I said this to my husband the other day when we were out for a walk in the sunshine, just the two of us sharing the morning together before picking up the kids from their grandparents’ house.

Things are scary for me right now. I’m scared I won’t continue losing weight, having stalled somewhere in the 190s so far this summer. I’m scared I won’t find enough work to keep us going financially. I’m scared I won’t reach my writing dreams, The Big Ones. I’m scared about that low number in our checking account and the high one on our credit card balance. As far as low points go, this is a pretty bad one.

And I’m not freaking out. I’m not losing sleep. I’m not sabotaging myself. I am choosing not to be that way for the first time in my life. Instead, I am quietly, slowly, and steadily putting one foot in front of the other toward those Big Goals. And it’s really fucking hard. I know some of you write about what a light I’ve been in your lives and have called me an ‘example’ that you’re glad to follow. I don’t feel like an example—I feel like an epic disaster of a ‘Before’ photo!—but I get your meaning; I’m figuring stuff out AND learning to apply it, even if slowly, even if imperfectly. 

This is why I haven’t written about the body image stuff I mentioned last week; hating my body isn’t really on my radar right now, which is probably more of a blessing than anything else.

What I’ve come to realize in choosing not to be upset and so freaked out I can’t function (let alone work, or find work, or write well, or be present for my loved ones, or take care of myself) is that I miss out on so much joy.

Instead of quietly setting aside being too afraid to be of use to anyone, I used to engage in behaviors that numbed me (overeating, getting a good beer buzz on, dicking around online, doing anything but the very things I needed to be doing to realize those dreams). Sometimes, I still do these things, but it’s never with that same level of denial. Maybe I need to sound the depths to hear the echo of the person I once was just to see if I can reach the surface again, prove to myself that I am Me and not Her. Every time the journey back is shorter.

The funny part is, this journey I’m on now isn’t any easier. Sure, I’m scared but I’m not letting it rule me, but I still have to get a bunch of things done and hope a lot of stars align before these issues improve. You simply trade one set of problems for another in life, I think. One way of being, with its unique burdens and blessings, gets you where you want to be, so I’ll take these for now, and I’ll keep seeking the joy that’s always hidden within every moment—that “Read to me, Mommy” or the languid conversation at lunch when the kids think I can’t hear them and I marvel at how they sound like little old men or the mourning dove that flew just over my bike helmet on my last ride, its fawn colored legs tucked flat, toes gracefully pointed, or the baristas and booksellers who know my name and make me feel welcome or his random kisses on the back of my neck, quietly reminding me we are connected, or the sound my parents’ laughter when I crack wise with them. I’d rather have that joy and that fear and that hard-won momentum, now and at the end of my days.

Here’s the best way to frame my lack of regret despite decades of being scared and stuck: I’ve wasted enough time, and I don’t want to make room for things that don’t serve my goals or me. I have too much living to do and fun to have and cool stuff to make.

That’s something my career coach says to me when I’m hesitant about tackling an important goal. I didn’t really get it until last week, when I realized I’d grown simply by taking action. When you’re prone to overwhelm and getting and staying stuck like me, it’s hard to see even the most basic of baby steps as a practical solution to getting unstuck. But I get it, and it’s another of those realizations that, once they hit, you can’t ignore them again.

Since last August, once a month I visit my city park to walk the trails there, pay attention, and take photos of scenes and details that catch my eye. Nobody is paying me to do this, and the act of creation is its own reward; photography, like hiking, is a way for me to unwind and get outside of my head for a while. I call this project A Year at the Park, and I’ll soon select twelve images—one from each month—to display at my small town Starbucks in September of this year. I’m pretty stoked about that; it’s a milestone for me to display my work, well, anywhere.

