I Began Anyway

Isn't it interesting how something can matter so much to us...

and we still have a hard time beginning?

We want to have the conversation. Make the change. Do the thing that's been weighing on us. And sometimes we move right into it.

Other times? Crickets… We wait.

For me, one of those things has been writing these blogs. I care deeply about sharing what I'm living and teaching with you. And still, getting started hasn't been easy.

A few months ago, I didn't even want to open the document where I would begin.

I knew it was there. I knew I was going to write the blog. And still, I waited. I'd think about it while I was doing something else.

I need to get started on that. Then I'd feel that familiar pressure in my chest.

What if I do it wrong? 

What if I don't know how to do it? 

What if I fail? 

So I'd wait a little longer.

Eventually the deadline would get close enough that my commitment kicked in. I felt the pressure, and I began anyway. And once I did? The process began to unfold.

This month, something different happened. The day I planned to begin...I opened the document. No brilliant idea was waiting for me. I still didn't know what I was going to write.

And in that very ordinary moment, I realized how much has changed.

For a long time, I thought being uncomfortable meant I needed to do something about it. 

Find the answer. Fix the problem. Do it better.

Or avoid the whole thing until I felt more ready. It wasn't just with writing.

As a little girl, I wanted things around me to feel better, so I tried to be better.

As I got older...

If I were thinner, maybe I'd fit in.

If my family behaved a certain way, maybe I'd feel happier.

If I had more clients or made more money, maybe I'd finally relax.

Different circumstances. Same hope.

When this changes, I'll feel better.

It took me a long time to see this:

Discomfort is part of living.

So what if trust isn't about feeling comfortable?

Maybe trust is discovering I can be uncomfortable—and still be okay.

I still wake up some mornings feeling heavy. I still feel resistance. I still don't have all the answers.

That hasn't changed.

What has changed? I have evidence now.

Every time I begin without knowing exactly how it will turn out, I give myself another experience that says:

See? You can count on yourself.

This month, that looked like opening the document when I said I would. Starting before I had the answer. Letting the mess be part of finding the message.

Maybe you have your own version of my unopened document.

A conversation you keep thinking about having.

A decision you keep going back and forth on.

Something you want to say no to—or something you really want to say yes to.

Maybe it's something that's been sitting on tomorrow's list for a while.

What if you already have some evidence of your own?

Times you didn't know what to do—and found your way.

Times you were scared—and did it anyway.

Times life didn't go the way you expected—and somehow, here you are.

Maybe you don't need all the answers to trust yourself. Maybe you already have something even more valuable.

Evidence.

Evidence that when life gets uncomfortable, uncertain, or messy, you won't leave yourself there. You'll find your way.

Not because you know exactly how. Because you've done it before.

And experience by experience, you begin to know:

I can count on me.