Over the years, I have spent NYE partying at clubs, dining in fancy restaurants, attending house parties, dancing at a black-tie ball, cooking at home, waiting tables in a restaurant. One year, I was on the subway at the stroke of midnight. Usually, I am with friends and loved ones on New Year's Eve (well, except for the year I was on that subway). Usually, I am in good spirits and have a nice time (again, subway = not true). Still, when I think back on all of my New Year's Eves past, I have to admit there was always a regular, unwanted guest lurking furtively behind every champagne table: Desperation. Maybe you know what I'm talking about - that sense of urgency that is present on New Year's Eve nights to HAVE A GOOD TIME. It smells the same as the stench seeping out of the Las Vegas strip.
I get it: The coming of a new year is a BIG DEAL, and we must celebrate accordingly. After all, the next year is going to CHANGE EVERYTHING, and it starts TONIGHT. So whether our plans are big or small, we approach New Year's Eve with anticipation of an apotheosis. We make our resolutions, we put on the right outfit, and we go out feeling giddy with expectation of ALL THAT IS WAITING FOR US in the new year. It's like we think we're going to find the Start button to our new lives at the bottom of a champagne bottle. Then we wake up the next day and not much has changed...except for the raging headache.
So much expectation.
I've already seen many Facebook posts stating people's joy at kicking 2012 out the door (that bitch), and welcoming 2013, which is going to be THE YEAR. But, didn't we say that last year? People put so much stock in the power of a new year to change lives. The thing is: the changing of a year is simply the changing of a day, and lives do not change overnight.
I thought of all this as I watched fireworks in Central Park last night. For the first time in years, I honestly had a great time on New Year's Eve. I had made no advance plans. I did not get dressed up. I ate hamburgers from Shake Shack with my friends in a cold park gazebo, played board games at a dive bar, and walked over to Central Park to watch the light show. All around me, the atmosphere was festive. Inside, I felt calm.
I wasn't telling myself that 2013 is going to be MY YEAR. I wasn't dreaming about all that might happen to change my life or take me by surprise in the next 12 months. I wasn't saying hasta la vista to all the bad stuff that happened in 2012, never to be seen again. My roommate asked me if I had any resolutions. I told her no, I don't believe in them.
And here's why: I've learned that new directions in life don't have to wait for the start of a new calendar year. A "new year" can, in fact, start at any time. I have no resolutions because I resolve to do the best I can every day. I've learned that you cannot erase all the bad stuff that has happened to you, and that even if you do all the right things, you are not guaranteed immunity from the bad things. I've learned that if you want your life to be different, you have to first accept all that you have done and endured already...because if you want to change your life, it's you that needs to change, not the year.
Last night, I recognized the day for what it was: just another day. It took all the pressure off of New Year's Eve. I was simply where I was, doing what I was doing, being who I be. And I was having a really good time doing it.
So here is my New Year's wish for everyone: Don't give the new year the unrealistic responsibility of changing your life, or even kickstarting change for you. The miraculous does not lie in wait amongst the days of a year. It lies within you.
Happy New You.
The first time I ever felt self-conscious was in the 8th grade. It was science class and on this day we were asked to think about the top five careers we might like to pursue. I was excited about this assignment - I had long before decided on my career, but I was a dreamer and I enjoyed thinking about other possibilities. "Actor" topped my list - I had never wanted to be anything else. "Dancer" came next - no surprise there...a dancer was just another kind of performer. Number 3 was "ice skater" - I was going through an Olympics phase, begging my mother to let me take figure skating classes. Number 4 was "Writer" and #5 was "Olympic coach" - I really wanted to go to the Olympics.
My desk was near the teacher's desk and we all had to show her our list, so my classmates started lining up and eventually the line looped back near my desk. I was busy chatting with my friend when I noticed that a group of boys in the class had drawn near; one of them was blatantly reading over my list, which was laying on my desk. I don't think he realized I noticed, but I saw and heard him when he turned to his friends and said, "Ice Skater? Olympic coach? But she's fat." They all laughed. I never felt so small.
His comment changed everything for me, and those words followed me into the future. I am not talking about self esteem - I always had a very high level of self esteem when I was growing up, and I did even after this awful moment. Until that day, I had never felt even remotely unattractive. Every time I looked in the mirror, I unfailingly saw past my glasses, past the teenage acne, past the clothes my mother picked out for me...I saw my large brown eyes, my bright smile, the curvy figure that was hiding underneath the t-shirts and shorts. This guy's words didn't plunge me into the depths of depression and low self esteem, but what it did was make me feel different - different from everyone else, and different from the girl I felt like on the inside.