One of my goals for this project was to capture a sense of this place, which is my favorite photographic style (the other is one I call ‘storytelling’ or ‘capturing moments in time,’ either of which is likely considered photojournalistic but meh, what a dry descriptor!). Another goal was to better understand manual exposure. I’m not a numbers person, and I’ve read book after book and taken many classes—from high school on up to online courses within the last decade—and still the mechanics of looking at a subject, getting a basic light reading, and selecting two corresponding numbers to create a pleasing image was utterly beyond me. I simply called my way of doing things “point and pray.” But this past June was the month during this project when I realized: “I’ve got this.” 

I was approaching subjects—whether broader landscapes or wildflower buds the size of a ladybug’s head—with a reasonably competent idea of how to set the aperture and shutter speed to get an exposure that makes me say “Wow!” when I see the image. I’ve always been an okay photographer, in that I have a pretty good eye and can tell a decent story or create a cool composition. But my images weren’t wowing me all that often, and I knew I was missing something elemental but was never sure about how to pursue it. Last week, I was shooting manual exposures without over-thinking, or even really thinking about it at all. The time I’d put in and the practice and the willingness to shoot a series of duds to get one ‘Wow!’ shot had all paid off in a combination of skill and knowledge that has never felt intuitive to me.

This process only took 28 years. 

Not a typo: I spent nearly three decades not bothering to put in the time or to acquire the patience to learn what I needed to learn in order to be a better photographer. 

Now I could beat myself up about this if I was at a different emotional place in my life: “How COULD you let that much time go? What kept you so stuck for so long? You’re not stupid but you sure act as if you are! What is your major malfunction?” But I’m not going to do that. As with my weight loss progress so far, sure, I could’ve discovered what I need to do in order to consistently lose weight in my very late 20s and early 30s, when my weight really started increasing. “Look at all that wasted time! You let yourself go, you hid from life, you did this to yourself, and you had the answers all along! You’re not lazy, but you sure act as if you are! How COULD you? What is your major malfunction?”

I can say these terrible things to myself or I can be grateful that I figured something out that will make my time on earth measurably better. Not everybody gets that lucky. I also know that hating and saying cruel things to myself has never, ever served me, and were I to return to that way of living inside my head, I’d doom myself to a life of unfulfilled dreams and untapped potential. It’s one thing to acknowledge reality and kick yourself in the ass to get moving on something you’re stalling about; it’s quite another to pound yourself into the ground at every opportunity because you’re imperfect, or lost, or stuck, or ashamed. I can’t be that person any more. I certainly won’t waste another 28 years feeling afraid to slowly, carefully, and mindfully build momentum on something I want to do. 

That brings me around to writing. Reading Stephen King’s On Writing, I realized how young he was (early 20s) when he sold his first novel and felt that pang of regret: I’m 43 now, and I’ve had this writing talent in me for most of my life and I never tapped into it. I’m not even sure why; fear, maybe. The (accurate) knowledge that there are so many better writers out there, so why bother (a terrible response to that first bit of knowledge—who cares if someone is better than you at something?). And maybe the most egregious error of my ways: the assumption that Someday will be waiting for me when I’m ready to commit to the kind of writing I know I was born to do—with honesty, humor, and, when I’m particularly lucky, a bit of grace.

I think that understanding WHY we get stuck is important—to a degree. I have some ideas about me—a combo of perfectionism, a tendency to feel overwhelmed by big projects, fear (of failure and putting in the hard work and feeling the pain of that hard work), a scarcity mentality, and the erroneous assumption that Someday will always be around. These are the stumbling blocks I picked up along the way for a variety of reasons that I don’t think much matter, because getting to the roots beneath our field of unfulfilled dreams isn’t something you want to do indefinitely. It takes more than roots to grow something beautiful, or useful, or tasty.

The goal of recognizing stumbling blocks isn’t to build a perpetual circle jerk support group in our heads that exists long after we require that support; the goal is to nurture some of those unfulfilled dreams to blossom, and that requires showing up—daily, weekly, or even monthly. Building and keeping momentum, cherishing the journey—even the mistakes—and relishing the results. 

