Category Archives: What My 20s Taught Me

February 29, 2012 · 10:15 am

What My 20s Taught Me: 30 is the New Awesome.

If I must buy a LeSabre, I'll take this one.

Well, that’s it.  I’m 30.

The birthday has come and gone, followed by my first full day as a 30-year-old and, to be honest, I’m feeling pretty awesome.

I said to Simon yesterday that the strangest thing has happened since my birthday on Monday: I feel younger.  

I’ve done a bit of self-analysis, and I think this may have to do with the way 29 felt like a time of anticipation, of anxiously awaiting the turnover to my 30s.  Now it’s here, and I’ve got nothing to worry about.  I was at the very end of my 20s last week.  Stressful.  Mournful.

Now I’m at the very start of my 30s, and I feel like I’m just setting out on a big adventure.  I’m a real grownup now.  I’ve got a hot husband and a cute baby and I know who I am and what I love, and there’s a lot to celebrate about that.  I feel like my 30s are going to be full of joy and fun and discovery…and maybe even another baby or two.

I’ve got a sister who’s two years older than me and, it never fails, every time I hit an age she was two years earlier, I’m surprised I don’t feel as old and mature as I thought she seemed when she was there (not that you’re old, Sarah).   It’s just, I expect to feel older.  And I never do.

Ten years ago, 30 looked pretty close to death.  30 was downhill.  When you turn 30, I thought, you might as well start shopping at Chico’s and buy a LeSabre.

But now that I’m here, I feel pretty much the same way I felt as a 20-year-old.  No, scratch that.  I feel better.  I don’t think I’ve ever felt so comfortable in my own skin, and everyone knows that’s hot.

Some people say 30 is the new 20.

I say 30 is the new awesome.

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February 8, 2012 · 7:54 am

What My 20s Taught Me: Fear is Not a Thing

My two favorite models, and two of the biggest reasons I walk through my fear.

Like I said, I did something scary yesterday.  I put some photos I took on a facebook page and called it a business.  And now my art, my creative blood, is out there running in streams on the internet for everyone to see.  Just before I clicked the “Publish” button on my page, I felt my heart near about jump up my throat.  The fear took me by surprise.  But I did it anyway.

Fear has stopped me from doing a lot of things in my life.  When I first met Simon, it stopped me for a little while from loving him.  My heart had been broken, and I’d said out loud, “I’m not doing that again.”

But then a friend sent me a letter with this passage from The Message interpretation of the Bible:

But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love. 1 Corinthians 13:13

When I read it, something in my spirit responded, “Let love cast out fear.”

For years – years – I’ve dreamed of owning my own business.  All my creative juices filled me up to overflowing, desperate to get out, to be used to serve God and my family, to sustain my livelihood.  But every time I’d almost gotten up the courage to take the step, fear stopped me.  What-ifs flooded my waking and sleeping thoughts.

What if no one takes me seriously?

What if I’m not as good as I think I am?

What if I don’t make any money?

What if I let my family down?

What if I fail?

But questions are only questions.  Fear is only fear.  It is not a wall in front of me, or a door closed to the path I’m walking.  It is a ghost, an enigma, a lie.

I took a walk down the river with my friend Sharon in the Fall.  She had quit her job and booked a flight to Peru, where she would travel to the jungles, to live in them and serve their people.

I told her about my dream.  That I do writing and editing projects, always “on the side”, and keep fairly quiet about them because I’m afraid.  That I love to take photos of families, of children, of people in love.  That I am terrified of saying out loud, “This is what I do.  This is who I am.”

“What is fear?” she said.  ”Fear is not a thing.”

Sharon knows because she’s in Peru now.  She has walked through the cloud that fear cast in front of her.  Her unswerving hope led her to the place where she loves extravagantly.

I don’t know what will happen if I do something scary/stupid/brave.  I might fail.

But I do know what will happen if I let fear rule my heart, if I don’t do anything.

