From a small notebook and a hesitant hand

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My son just left for school, and I’m sitting down to write after spending about half an hour paralyzed.

Not for lack of topics to write about, but more due to the overwhelming options before me regarding where to write.

After purchasing several new notebooks and still waiting for some to be delivered, I find myself stuck. I worry about ruining the cohesion of my notebook with words that are not aligned by theme.

I should have a notebook dedicated to specific topics, right?

There should be a right way to do this.

And after watching hours of YouTube on the subject, I still find myself confused and hesitating.

My OCD kicks in just thinking about how messy this notebook will become if I am not intentional.

In a moment of courage, I bite the bullet.

I decide to let the words spill onto my very cute, very small Midori notebook.

My handwriting is usually quite messy and large, but I’m straining my hand to make the font smaller and less chaotic.

There is a sudden release of tension once I turn my focus away from decision paralysis and perfectionism and focus instead on making small, neat marks on the page.

The perfectionist gene, which was passed down to me by my mother, has, on many occasions, become an impediment, preventing me from moving forward on the many potentials that dance around in my mind.

So I take a deep breath.

I allow myself to write whatever comes to me, for fear of not writing anything at all.

I have to take the dive.

I feel a pang of shame when I consider how often fear rises within me and how it keeps me from taking risks.

I know I’ve made moves — relatively big ones — in my life.

But I still feel like a scared little girl much of the time.

I usually feel this way — the way of the frightened little girl — when I ruminate. Whenever I have a moment to think excessively about a particular topic of frustration, desire, challenge… you name it.

I assume there is some kind of tipping point.

A place where thinking quietly turns into overthinking, and overthinking turns into anxiety.

Simply put, this little girl shows up when I’m not present.

She shows up when I worry too much about the potential future or the past.

But when present, she is fully engaged with whatever is unfolding in the moment.

When she is engaged in doing or observing, she is fearless.

Or so I think.

I notice my writing starts to become undone.

The words appear to be dancing up and down on the light, gridded paper. One letter is quite elevated, another is a little bit lower, and so the words become a disorganized mess.

I feel like this might be happening when I’m in flow.

But I rein them in, and I focus on the placement of each letter.

And voilà — my handwriting is getting better.

But nowhere near where I want it to be.

Back to the little girl.

I worry about her.

Is she missing out?

Am I missing out?

I haven’t taken a real vacation in almost ten years.

Ten years.

And I’m about to embark on a trip.

Well… I haven’t yet purchased the tickets.

Because I’m thinking.

Worrying.

Budgeting.

Imagining every worst-case scenario that may occur.

The most haunting one I imagine is that I will not want to return to the home I created abroad.

That I will want to flip my life upside down once more.

And I’m afraid — afraid that I’ll do something drastic that I might regret.

I haven’t made any drastic changes for the past ten years.

I’ve stayed in my lane and attempted to build stability, comfort, and peace.

Only to realize that it doesn’t exist.

At least not in the way I once thought it did.

If we believe that something external has the power to create peace, stability, and comfort, we are in for a rude awakening.

In a world of constant chaos, impermanence, and instability, we must find our own inner stability.

We must work every day to cultivate it.

By doing what brings us into the present moment.

And for me, right now, it’s staying with the page.
Letting myself write.
Letting that be enough.

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When you feel stuck trying to do it “right”
You might recognize it like this:

• you’re overthinking a small decision
• you’re trying to choose the best way to start
• you keep adjusting, researching, or delaying
• you feel tension just before beginning

Pause.

Take one slow breath.

Ask yourself: what am I afraid will happen if I just start like this?

Don’t solve it.

Then begin in the simplest way possible.

Use what’s already in front of you.
Make it smaller than you want.

Write one line.
Make one mark.
Start a messy version.

Stay with it for a minute or two.

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I notice this in myself all the time. The hesitation before something small. The need to get it right. Most of the time, nothing changes until I start anyway—even if it’s messy, even if it’s not how I imagined it.

I’ve been turning moments like this into simple, practical practices. I’ll share more soon. subscribe here.