Spending ten months at my city park brought me this gift of knowing that nothing beautiful, or satisfying, or worthwhile grows from self-loathing or deciding that staying stuck is less scary than pushing through. 

I say this to my kids almost daily, along with “funny but wrong” and “stop making that fart noise!” What’s really cool about this saying is that I seem to have coined it, and what’s even cooler is that I have witnessed my sons saying that phrase aloud to themselves before asking my husband or me for something they’re worried we’ll deny them. I’m filing that under the parenting ‘win’ column, if not in the “lyrically written, grammatically awesome” one, thankyouverymuch.

I really do believe this. And I also finally realize that the corollaries, “Don’t try, don’t get,” “Don’t risk, don’t get,” and “Don’t do, don’t get,” also apply.

I realize that the posts I’m writing right now are pretty revealing and that they may not seem like they apply to fitness, weight loss, or lifestyle change (though I know that they do). I feel vulnerable writing about this stuff and proving that not only do I not have ‘it’ all together but I am, speaking objectively here, kind of a nutcase (albeit a lovable and adorable one) who let denial and fear rule about half her life. And I don’t care, because putting it out there outweighs any worries of what anyone reading this might think, and I think that in itself tells me that I’m on the right track.

I’ll share the one I can describe succinctly: for all of my adult life, I’ve been more willing to borrow against my future than to take chances in the present. Taking out huge student loans instead of working and attending night school. Sticking with things (like law school or ‘good girl’ practical writing gigs) that I sensed or even knew were all wrong for me instead of pushing through fear and going for gigs I really wanted with big, scary markets (including fiction). Relying on credit cards to pay for things I should’ve earned beforehand. Holding myself back from name-that-dream instead of digging in and taking baby steps to achieve it, always borrowing from the bank of Someday, I’ll [write that novel, lose the weight, pay off those loans, be satisfied with my life/home/work/self].

For this I have paid dearly, but now that I see this pattern, there’s no turning back, and staying numb and living in denial no longer seem possible. And the better I become at living with fear, uncertainty, and risk, the more often I am able to choose those things over timidity, fear, and staying stuck.

If I get the chance after a few early appointments, I’m going to talk about my lofty goal of helping women—and maybe some dudes, too—love their looks at any size or age. I believe it starts with a one-two punch of self-acceptance and rethinking ‘beautiful.’ (Hint: ‘perfect’ has no place in this conversation.)

It’s not about the food.

Or the booze. Or the dope. Or the money. Or the video games. Or the mindless web surfing. Or the drama. Or the sex. Or the shopping.

Whatever it is we use to tune out, to muffle ourselves, to hide from any potential discomfort that might dare to brush up against us isn’t the problem. It’s that avoidance of discomfort, of effort, of pain, of embarrassment, of feeling that’s the problem. But here’s the thing: the frothing, deep waters of that discomfort are exactly what we need to dive into, head first, trusting we’ll land safely. Why? What does this even mean? Why are we supposed to embrace discomfort, and what’s wrong with tuning out once in a while or doing what makes us happy? 

I’ll start by saying what this post isn’t about: becoming a fear-conquering adrenaline junkie; the goal here isn’t to trade one addictive behavior or one extreme way of thinking and being for another. But readying for and even embracing the discomfort not just of starting out (because starting is easy, right?) but continuing day after day after day after day, is the surest path to healing I’ve encountered. 

Obviously, we’re not meant to live in a constant state of fear and discomfort, and of course delicious food/drink and entertaining social media sites or games or programming are all great (wait for it) in moderation. These things enhance our lives, and most of us work hard for the chance to kick back, relax and savor our free time. So when I say ‘discomfort,’ I don’t mean abstinence or detachment. I mean the discomfort that comes from trying something new, or the discomfort of pushing through the intro to that essay/chapter/article/entry and getting it done, and then turning around and starting on the next thing. The discomfort of risking rejection and sending that email anyway. Of telling someone in our lives that you have boundaries they are no longer welcome to cross. Of waking at six a.m., peeling away the delicious, cool comfort of your sheets as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, wondering where you left your running shoes. 