The truth is, no reasonable person could have pointed a finger at me that day and reputably said, "Fat." I knew that. I never weighed more than 115 pounds back in middle school, and I was well on my way to my full height of 5'6". Maybe I was too sensitive (I always have been), but I didn't recognize this guy as the bully he was. Instead, I looked around and saw the world that I had always known in a painful new light. I was taller and bigger than almost all of the other girls in my class. I was taller and bigger on account of my half-Caucasian genes; the majority of the other girls were Asian and far more petite than me. Being taller and bigger doesn't make someone "fatter" than another person, but I guess that's what this guy meant. It made me feel like part of me was "wrong."
The Hawaii of 20 years ago, for all of its minority representation, was not very diverse. Back then, the overwhelming majority of the population (and, thus, my peers) were of Asian descent. Where I went to school, there were a few other students who were like me - half-white, half-asian - a mix that people in Hawaii call hapa. I also went to school near a military area, so we had white and black students on our campus - not much, but certainly more than many other schools in Hawaii. Still, the sea of faces I grew up with in Hawaii was overwhelmingly Asian.
There are far more whites and hapas in Hawaii today than there were 20 years ago, so many more that when I return to Hawaii for a visit these days, I am taken aback by how "white" the population has become. The point I'm trying to make is that when I was growing up, Hawaii society was so Asian that my peers didn't look at me and see a half-white, half-asian girl...they saw a white girl. And this was made clear to me in so many ways.
I wasn't just tall and curvy (in other words, "fat"). I also had wavy hair that was in a perpetual state of frizz in the Hawaiian humidity; the other girls had glossy, smooth hair that seemed to defy the elements... One boy in band class said I looked like Eddie Vedder (a man) with my hair in such a state. A classmate once teased me about a simple mistake by calling me a "stupid haole" (white person); I was sure she didn't mean it as a slur, but my faced burned with shame all the same when she said it. This was part of my reality at that time in Hawaii - anything white was perceived as not as good, and this mindset was largely socially acceptable; it may not have been as in-my-face every day, but the attitude was always in the undercurrent. As a result, I grew up feeling like a part of myself was not quite right.
Leaving Hawaii to go to college "on the mainland" very nearly gave me an identity crisis. For the first time in my life, I was "the Asian girl", and I was now one of the smallest girls in my group of friends. I started getting positive feedback about my looks, and I "blossomed" in college. After graduating, I worked in an office for a great boss...but was surprised one day when a coworker told me that he referred to me as "the little Asian girl" during a conversation with a colleague, not "the capable new manager" he had just hired.
Then there were the boyfriends. In college, I had lunch with my (white) boyfriend and his parents, during which his mother kept making disparaging jokes about the Asian restaurant in their town that served "flied lice." I tried my best to keep my smile frozen in place. Later, when he unexpectedly dumped me and subsequently dated and married a white girl, I wondered if it might have been that his mother didn't approve of Asians. It probably had nothing to do with that, but the point is that I wondered it. Another long-term boyfriend made it known at every opportunity that he preferred Asian girls (he often compared "fat" Drew Barrymore with "sexy and small" Lucy Liu). I was Asian, yet this guy could not give my sister an answer when she asked him, "Well, you must think Anna is the most beautiful woman in the world, right? Because she's your girlfriend!" He hedged because he had several "full Asian" female friends who he thought were hotter; I know because he often told me how hot these girls were. Clearly, there was a bit of the-chicken-and-the-egg going on here. I most likely tolerated someone like this because I had long ago accepted that I was "wrong" in some way, and so "understood" this shitty behavior. And being treated like that only reinforced this idea that I was not good enough.
There will always be people who make conclusions about me or put some kind of value on me because of my race, or because of how I look, or because of what I think or what I like. There are always going to be the labels. That thread runs through the fabric of our society, as any person who has been marginalized will tell you...really, as any person who has ever been judged about anything will tell you. But when you strip away my well rehearsed social balancing act, I am most myself in the place where I am half-white and half-asian. I don't identify with my Korean heritage any more than my heritage as a descendant of white people who have been in America for several generations. In fact, except for those instances where people insist on emphasizing my "otherness", I don't really see myself in a racial sense at all. I'm just me. I hope others see me as plain as that...and those who love me most do.
