Could the pending collapse of social media as we’ve known it be the thing that makes writing stick?

Let’s find out.

I am 45. The year is 2025. It seems THRIVE is sitting right there as word of the year. I have a word of the year worksheet I’m going to spend time with this weekend and make sure I really connect to something this year. The year that I’m sneaking myself back into my own life.

What does that mean?

• It means I bought a new comforter for our bed that I’ve been coveting for a while and I’m making the bed each day and putting pretty throw pillows on it. When I lived alone I had such a pretty monochromatic cream bedroom and I kept it clean and put together because it looked so nice that way. I’m getting back to that.
• When cleaning up some stuff in the basement I came across a zip loc bag full of stuff I pulled off my fridge in my last house. One of the things is a picture of me hugging the KitchenAid mixer box on Christmas morning 2003. I always had that picture on the side of my fridge. It has been added to the side of this fridge.
• I added a gallery wall to my home office of pictures I love that represent how I’m feeling now. The vibe in which I’m trying to evoke as I move forward. There are champagne coups and disco balls and homages to Sherbet Birdie.

When I moved in with Rich and the boys to our new to all of us house, I prioritized that it feel comfy for all of us, and I still think that’s important. But I’ve been getting glimmers of me in weird little things and I’m noticing them and pulling them forward.

Here is what we’re not going to do. We’re not going to spend many, many dollars and fly halfway around the globe and not document it. We’re going to start where we are. We’re going to capture the life.

With that, here I sit in Melbourne, Australia. I’m on the patio of the home Rich, Rex, Jenna, Shawn and I are renting for another couple days before we take off for Sydney for about a week and then a couple days on the Great Barrier Reef. The trip we started talking about in, I don’t know, 2018 or 2019. The trip that seemed to live in the abstract more than a real thing until the day before we left. And now we’re here. Tomorrow we’ll go to the Australian Open and watch the best woman in the world play her preliminary tennis match.

It’s sunny and warm and there is a great breeze blowing through the palm and lime trees in this back yard.

It’s still early 2024. The horoscopes generally tell me this is a good year for Libra. It’s been a minute since I would have called it a good year. I mean, good things are happening all the time. And I’m lucky and fortunate, and I don’t ever forget that. But the last couple years of this job have been HARD. The word I most use to describe last year is « joyless ». Who wants that kind of year? This has to be the year I get out of that definition.

Year of magical thinking? Year of epic, magical comebacks? Year of looking forward to tomorrow? That sounds good.

Rich and I got breakfast before the others arrived. We walked a couple blocks to this cafe called My Oh My and the menu had a tagline about magic. And they brought coffee with a little sparkling water chaser. And then when I finished my coffee there was a message imprinted in the ceramic, reminding me to manifest original moments. I immediately declared Australia a magical place.

I have an appointment with Sherbet Birdie photography, aka Sasha Dobies, when I’m in Sydney later this week. I cannot believe this thing is happening. I cannot believe this person who I’ve been following from oceans away is going to know who I am. I made a playlist called Sherbet Birdie Magic to listen to while I’m there. Hoping it will keep me calm and also give me a little confidence and help me relax while I’m at this thing I’ve wanted to do for so, so long. I obviously added a couple songs by my new favorite Taylor Swift. But some Zumba songs from way back that I love. And songs that I think of when I lived alone in the coffee shop apartment or Eastmoor Manor. Songs that helped me train for runs.

It is very surprising to me how difficult it has been to get back to writing. Therapist is asking me to do it every day. I’ve joined 30 day journaling groups. I miss it and want to do it. I feel I’ve lost years of stories and memories and processing time to this years long writer’s block. A me who writes is more clever, more engaged in my life, more aware and I’ll say it – not a terrible writer.

It is no joke about losing it if you’re not using it. I am fumbling my way back so very much.

I am currently on vacation. This was a solid compromise kind of vacation between Rich and I. He gets a cruise, I get new to me cities, and it’s working out. We boarded a ship yesterday in LA and we’re heading north to Seattle, Victoria, BC and Vancouver. I’ll pay homage to Starbucks, see Pikes Place Market, and the Space Needle in Seattle (not to mention give a little nod to the city that my long running Grey’s Anatomy took place in). I’m going to high tea at the Empress Hotel in Victoria while Rich goes on a salmon fishing excursion. There’s also a miniature museum next to the hotel so a big afternoon is anticipated by all. That actually made Rich feel better about us doing separate things that day. One mention of my genuine excitement to swing by the miniature museum and the cost of salmon fishing seemed perfectly acceptable. We’re staying a couple of days in Vancouver and one day is supposed to be very rainy and gross. There is an art museum that might be on the agenda for that day, and we’re near the Vancouver Chinatown if there are breaks in the rain. I’m hoping our last full day clears up so we can hike the suspension bridges and falls just north of Vancouver.