I did just that this morning; I could’ve slept till eight but instead I got up and while I did not love my workout, I loved having finished it. Another promise kept, another self-imposed barrier nudged aside. As I lay in bed contemplating whether to just let today go, give myself a break and the gift of extra sleep, I thought about my upcoming girlfriends’ getaway at the end of July, a little joint I named Fred that is populated by an incredible group of women whom I adore (and who would adore me whether I weighed a hundred pounds more or less than I do now). I’m really looking forward to seeing my girls and getting out and doing some fun stuff on the Oregon coast, and I wondered how I’d feel if I’d regained any weight by then and my clothes became too tight. Or if I let my recent two-week exercise hiatus last so long that I started feeling out of shape again. How would future me feel? When I considered that, I got up, found my shoes, and worked out.

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve let Future Me down—usually centered around some significant event (wedding, vacation, reunion, conference)—where I’d realize that I’d let another season or year get away from me and I once again faced that I wasn’t where I wanted to be. Usually these feelings would emerge related to my weight, fitness levels, and body image, but this pattern extends far beyond food and fitness. I’ve also watched colleagues and friends sell book proposals, snag agents, build thriving websites, and finish first drafts of novels while my great ideas withered in the sun at the starting gate. I never coaxed those great ideas out because that would be hard. And uncomfortable. And, let’s be honest: it would require sacrifice. And time. And patience. And learning from mistakes and missteps. And follow-through.

Thinking about it all seemed easier. Beating myself up for staying stuck seemed easier. Relying on the bank of Someday became the default setting.

If you’ve padded your life as securely as I have, you understand what I’m saying here. That’s why I maintain that this isn’t about the food. Or the number on the scale. I’ve followed the same patterns of comfort seeking and avoidance in my career for the past couple of years, in large part because I didn’t want to feel discomfort, and also because I was afraid to truly be myself professionally. Lots of perfectionism (if I can’t do it perfectly, why bother?), people pleasing (“I’m a good girl, and good girls do ______, so even though I’m not like that, I’ll do it anyway because it’s what I’m supposed to do”), and fear of rejection or failure if I did things my way and in my own voice. I’m not sure where that divide came from, but I’m working on merging it and finding my place as a writer. I’m also pushing through a long-standing pattern of avoidance when it comes to both fiction and nonfiction writing. What my ‘security’ has gotten me is a stalled career, a heaping mound of debt, and a bank account so lean that for the first time ever, we may not have enough to pay our mortgage next month. And I have no specific idea of how I’m going to fix that, but I know it won’t be through avoidance and fear. For the first time in a long time, thanks to supportive family, friends, and a kickass career coach, I have hope that I can turn this around.

None of those work issues are about food. Or weight. Or money. The food is just a symptom of a greater problem, a deep-seated scarcity mentality. Same goes for the debt and the lack of financial success; living in fear that the bottom will drop out often gets you exactly that. Funny how that works, huh? Until I address the roots of that fear, the dark spot that drives everything else into ruin on the surface, I won’t succeed in losing weight, paying my bills, or achieving my narrative and fiction writing dreams. It’s not about the food. It’s never been about the food. Or the money. It’s been about the fear of not having enough or being enough to achieve my goals.

What’s the solution? Here’s what losing nearly 40 pounds has taught me thus far: Show up. Every day. I tell my kids all the time, “Don’t ask, don’t get.” Well, “don’t do, don’t get” is equally true. And nothing gets done all at once, or perfectly with mastery on day one. Why I or anyone else expects this is beyond me, but I think once again it comes down to preferring comfort over effort. Here is that crossroad of my life where I discover the humility of taking one step at a time and as many steps as it takes to build something I know I’m capable of creating and achieving. Here is where I refuse to  surrender to what feels easier in exchange for what I really want to do and who I really want to be. I’m going to be writing about this here, warts and all, and I welcome you to share your own thoughts and questions about this process.