And that's the thing - that day in science class, that boy didn't see me as me - he saw me as wrong, with the audacity to think I could be anything than what he made of me. That makes me mad...at least it finally does, today. For many years, though, underneath an otherwise intact self esteem and a positive outlook on life, I have felt a quiet self-consciousness and anxiety over not being what others like, expect or accept. I have learned to soothe this part of me, and to do a better job of standing up for her, but I wonder if I'll ever completely stop feeling like her. To this day, whenever I go home to Hawaii, I feel huge, gross, unattractive. And yet, I know I'm not. It's amazing what we carry with us.
The most touching collection of words I have ever received on The RahRahRah came not from an admiring commenter, or even from a guest contributor. They came from an anonymous reader. One day, when I checked the visitor stats for this blog, I noticed that one reader from Somewhere Out There was directed to my website after doing a Google search with the following question: "What does a sister do when she finds out her baby sister has breast cancer?"
I don't think it's unusual at all to go online in search of comfort and advice, and my heart went out to this girl, or woman, sitting in front of her computer screen, hoping for the right words to jump out and put her soul at ease. The reader's search took her to my September 2009 article on Marty Lenore Pyhala, the breast-cancer afflicted younger sister of my dear friend, Erin Seitz. Marty was diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer shortly after turning 30, and I wrote an article about her situation at the request of Erin, who wanted to do what she could for her sister.
Although the article stands as one of The RahRahRah's most meaningful posts, I felt a little dismayed that the anonymous reader was directed to that article because it really didn't offer much in the way of comfort, or advice. Rather, it was a somewhat indignant rant on the motherfucking bitch that is breast cancer. It was all I knew to say because truth is, I don't know what a sister does when she finds out her younger sister has breast cancer. And it really bothered me to think that that anonymous reader out there didn't find the answers she was hoping for.
So, I approached Erin and asked her if she wanted to write something about this for me, and for the anonymous reader. She said yes, and then other members of her family offered to write as well. In reading what they had to say, it became clear: You simply do what you can. That's not what you would like to do - no, that would be taking the cancer away - but it's all you can do...and you need to do something.
No, I don't know what you do when you find out that your younger sister has breast cancer. And I definitely don't know what you do when your younger sister - or daughter, or mother, or wife - dies from breast cancer. That is a question I wish I could answer now, more than ever. Last Friday, Marty passed away.
I don't have the answers, but I can help other people have their say, and so I'm most honored to share with you the special thoughts of some of Marty's family members (written before her untimely passing). Click here to read.
A sister is forever...
The RahRahRah features guest writers who have taken the time to share their own stories about jumping into the unknown to follow a dream - in other words, Leaping. These writers are:
Zoey Charles of Brooklyn, NY.
Young Hee Kim of Washington, D.C.
Melissa Parrish of Boston, Massachusetts.
Erin Seitz of Brooklyn, NY.
Find out what they have to say - click here to jump. Good luck!
Okay, before you roll your eyes and say, "Here she goes again, talking about following your dreams and finding your bliss...when are we going to go back to visible panty lines?" - DON'T WORRY. I'm not going to talk about any such thing today. Leaping - or jumping into the unknown, taking risks, chasing your dreams, whatever you want to call it - is a theme that is near and dear to my heart, but I recognize that there's only so much one person can say about this topic. And anyway, I wouldn't mind talking about other things once in a while, like Bathroom Stagefright, Phone Sex, and Infidelity (all topics that readers like you - yes, you - have submitted).
So this week, I turn the reins over to four other individuals who have taken the leap...and who lived to tell the tale.
Beginning tomorrow, The RahRahRah publishes its second round of Guest Submissions, a new one each day this week. Their topic: Leaping.
For those of you who have leapt, those who want to, or those of you who just aren't sure you can, I invite you to read four stories of people betting on themselves. Zero buy-in, just for you.
See you back here tomorrow.
Nothing good happens after midnight - go home.
If you don't have a place to stay, call up a friend and ask; you'll be surprised how many friends you have in different places, and how many great friendships are waiting to be explored.
It would also behoove you to explore different places; travel is but a plane ticket away, and always worth the cost, I find.
Avoid overusing your credit card.
Shopping is a lot more fun with a friend.
Fun is the stuff of life, and should be the common denominator in everything you do.
Do everything you can dream of - our only obligation in this life is to follow our passions.
Sex can be all of these things: passionate, fun, emotional, meaningless, angry, intimate and funny.
A man who can make me laugh is the sexiest man of all.
Boys are not always dumb...but sometimes require a great deal of teaching.