Nothing.

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January 30, 2012 · 6:07 pm

What My 20s Taught Me: I Was Made This Way

Me, during my ballerina phase. Not even phased by the fact that I'd never had a ballet lesson at this point.

You know those people who’ve known what they wanted to do since they were kids?  Are you one of those people?  A doctor, a lawyer, a teacher?  I envy those people.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be an artist and a ballerina and a cowgirl (which, by the way, I thought meant I got to ride cows).  As a college student, not much changed.  I wanted to be a poet, a counselor, an actress, a chef.

In my 20s, it was the same problem: a journalist, a photographer…a mom.

My ambitions changed on a regular basis.  One day I wanted to study massage therapy.  Another, I wanted to open a pie shop.

I love so many things, and find as much joy in capturing the love between a mother and her son with my camera as I do kneading a batch of sourdough bread that will make my husband happy.  But I thought this was a fault.  That there was something wrong with me.  And I’ve always thought there was some kind of defect in my personality.  A short-circuit that made me indecisive and unable to stick to one thing.  And so I beat myself up for changing my mind so often, and wondered why I couldn’t be like my friends who’d always known what they wanted to be when they grew up, and had never strayed from the paths they knew would take them there.

Last Summer, after having Adlai and taking time off from working to be his mama and only his mama, I found myself content in mothering him, and writing, and wrapping my brain around using my camera effectively.  These were still three things, though, and again I felt the pressure to choose my path.

One night at a friend’s house, while meeting with our small group, we took some time at the end to pray for each other.  A few moments in, my friend Kezia turned to me and said, in her beautiful Scottish accent, “Faith, I feel like God wants me to tell you you were never meant to be gray.”

I just kind of stared at her for a moment, not sure what she meant.

“He made you colorful, and not gray, and he wants you to know He made you that way.  Like a chameleon.  You change.  And you were made that way.”

Now, this may not make a lot of sense to you, but on that night last July, something changed in me.  For the first time in my life, I felt sure that I am exactly as God created me to be.  My varying interests and myriad creative pursuits are not an inability on my part to commit, but an intentional decision made by my Father, who gives me permission by His very design to pursue the things that bring me the greatest joy.

So, okay, not all of my entrepreneurial ideas are meant to be undertaken.  (For instance, my combination pizza/ice cream/movie delivery business is probably best left to someone else.) But I can be Adlai’s mama.  And I can write.  And I can capture light and emotion with my camera.

Because I was never meant to be gray.

And neither were you.

____

Read previous What My 20s Taught Me posts.

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January 22, 2012 · 4:24 pm

What My 20s Taught Me: Being the Best is the Worst

Me, singin' with our friend Phil and my huzbin who, by the way, is the best at loving me.

If you know me in real life, or if you’ve been reading Great Smitten for a while, you may know that in addition to all my other creative pursuits, I’m also a bit of a singer. Not just your average shower-crooning, church-choir singer, but a real-life, sound-checking, Saturday night, sometimes paid, tips appreciated, songwriting, jazz/country/folk/soul singer. There was a brief period after high school when I considered moving to Nashville to pursue a music career.  Sure, that would’ve been cool, but some things just aren’t meant to be. (Other things are.)

When I was about 16, my dad and I were in our living room watching LeeAnn Rimes perform on CMT (That’s Country Music Television, Britons. Don’t judge.  That’s how we rolled in Harnett County.)

“She’s got a great set of pipes,” my dad said. (Yes, he says things like that.)

What I should’ve said, because it would’ve been true, was, “Yeah, she’s a really amazing singer.”

But I didn’t say that.  Because I was 16 and insecure and jealous that anyone was a better singer than me -that my own father had the nerve to say some other girl was a great singer.  Instead, I said something like, “I don’t think she’s that great.”

Oh my gosh, you stupid girl.  Shut up.