And then back home. I had not great vacation luck in 2022 and also desperately needed a few days to legitimately unplug. I was hesitant about going and longed for it. So far so good. No one is sick, no one is crashing the trip and generally ruining it. So, we’re ahead of 2022.

I’m sitting along a giant wall of windows on this ship, in a bar that isn’t open yet and looking at the water, sipping coffee and things are good.

I have a lot of writing prompts I’ve been saving for when motivation struck. I have a lot of things about May/the recent full moon/astrology as prompts for when I decided to lean into that guidance from the universe.

And maybe I’ll pick this up again later today with those things. For now, I think I’m going to do another thing on the therapist’s to do list – create something. Maybe some coloring is in order. Or I’ll find the empty nightclub and so some dancing. Maybe I’ll wait for the bran muffin to settle (I’m reaching peak middle aged lady – crushing, bran muffins, I wore a scarf yesterday that Rich said is something he imagines his mother wearing) before the dancing.

I remain a big fan of the TV show Survivor. I have been watching consistently since season 2 (still have never watched 1st season). The game has evolved after 23 years and 44 seasons of play, it must. That doesn’t mean I love every evolution. Lately I was waxing poetic about how much better the game was before there were so many assumed hidden immunity idols, how alliances used to mean something, and so on… so I got a hankering to go back and watch some old seasons. And now I’m in a loop where I worry I’ll need to watch alllll the seasons. They used to change locations! Challenges felt longer and more complex. Some of the newer challenges look like they’re at Disneyland.

Has my own evolution made me less interesting? That’s a great question. Seriously, it is giving me literal pause as I type. I do feel I used to be able to turn the mundane into whimsical and interesting retellings. I’m sooo out of practice. I’m out of practice being my favorite version of me as therapist Heather pointed out.

It’s been a *hot minute* since I’ve had clarity around purpose. I’ve been happily riding the tsunami of stuff happening to me for the last several years.

Therapist finally got very real with me today. “Sarah – when you’ve told me you’ve felt the best, happiest, most like yourself – you talk about three things: exercise (particularly Zumba or running), some kind of creative project (funny photo shoots, overly themed dinner parties, quarantine newsletters) and writing.” She continued, “You already have the map to feeling better, you’re just not following it.”

Yes. That felt right. She told me I’ve been identifying with work too much, so when it’s been stressy and overwhelming and I’m not feeling like I’m doing enough, I’m taking that a little personally.

Back in 2012 I had a very purposeful year. If it wasn’t school, running or work I wasn’t prioritizing it.

In 2016 I had a similarly awesome year. If it wasn’t health, work project or creative friend stuff I wasn’t prioritizing it.

I sort of thought 2020 would be another big mojo year. Alas… it was instead a pandemic.

So here we are, where I feel I’ve been a million times before. I thought my word of the year would be Curious. I wanted to be curious about myself, what was interesting to me in this new phase of life, where my passions were now. I think instead the word should be Heal. There are obviously things that continue to pop up. Therapist says I’m great at disregarding my feelings… knowing they are there and then discounting them.

So she has assigned me, the strongest language she’s used in our time together, to spend one hour a day on the things that make me light up: happy exercise, art endeavor, writing. Plus an extra 10 minutes a day on clothing / closet management because it’s gotten to be a real issue.

Around 6 I actually logged off, even though there is more work to be done, and got my bike out. I biked to the new park about 2.25 miles from my house and back. Less than 5 miles of biking should not have been that taxing. Alas, here we are. I spent about 30 minutes biking. I took a selfie of me with the bike afterwards – my artistic attempt for the day. And now I’m sitting at BrewDog where the big doors are wide open to the patio and it’s sunny and lovely and I have this insanely delicious berry cider beer and I have my lil Chrome Book for the writing. I tried to do longhand journaling again. It’s just not for me. It comes through my fingers on a keyboard or not at all.

I downloaded a habit tracking app. I added my 4 things: move, create, write, closet situation. And we’re off.

In other news, remind me to talk about gamification and if we’ve taken it a little to far in future posts. Because I will be back here. Soon.

I have this great idea for a birthday party, but timing is tricky now that the world has opened up again and everyone has so many plans to make up for the last couple of years. I want to summon The Council of Women. It’s basically a girls night with an agenda, because what girls’ night doesn’t benefit from an agenda. I want to know if we’re getting botox and where from, where are we buying bras from, what podcasts am I missing out on, etc. An in-person version of what I look to tik tok for these days.

