My 2021 ended with a momentary pity party.
I was sick of being trapped in Ottawa, I was sick of small town mindedness, and mostly, I was sick of the fact that having a zest for life puts a target on your back.
For approximately two glorious hours, I indulged in this pity party. When they come around so infrequently, you really want to get your money’s worth, you know?
And then, just as quickly as it came on, I remembered something:
I’m not a little bitch. (Or, as normal people would say, I’m not a victim.)
Was someone trapping me here in Ottawa? Technically, no.
Are there plenty of amazing people in small towns? Absolutely. And genuinely, my inner circle is only filled with amazing people.
Does my zest for life put a target on my back? Maybe. But does it connect me with other zesty lovers-of-life? Yes! Every. Single. Day.
By the time New Year’s Eve came around, I had tidied the house, sorted the pantry, purged my wardrobe, organized our bookshelves, and, it turns out, successfully cleansed my soul.
With this fresh energy, my intention for 2022 was born:
To meet the fullest expression of who I am.
My muse, the 90 year old me who has zero fucks to give, has kindly agreed (read: has no choice) to join me on this quest this year.
Isn’t it exciting—and even a little intimidating—that the seed of our most powerful, confident, and fabulous self already exists inside of us? That our life’s greatest work is to peel off the layers until we get to that version of ourselves?
Peel off the doubt.
Peel off the perfectionism.
Peel off the awkwardness.
Peel off the stumble after stumble after stumble…
That’s what I’ll be doing this year: stumbling and fumbling and mumbling.
And if you’re going to be out there stumbling, fumbling, and mumbling as well, let’s give each other a wave. Or a tiny nod of acknowledgement. Or heck, come running into my arms.
As it turns out, I’m not sick of being trapped in Ottawa.
I’m sick of being trapped inside my full potential.