First Look: Introduction
Recently, I found a journal from college while cleaning my childhood room. In a small book bound in dramatic blue and pink paisley cloth, I cataloged my finals, lamented saying goodbye to friends after graduation, wrote poetry about broken hearts in tear-stained ink, and made tidy lists of future goals. One list, in particular, caught my eye.
Just after college graduation, before I went to graduate school, I sat cross-legged in a booth at the first Starbucks in Springfield, Missouri, and sipped my latte hack — a Café Misto or steamed milk and coffee because espresso was too expensive. There, at the ripe age of twenty-two years old, wearing my favorite bootcut jeans and grey Gap hoodie, I wrote the list titled, “40 goals by 40 years old.”
In heavy-inked cursive, I wrote specific expectations and hopes for the future. Some items seemed standard while others were weirdly specific. The list was as follows:
Marry a man I love and like.
Earn a Master’s Degree.
Have at least one child.
Have a career that uses my degrees (Journalism, PR, Advertising).
Purchase a piece of art from a gallery or auction FRAMED just because I like it.
Live in or near a major metropolitan city.
Live near/have access to a large body of water (ocean or lake).
Pay off school loans.
Write something and have it published or printed (professionally — Kinkos doesn’t count).
Host Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner for my family and friends.
Try French perfumes and choose one that is me. Establish a signature scent.
Live close to my family. So close that we can make brunch for each other and it’s not a big deal.
Learn to ride a horse. Jumps are preferred, not mandatory.
Own a traditional, cozy home and put down roots.
Have a dog. They make life better.
Lose 30 pounds. (This amount may change and will be re-evaluated closer to age 40.)
Talk about wine without sounding like an idiot.
Speak conversational Spanish.
Travel Europe by train.
Finish The Fountainhead.
Start War and Peace.
Trace my ancestry.
Find an exercise I enjoy.
Travel somewhere outside of my comfort zone.
Pay off credit cards.
Master creating beachy waves with my straightening iron.
Drink eight glasses of water a day.
Invest in skincare. Moisturize. SPF every day.
Have a signature dessert for gatherings and events.
Attend mass regularly.
Work at a global company.
Support working artists (with reasonable egos).
Join a choir.
Live in a different country.
Support a charity regularly.
Have more than one source of income at a time.
Read two books a month.
Buy a Chanel bag because they’re always in style.
Live somewhere I can walk or drive to buy groceries.
World peace.
I reviewed the list I wrote half a lifetime ago, and a chill ran down my spine. Dazed, I realized that my old goals were my current reality.
I lived the life I described at twenty-two years old. I lived in a cozy Cape Cod home, a few miles from Lake Michigan, in the Chicago suburbs. I married my best friend, David, and we wanted to start a family. We adopted our dog, Watson, arguably the cutest pup ever. My sister and brother-in-law lived in Chicago, so we regularly went to museums and restaurants and listened to live music. For more than a decade, I worked in healthcare communications — a field that constantly changed and provided new challenges. I traveled. I mastered the beachy wave with my straightening iron. I fit into the perfect paradigm of a white, Christian, middle-class, almost middle-aged professional, married woman. Check, check, check.
I only had one problem: I was completely miserable.
Yes, I knew I sounded privileged and ungrateful. Like any respectable Catholic woman, I was well-acquainted with guilt. I felt fortunate and grateful for everything I had. Yet, beneath that veneer of Instagram-worthy moments, my carefully curated world was quickly falling apart, and no amount of willpower could fix it. Typically, I fixed things with sheer force. Not this time. This was adult life. Real life. I was not in control.
It was all Big Stuff: My husband was grieving the passing of his mother. We had a miscarriage and unexplained infertility. We underwent IVF treatments for two years -- a rollercoaster of joy and despair. More grief. I learned my parents were ill. I could not help; we were separated due to the pandemic. Work was a mess. I was lost in corporate politics; I had no hope of regaining my footing. Work no longer provided a source of comfort.
I failed in every way: as a wife, a daughter, a professional, and a woman.
I couldn’t wake up in the morning because I was depressed. Yet, in a cold sweat, I’d jolt awake in the middle of the night and grab my husband’s hand until he told me to go back to sleep. My weight fluctuated. I numbed my body’s sensations with caffeine, mediocre wine, and food to keep working, performing, and climbing. With the added IVF hormones and recent traumatic events, I disengaged from my body and its sensations. I no longer recognized myself in the mirror.
So, like any respectable wellness junkie, my first reaction was to find other people who could tell me what to do. Some might call me a seeker. Some might call me a privileged white woman with too much time on her hands. I’m not afraid to look for healing and direction in various places.
I tried it all:
Retreats at convents where I sang psalms with nuns
Shamans spat on my neck to close snake bites from another lifetime
Too many Tarot readings to count
Sound baths
Water baths
Psychic readings
Astrological workshops
Jungian therapy
Cognitive behavioral therapy
Retail therapy
Pharmaceutical assistance
The occasional crystal
This time? Things were different. I was not well. This wasn’t a matter of recovering from a disappointing date or a bad week at the office. My general health and closest relationships were suffering. I needed a different approach and a solution that would have a lasting impact — not a fleeting sensation that I would chase again and again.
That’s when I made a critical realization. I lost sight of myself.
I attempted to fit into an idealized version of who I thought I should be instead of who I was. For years, I dutifully followed a list I created at twenty-two, but that list didn’t leave room for life’s messiness, the occasional mistake, or... fun.
So, I dug deeper. I asked myself some difficult questions:
Is this the life I want? Or is it the life I think I should have?
Who is that sad-looking woman in the mirror?
When was the last time she felt and looked happy?
Why isn’t she doing things that make her happy?
How many days in succession have I worn these yoga pants, and when was the last time I did yoga?
Is that gray hair in my eyebrow?
I also realized I had a pattern of putting myself into situations I did not enjoy to fit in or to be “successful.” Those situations often went sideways and ended with an embarrassing moment that I would relive for years afterward.
I learned the cost of fitting in is too high. I needed to embrace what made me different — what made me, me. It sounds easy. However, I spent years ignoring my instincts in search of what I thought I should do, have, or want.
So, if you feel lonely or different, I’ve been there. Maybe you never fit in or briefly lost your way. Consider me a temporary guide, and I’ll show you how I reconnected with my personal brand of weirdness. With what made me happy.
How? You’ll see. But I promise you this: when I embraced my differences and stopped trying to fit in, I ended up where I belonged.