Cultivating your mind is one of the most important endeavors you can devote yourself to, for a beautiful mind always outlasts a beautiful face.
After spending 30 years looking at yourself in the mirror, you are familiar with all of your faults...and you learn to accept them.
Never turn down a free meal.
Thinly slice three cloves of garlic and saute them in a few tablespoons of olive oil until they start turning golden brown; then pour this garlic olive oil mix over freshly cooked pasta and serve with salt, black pepper and some cheese -YUM!
If you eat too much garlic, the smell eventually comes out of your pores.
Save your skin - always use SPF.
Sunny days are great, but rainy days are brilliant, too - learn to love and live with both.
Love is all there is, all that matters, and in all that we do.
No matter what you do, love yourself.
Thank you to Melissa Parrish of Boston, Massachusetts for this topic.
Let's never mind the last two months of silence and instead focus on the topic at hand, shall we? Travel Adventures - It seems appropriate to revive this topic, seeing as how I've just returned from a 12-day trip to Greece. Yay, me! The occasion?: I just turned 30. True story.
For a long time, I kept thinking of my life as "Before Greece" and "After Greece." At first, this was purely a temporal thing. The trip to Greece (a girls-only trip for me and my friends turning 30) was planned months and months ago, sometime in February of this year, and on some level, even though I bought the ticket myself, I didn't actually believe I was going to go to Greece. I mean, I had always dreamed of visiting the country and seeing the Parthenon and partying on Mykonos (come on, we all grew up watching Wild on E!), but it seemed too fantastic to think that this dream was actually going to become a reality. In order for this to happen, it felt like there had to be a suspension of real life, of time, and so in filling out my planner for the rest of the year, a lot of things were mentally categorized as "Before" or "After" Greece. Ironically, this has ended up being more appropriate than I first thought.
I recently did a count and I came up with a staggering number: In the last two years, I've travelled to at least 15 different cities, and that doesn't include day or short weekend trips to places I have already seen before. It all began in November of 2008, when I traveled to Sydney, Australia. That trip was followed by another trip to Sydney (this time for four months), during which time I also visited Australian hotspots like Melbourne, Darwin and the Sunshine Coast. I also went to Bali. Then I returned home to NYC and the Golden Age of Travel began: I went to Jamaica. I went to Costa Rica. I went to Las Vegas. I finally made it to Anaheim and Disneyland (although I didn't get to ride the rides). I traveled to Vermont to go snowboarding for the first time. I went to a wedding in New Orleans (and fell in love with the city). I attended the Kentucky Derby in Louisville. Then came a plantation in Virginia, Vancouver and, finally, Greece.
I took all of these trips for various reasons, but most of them happened because I had promised myself to travel someplace new every month in 2010 to visit a friend I don't see very often. That's a long story for another day, but it was an interesting experience in "finding friends anywhere" and it fed my burning wanderlust and sudden desire to do new things. However, I don't think it was any coincidence that this breakneck traveling schedule came during a time when I was taking major restock of my personal life. Suffice it to say that the beginning of this year was a very sad time for me. I had finally gotten a hold of my career, only to see my personal life go to shit. But of course, back then I didn't see the connection between the travels and the personal dissatisfaction - I was simply excited to get away.
Then, an interesting thing happened while having lunch with a friend. I was telling him all about my travels and the exciting destinations I had lined up. This friend, prone to intense introspection, eventually says to me: "Well, at some point you have to ask yourself: What is it that you are looking for?"
My first impulse was to laugh in his face because ummmm Hello! - I wasn't looking for anything, I just wanted to travel. But all I could do was sit across from him and stare at him. His words rang true to me, I knew it in an instant. It was one of those rare times where I saw myself clearly, as in a mirror. I was indeed searching for something...but I had only just realized this in the middle of the hunt, waking up to find myself holding a gun and unsure what exactly I was aiming for. It was very disconcerting.
I kept traveling and the question stayed with me, my friend's voice constantly ringing through my head. I enjoyed each new city I went to, but my trips started to feel a little empty. I once caught myself saying, "What's so fun about traveling if you have nothing to come home to?" Then, one night, an old high school friend randomly started a Facebook chat with me and we caught up on how life is these days. She told me about her family, her home and how happy she is. I told her about my travels, to which she expressed her jealousy. I laughed, more like a scoff at myself. I told her, "Well, at some point I have to ask myself what is it that I'm looking for, right? And I'm beginning to suspect that I'm looking for exactly what you have. So I'm the one that's jealous."