—

I’d like to say that was the only time in my life that I withheld a compliment from someone very talented because of my own insecurity, but I’d be lying, and I think we all know that I don’t have much shame anymore.  My life went on like this for a few years. Anything I did – music, acting, writing, baking, whatever – I needed to be the best at.  And because I needed to be the best, I was stingy with compliments when it came to anyone doing the same thing.

I didn’t often go so far as to criticize out loud, but I kept a silent tally of reasons why someone else’s song/monologue/short story/cake wasn’t quite up to scratch.

For a while, I thought it was because I was just so sure I was the best.

But somewhere around my 21st year, I realized it was because I was pretty sure I wasn’t.

Not being the best terrified me.  It paralyzed me.

Until I realized that not being the best was actually one of the best things that had ever happened to me.

Letting go of being the best meant that I started to enjoy all the things I’d had to work so hard at being the best at.  It meant I could sing a sad song with so much more feeling because it didn’t have to be flawless.  It meant I could write more, because every word didn’t have to be perfectly chosen – every comma didn’t have to be perfectly placed.  It meant I could laugh at my mistakes.

And, best of all, it meant I could look around me at all the people making beautiful art and just really, really love them for it.

I started handing out compliments like they were Halloween candy.

To the girl in my acting class who had intimidated me all semester.

To my girlfriend who wrote the kind of poetry I’d only ever failed miserably at.

To LeeAnn Rimes (No, I know she couldn’t hear me).

So I’m not the best writer in the world.  Or the best singer. Or the best actress, or photographer, or baker, or mother, or wife.

But I am so, so good at being me.

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January 12, 2012 · 7:33 am

What My 20s Taught Me: I’m So Hot Right Now

I’m going to show you a few photos of myself, and I’d like you to take a guess as to what they have in common.

Ready?

Here we go:

Here I am (second from right) on my high school cross country team in the late 90s.

Me (on the left) working as a camp counselor around 2002. (Check out my friend Ashleigh's muumuu!)

Me (on the left) in my dorm room with my college roommate, Jennie.

On the way to one of Simon's gigs with my friend Veronica before we got married (me and Simon, not me and Veronica).

…

Okie dokie, any thoughts?  Anyone?

Alright, I’ll tell you.

At the time when every single one of these photos was taken, I vividly remember thinking I wasn’t pretty.

Throughout my teens and early 20s, I was convinced I was too tall, too fat, had too many stretch marks, bad skin, too much cellulite.

I don’t know if it’s because I married a man who loves all the bits of me that I’ve always hated; or because I’ve shared a lot of dorm rooms and hotel suites and houses with a lot of girls, and I know we’re all different and have our own insecurities; or because I watched my body work with strength and grace to house a baby for nine months, and deliver him safely into the world, but I love my body now.

Don’t get me wrong.  I still have my insecure days.  Sometimes I look in the mirror and wish things were different.  My body has changed a lot in the past ten years, and pregnancy didn’t do it any huge favours.  I’m not going to lie – I’d love to have the body I had when I was 20.

But in ten years, I don’t want to look at photos of myself from the year I turned 30 and wish I’d appreciated that body more.  I don’t want to long for it, and chide my 30-year-old self for not seeing the beauty right in front of her. I don’t want to keep making the same mistakes over and over again for the rest of my life.

Isn’t one of the best parts of getting older getting wiser?

So wise up, ladies.

We are so hot right now.

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January 5, 2012 · 8:58 am

What My 20s Taught Me: Everyone is Faking It

Here's me, faking like I'm a middle-aged British woman.

When I worked as a magazine editor, I had a great friendship with our publisher.  Her name was (and still is, actually) Brenda. She was in her mid-40s and one of those women who just oozes confidence.  She had a wicked sense of humor, a commanding presence, and a really, really nice shoe collection.  She’d done very well for herself –  an editor by 26 (like me), a decades-long career in journalism, with a knowledge of the industry that made me want to sit at her feet and soak up everything she knew.  She was one of those people who knows how to get what she wants by treating people well, but also has an ever-so-slightly intimidating edge – just the right amount to keep people from messing with her.