In general any activity I do in the month of September is automatically classified a birthday event. Seeing a movie? Birthday date! Dinner with friends is birthday dinner! The few years before Covid were some great community events – adult prom fundraiser and themed nights at the Franklin Park Conservatory were my birthday parties. We’d take silly group photos and those became my Christmas cards.

Last year I was recovering from foot surgery during a pandemic surge.

So, this year, there are some plans. Birthday dinner next Tuesday with Jenna at a new to both of us restaurant with half price wine bottles on Tuesday. A larger birthday dinner on my actual birthday in Boston where I’ll be for work / the start of our vacation. Rich and I are taking his parents, my mom and grandma on a New England fall foliage cruise. But first, a day in Boston and dinner at a fun modern Mexican restaurant with my oldest friend from high school, my husband and the parents.

For a long time I thought I was avoiding writing because my external life wasn’t matching with what I wanted it to be, thought it should be. I had moved to the suburbs, to the worst kind of suburb – the new build cookie cutter kind. I had step kids and I got a dog and the things I thought made me ME were fading. I didn’t throw parties, I wasn’t writing, I didn’t have interesting & costumed places to be. I did have a husband who I straight up adore and love. And a good job that let me do interesting work with some very nice people (and some real arrogant jack asses). I kept reminding myself that I was fortunate and living a very nice life all the while struggling.

Turns out that perhaps, the struggle is inside. This is most likely a surprise to no one.

I recently went on a less than great vacation to the Sedona/Grand Canyon area. What was great is that I had an afternoon off from the friends and I went to get a picture of my aura and cards read. This is the most me activity in all the land. The medium’s name was Heather and she did her thing and told me the number 12 was coming to her. She asked what happened when I was 12, that I needed to reach out to the 12 year old past me and write her a letter.

I have avoided activities just like that in all my years of therapy. Probably the past was fine, I certainly wasn’t traumatized, and let’s just focus on the future.

But ever since then there has been a nag. A nag that has wondered what I would say to 12 year old me. A nag that said you have all the freedom in the world to do the things that bring you joy. A nag that says stop playing dumb ipad games and read, paint, draw, write, learn or dance. And so today, armed with a second crazy pill (when one just isn’t enough) I deleted the dumbest of all ipad games, came outside to start a fire, and picked up this here laptop.

I did this 2 minute meditation over the weekend. A simple one that said close your eyes and picture the you you want to be getting out of bed tomorrow. What does she look like, sound like, do? I started sobbing and couldn’t even finish. I have been acting in a way that is counterproductive to my desired future self. And any change manager worth her stuff knows better.

I spent a couple years happy in new marriage, but struggling with the life that came with it. I’ve now accepted the life that comes with it, and still very happy in marriage. (He really is the dreamy best.) There is only the issue of me fighting myself.

I’m sitting here with my 2nd glass of wine, still the best version of me, my little firepit fire, lots of sky beyond me and the new build houses still going up. I love to poke at a fire. I cannot let it go more than 3 minutes without rearranging the wood. The fireplace is something I loved from my last home. The home I bought and painted and entertained in and inhabited so completely.

My cat Quinn passed away last month. She was a role model of ladylike living and general disdain. I loved that cat so much. My first pet and the first to pass away and it was terrible. A few weeks later I decided we needed a new kitten and my husband is the nicest so a new kitten we got. Our incredible luck with cats continues and Leo, the new tabby, is a delightful addition to our little domesticated animal zoo.

It is Halloween.

There is a full Blue moon outside.

I just got home from an intimate and delightful wedding ceremony for two of the coolest people I know. I do not say that lightly here, Peter and Emily are phenomanally interesting to me. I aspire to inhabit my space the way they do theirs. I am constantly in amazement and deeply delighted somehow I’ve made my way to these people.

I am unsure I’m keeping up my end of the awesomeness bargain this year.

Here we are – 60 days left of 2020. This year that acknowledge was full of stressors we aren’t able to fully comprehend, that I feel also delivered a lot of gifts in terms of flexibility and time. Tonight I feel very much like I have squandered the gifts of this year.

I look around and see how people rose to challenges this year, how they still conquered. I want to feel like that.

One of the few outings I had early in 2020 prior to pandemic was coffee with Emily, the bride from this evening. She was talking about a challenging part of her relationship and said something she had to remember is that everything is a choice. If she wasn’t willing to accept a thing, she had a choice to do something about it – leave, talk about it, set boundaries, etc. I have squandered choice this year.

There is work to be done.