Through my travels, I had come to realize that I wanted to find happiness and excitement at home, right where I lived rather than someplace new and strange. I wanted to have something to look forward to coming home to. I wanted to be happy in my everyday life, and not feel like I had to travel because it was the only thing that offered me excitement. I wanted my life to be enough.
I began committing a great deal of energy to trying to change my perspectives on life, myself and my relationships, recognizing that change had to come from me, not from a plane ticket. I also made an effort to understand what it was that I wanted in my life, and I decided to make these very clear to myself and stand my ground until I found them.
Not to be pat, but miraculously, once I started to do this, everything fell into place, and I began feeling like myself again: Happy, confident and capable of great things. Travel became fun again and I accepted an invitation to go to the Kentucky Derby in May with a guy who I knew was interested in me, but who I was not that interested in. I had pretty much blown him off for the previous six months, but who turns down an invitation to the Derby? Well, you can imagine my surprise when I go to Louisville and totally fall for the guy, recognizing that the dude under the collared shirt was cooler, funnier and a lot nicer than I first gave him credit for. Of course, he hadn't changed - I had. He's the best thing that's happened to me all year.
On top of this, my career starting taking off...literally! On a plane! I began traveling for work, a dream come true. Talk about full circle.
So it was in the midst of all this happy-groovy-feel-good-time at home that I off and go to Greece to turn 30. It was amazing, of course. My girlfriends and I saw it all: Athens, the Acropolis, Mykonos, Santorini and more Ionic columns than I ever care to see again. We posted pictures on Facebook everyday and everyone back home drooled over the crystal clear waters and our daily huge bottles of Mythos beer.
And yet...I couldn't wait to just go home. Greece was fabulous, but I had a life back home that made me feel happier than any trip could ever make me feel. One morning, I stood at our villa window, looking out onto the Aegean sea, and I realized that I was no longer searching for anything...that in fact I didn't want to travel anymore. Everything I wanted was back at home, just like they told me it'd be.
And so begins my life After Greece. I think it's going to be the best adventure yet.
Thank you to Carmen Hopper of Brooklyn, NY for this topic.
Here's a story for you:
It was St. Patrick's Day 2009, and somehow Helena and I had completely forgotten the fact. She was visiting me in Australia, where I had moved for four months to be with a boy. That had ended badly within just two weeks of my arrival and although Helena's trip had been planned long in advance, her visit with me couldn't have come at a better time. Helena and I had spent a few days in Sydney together before heading down to Melbourne, where we gorged ourselves on the city's fantastic food. On our second day there, we decided to walk off some calories by windowshopping along Chapel Street, but after a couple of hours of doing that, we felt simply parched. So, we took a break from our exercise to have some beers around mid-day in a quiet bar...which of course made us hungry again, so off we went on the search for souvlaki.
We hadn't gone even two blocks back up Chapel Street before we stopped in our tracks, dumbfounded at the sight before us. Seemingly out of nowhere had erupted a massive Irish pub named Bridie O'Reilly's, its balconies and courtyard filled to the brim with noisy, drunken green people.
"Oh yeah," said Helena, as we stared at the spectacle from the sidewalk. "It's St. Patrick's Day."
It was a beautiful sight. It reminded Helena and me of the huge St. Patrick's Day parties we threw when we lived together in Hoboken, parties that always ended up with 50 strangers in our living room, a Journey dance party and both of us passing out before 9pm. Clearly, we couldn't let this day pass without some respect so we instantly traded in our souvlakis for wifebeaters and headed into the bar.
About an hour into our revelry, a man approached us, solo, and started a conversation. His name was Andrew and we couldn't figure out why he was talking to us. He was married, so we knew he wasn't trying to hit on us (assumedly), and conversation wasn't exactly easy. Yet, he persisted, and after a few drinks, I suppose it didn't matter what we were talking about anymore.
Eventually, he asked us why two American girls were in an Irish pub in the middle of Melbourne. Helena told him she was visiting me so I had to tell him that I was there because I had moved for a boy. Beer makes me babble so I ended up telling him the whole story, and how I was really unsure about what I was supposed to do next: The boy was trying to make up with me, and I wanted to stay in Australia, but I just wasn't sure. I just didn't know what to do.
Andrew looked me in the eye and said, "Anna, you are most important. No matter what you do, remember that." I nodded and looked at him very seriously, "I know."
"No really," he said, "You are most important." And he repeated it a few more times.
