearing them. And even if I set the bar really high for myself (which I know I do), then anything less becomes a failure. It means I define failure as anything less than the absolute best. It means I define success as doing what is expected of me. There is no room for celebration in that equation.
A lesson in balance: creating the conditions for success but then detaching from the outcome.
On stopping long enough to savor the moment.
Stagnation, it seems, isn’t good for much of anything. So, when it comes to giving ourselves a break, are we stagnating or keeping the blood moving?
What to do when that list of "shoulds" interferes with a sick day.
On realizing that I’m tired of looking backward, that it’s time to turn forward and cross the bridge in front of me.
But this isn’t a story about that trip. Or even my first months in San Francisco which turned into now six-and-a-half years here. This is a story about what that six-and-a-half-year-old me would have given to know what present me is up to.