I am 37. I never had any idea what I was really going to do. But I always knew that it would involve words or music or art.
Little girls aren’t allowed to say things like that, though.
“What’s your plan B?”
“What’s your real job?”
Here is a thing I know. There is no such thing as security. I thought there was. They tell you that there is. If you get the grades and the degree and the 401k and the 6 figure salary, you’re set.
It is a lie.
I worked for two major corporations. I had high paying jobs with all of the travel and perks.
Know what? I lost two of those jobs in 13 months because it turns out corporations don’t really care about my security.
Almost two years ago I decided to leave my career and stay home. I wanted to raise my babies and open whatever door I was supposed to open. Chase everything.
And it always comes back to words.
So. This year has been about starting over. I’m fumbling my way through my first project – releasing words in print for the first time in my life. And I’m scared.
What if I suck? What if I totally humiliate myself?
I also know that the 13 year old that sat in class scribbling in journals because she didn’t know how else to process her life would be really proud.
Tell a little girl she can do it. Probably not on her timeline. Probably not by the time she’s 18. Probably not even by the time she’s 30. Maybe not even 50.
But her contribution is worth it.
And so is yours.