It was all very Good Will Hunting-like, like in that scene near the end when Robin Williams is telling Matt Damon, "It's not your fault," and Matt finally has a breakthrough. Well, I didn't break down, grab the man in a bear hug and cry or anything, but I do remember thinking, in my drunken haze, "This is weird...but it's important."
Andrew left the party shortly thereafter and now we fast forward to three months later, near the end of my trip in Australia. I was with my dear friend Simone at her parent's house in the Sunshine Coast. Her parents are simply the greatest, welcoming me into their home as if I was their daughter. They were kind, funny, generous, and wonderful to talk to and they asked all sorts of questions to follow up on the stories that Simone had told them about me and our friendship. Of course I had to fill them in on the boy and that debacle, and one night, over fruit and champagne, Simone's father looks at me and says, "Just remember, Anna: You are most important."
Whoa. WHOA. This was the Twilight Zone. My mind immediately went back to Andrew in the Irish Pub and I thought that it was so odd to hear this phrase being said to me again, advice I had never heard exactly phrased like that in my whole life EVER...and yet here it was again within the last three months.
Now, I have always believed that we receive the guidance, advice, and comfort we need right when we need it most, so long as we are open to it. I also believe that these gifts come to us in many forms, sometimes through people who are complete strangers to us. When this happens, I like to think that these people were sent by my guardian angels with a message I need to hear...or perhaps they even ARE my guardian angels, making a brief appearance in my life as humans in order to help me. Perhaps that was Andrew.
It's up to you whether you believe stuff like that or not, but there is such a thing as synchronicity. Synchronicity is "the experience of two or more events that are apparently causally unrelated occuring together in a meaningful manner. To count as synchronicity, the events should be unlikely to occur together by chance." Some people believe that synchronicity occurs in order to reinforce a lesson we should be learning.
So, here was a case where I heard the exact same piece of advice from two people who were complete strangers to each other (first of all), and secondly, really didn't need to be giving me advice anyway. I couldn't help but think that this was bizarro, significant and something I was supposed to be hearing.
Truth is, it was a lesson I needed to learn, but it took me a few more months to realize it. I was always the girl who was quick to put everything and everyone before herself, and on more than one occasion I considered the needs, thoughts and feelings of others as more important than my own. I used to think that this was selfless, and generous, and a good indicator of how good of a person I was. I believed it would make people like me more. But the truth was, doing this is what got me into the mess I was in with the boy in Australia in the first place. And it got me into several more messes in the months that followed, after I returned to New York City. At the worst of it near the end of 2009, I found myself heartbroken, alienated from my best friend and bitter with the whole world.
I think people are hesitant to say, "I am important" because it comes off sounding arrogant and selfish. I know I was afraid of that. But I've learned the hard way that it's not about saying that you are more important or more special than other people, or that you can't love others wholeheartedly and unselfishly. It's about saying that you are most important to you, that no matter what happens, no matter what other people say or want, no matter what hardship arises, you will stand by you - your values, your needs, your feelings - because you are a person of value, because you are just as important as the next person.
By saying, "I am most important," you stay in touch with who you are...and this allows other people to see, know and value the real you. If you don't make yourself the most important person to you, then you will never be the most important person to anyone or anything. I'd go so far as to say that making yourself most important to you benefits EVERYONE, because then we can all finally get real with ourselves and each other, learning to love each other for who we really are and sparing ourselves the petty games we play when we're trying to gain the upper hand with others. If you are most important to you, you never need the upperhand...you've already got it.
I know you've all heard this before, and I don't want to preach. But I'll end with saying that as simple as this sounds, it is sometimes the hardest lesson to learn about yourself: That you really do matter.
But you do.
You are most important.
Thank you to Young Hee Kim of Washington, DC for this topic.
A few posts back, I talked about "jumping into the unknown," or as my friend Chris put it, "giving up work and career and focusing on something that means a lot more, like a passion and stuff."
The feedback to this post was tremendous. Not only did I receive emails and comments about the post, I also found myself engaged in random conversations with people who admitted that this was something they have always wanted to do...but didn't know how.
One person told me that she really appreciated the post, but would have loved to have heard more stories from other people about taking the risk to follow a dream.
That got me thinking...and so, the topic for the second round of guest submissions for The RahRahRah is:
Have you made the jump, or want to make the jump, to pursue a dream?
Any thoughts or experiences that you'd like to share about this topic, send it on over. After all, it is only by sharing our stories that we help each other get through this crazy thing called life (that one's for you, Zeb).
Submissions due by Sunday May 16, 11:59pm.
Email files to TheRahRahRah@gmail.com
And keep dreaming!