Anyway, I was sitting in Brenda’s office one day, having a discussion about an upcoming issue of the magazine, and we got onto the subject of fear.

“My greatest fear,” said Brenda, “is that one day, everyone will realize I have no idea what I’m doing.  They’ll all figure out that I’m just an impostor.”

I was floored.

“You too?” I asked.

When I started out in my editor role, I was so easily intimidated.  I just knew that everyone I talked to – designers, advertisers, sponsors, interviewees…everyone – knew exactly what they were doing.  And they knew that I didn’t.  I was sure they could smell my fear from twenty paces and, at any minute, any one of them could out me.

Impostor!  Liar!  Fake!

When Brenda – a seasoned journalist and experienced businesswoman twenty years my senior – told me she had the exact same fear, I realized something that changed my life:

Everyone is Faking It.

The restaurant owners who played hardball as we negotiated the terms of our sponsored cocktail hours.  The people at the national magazine office who called up to have a go at me for not running a page they thought I should run.  The photographers who wanted their photos published.  Brenda.

All big fakers.

And that’s how I learned not to be such a scaredy cat.  If 50% of being good at your job is knowing what the heck you’re doing, then the other 50% of being good at your job is convincing other people you know what you’re doing.  I suddenly realized that all these big fakers were more concerned with making sure they were faking it well than they were with trying to figure out if I was faking it or not (And I was.  A bit.).

Sure, I knew what I was doing.  I’ve got a Master’s degree in Journalism, for heaven’s sake.  I’ve got seven years of experience in the industry.  I’ve interviewed world-renowned musicians, covered murder cases, and edited a magazine with a readership upwards of 75,000. (Am I convincing you yet?  I’m a bit rusty at this whole faking thing.)

Brenda knows what she’s doing, too.  Trust me.  She really, really does.  Because, despite her worst fears, you can’t fake it to that many people for that long and get away with it.

The thing is, although we think what we’re faking is our qualifications, our knowledge, what we’re really faking is our belief in ourselves.

Once I learned that everyone – even the Mighty Brenda – was faking it, I suddenly didn’t have to try so hard to fake it myself.  Those meetings with the tough-as-nails restaurateurs became a piece of cake, because I was pretty sure they were preparing for them the exact same way I was – by sitting in their cars beforehand (or in their kitchens, whatever), gathering their thoughts and their notes, and reminding themselves that they did know what the heck they were doing; they did pass all their classes in culinary school; they did make a mean yang chow pork and shrimp fried rice(or write a mean lede).

Now it may seem like what I’m telling you is that you can fake it because everyone else is.  But, as it turns out, that’s not it at all.

You see, when I figured out everyone was faking it, it suddenly hit me that I didn’t have to.

My false confidence slowly started to turn into real confidence.  I didn’t have to be afraid anymore.  I didn’t have to walk around thinking everyone had it figured out except me.  They didn’t.

The best part about realizing everyone is faking it, is that you get to stop faking it yourself.  You get to be totally, authentically, comfortably confident in what you know and who you are.

For real.

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January 4, 2012 · 9:30 am

I’m Bringing 30 Back

There are just nine weeks left until my 30th birthday.  I think.  I’ve never been very good at counting.  In fact, it’s very possible I’m only 28.

In the run-up to the Big 3-0, and inspired by this girl, I’ve decided to write once a week on a lesson my 20s taught me.  And there are a lot of them.

Come back tomorrow for the first of these unmissable, life-changing lessons, and please, for heaven’s sake, learn from my 20s, so that I will not have humiliated myself and made a thousand stupid mistakes in vain.

See you then!

Oh, also, if you haven’t answered my poll, go ahead and do that.

And like Great Smitten on facebook.

K?  That is all.

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