On January 1st of this year, I resolved to be more consistent. More accurately, I vowed to be consistent. This year, I would develop a structured writing routine; I would walk two miles a day; learn more about investing; meditate; eat healthier; wake up earlier. In twelve months—or, preferably, in less than six—my body and mind would thank me and I’d be immensely impressed with myself. By the time my golden birthday rolled around—I’m turning 30 on May 30th—I’d be so hot, secure, healthy, and radiant that I’d levitate.
I got right to work. I set up alerts via Google Calendar to remind me to write a grocery list on Fridays, prep vegetables on Saturdays, and pick out my outfits for the week on Sundays. I was gifted Atomic Habits by a dear friend and carried it around like a totem, actively ignoring its advice to start small and instead presuming that owning the book was the greatest indicator of success. I went back through my therapy notes and underlined prevalent patterns. I wrote mantras in my journal: “I am consistent with the routines that will move my life forward;” and “I imagine the bright abundance that is my future and remember that it is the small, daily habits that get me there.”
In the first week of January, I was consistent as hell. I took a T break, woke up at 7am, meditated daily, and put my under-the-desk treadmill to work. I had chia seed pudding with fresh fruit every morning and vegetable-heavy stir fry every night. I showed up to my weekly therapy session bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and committed to “the work”. I lost 5 pounds and was convinced that my face looked less bloated and chicken nugget-shaped.
Then the first weekend of the new year arrived, and Postmates started looking reeeaal good, and by the second week of January, I was back to my bad habits. “Well, I can at least be consistent with writing,” I thought, but when I attempted to write something for this newsletter, I was quickly overwhelmed, concerned that I was too rusty; that those of you who came here for creative writing and memoir and beautiful language would wonder what happened. Later that week I learned that my best friend kicked off her new year by beginning a whole-ass novel and I was ready to go die in a hole. “I’ve never been a consistent person and I never will be,” I told myself, “All of my friends are living out their dreams—shit, my dreams—and I am on the couch…smoking w**d…again.”
Cue the world’s smallest violin.
February 1st arrived and I was over it. “It” being myself. New year, new me, I grumbled, settling deeper into stagnancy. I mean, I did keep trying—I just gave up + gave in more and more quickly. I’d lay in bed and look at old photos of myself, convinced I didn’t have it in me to get back on track, to be that version of myself again. I’d catch up with friends and feel embarrassed to be working on the same shit I’m always working on: getting consistent; actually giving a shit about my health and my body and my routine; loving myself even when I don’t feel lovable, even when my sense of “self” feels very far away. I texted the above meme to my therapist and they replied, “Dramatic escapes will take you nowhere.” Like, yeah…I know…way to get the joke, dude. (Then again, I do have a history of “dysregulated magical thinking,” or in other words, frequently daydreaming about moving to Mexico with my husband and pets and all of us magically becoming healthier, happier, and hotter immediately upon arrival).
The thing is, none of this is resolved. Some days I walk for two hours on my treadmill and others I don’t even look at it. Some weekends I meal-prep 7 days’ worth of chia seed pudding and others I sit on the couch eating Voodoo chips and watching Bling Empire: New York. I can tell that I’m on the cusp of real change, but I haven’t accepted the discomfort that that change will bring; I’m still digging my feet in a bit.
The one thing I am determined to do though is to write here.
I’m tired of only publishing my best work. I’m tired of wanting to be “a writer” and assuming that my desire somehow negates the need for frequent practice. I want to publish general musings and creative writing and biomythography; I want to publish finished pieces and very, very rough drafts. I want to write about my vulnerable, honest, and messy transitions. And when I inevitably launch from “the cusp” and dive into a new beginning, I want to be grateful that I can return to this newsletter and marvel at the journey.
So I’m going to try to do just that…though probably not consistently. ;-)