How to get your head out of own a$$

Be of service

I’ve been really hard on myself lately (“lately”, ha! who are we kidding…)

I’ve been telling myself that I’m longer a “real” writer since I don’t post on Substack or publish articles as regularly.

How can I claim to be an "author" when I'm nowhere near starting a second book?

It’s not that I haven’t been writing.

I'm working on something special for moms of young kids, and it requires a lot of introspection, brainstorming, and copy. So much copy.

How do people do create these kind of things without destroying themselves in the process?

Maybe they don’t treat every reminder email as if it’s their next magnum opus.

Or maybe they just hire a copy writer.

Or perhaps they get of their own way by reminding themselves they’re doing this to be of service.

Image by Photorama from Pixabay

I’m convinced no one likes me anymore, and I’m a failure.

I’m questioning every word that comes out of my mouth and reading way too deeply into social exchanges, even with perfect strangers.

I had a realization the other day that people aren’t necessarily ignoring me if I see them in public and they don’t acknowledge me. It’s probably because their head isn’t on a swivel and they’re not hyper-vigilant like I am.

Or maybe (most likely) it’s not about me. Maybe they’re having a rough day.

Maybe I should check in with them instead of always needing people to reassure me.

I think I have a bit of PTLD (Post Traumatic Launch Disorder), since I’m getting ready to share this new thing and I’m still recovering from the vulnerability hangover after my book launch.

Or maybe it’s my co-dependency.

Or maybe (more likely) I just need to stop focusing on myself and rechannel my energy into helping others.

My husband makes these delectable feasts for lunch and it amazes me the time and care he puts into cooking food. Even the presentation is perfect, though it’s just for him, and he will likely eat it while watching Sports Center.

I’ve started to adopt this practice—cooking myself special meals for no occasion other than to be kind to myself.

Granted, a "special meal" for me means adding feta to my eggs or toasting the bread for my turkey sandwich, but the act is helping nourish me on more levels than just my body.

I can't flip a switch in my brain and turn off the critical, scared voice that shrieks, "You are never enough! You will never be loved! You will fail!" But I can channel my energy into tiny acts of kindness (even the ones directed back at me).

I can unclog writer's block and redirect self-obsessive thinking by remembering: I am here to serve. It's never about me.

Even when it seems like it's about me, it's probably not...

We're all just doing the best we can and trying to find pockets of joy and opportunities to heal our pain.

And the best way to get out from underneath the storm cloud that is woe-is-me thinking is to help someone else find the sunshine.