How I Finally Became What I Wanted to Be When I Grow Up

One of my first dreams in life was to be a writer. English was my favorite class in school. I loved reading poems and novels and dissecting them for their meaning. By high school I'd started compiling my own collection, filling journal after journal with typical teen angst and the first awkward stabs at poetry. Somewhere along the line, I set my sights on becoming a novelist. Or a poet. Or at the very least, a short story author. No way would I become some corporate drone, chained to my desk eight hours a day. I was destined for way more than that. I just knew it. 

Giving Up 

Surprise! In college, I learned that being a novelist or a poet or an award-winning short story author is hard. And competitive. And financially unstable. And my inflated sense of destiny simply didn't match the level of dedication I was willing to put forth. So after I graduated, I took my English degree and did what I'd always dreaded: got a 9-5 job. 

I wound up in the marketing department of a scientific publisher — a bad position for an aspiring writer because there was no actual writing involved. I'd love to say that I really hustled and wrote a lot in my free time. But what I really did was party a lot, put writing on the back burner,  and plug along the next four years. When I grew tired of doing a job I wasn't crazy about for so little money, I went and got a different job I wasn't crazy about, for a lot more money. Once in a while, I'd look into MFA programs, convinced that an advanced degree was the ticket to kickstarting my writing career. Even with my plumper paycheck, it was a ticket I couldn't afford.

Switching Gears

Shortly before I landed that new job, Running With Scissors by Augusten Burroughs hit the bestseller list. I devoured the book, then the follow up Dry, in which the author lands a job as an advertising copywriter at a New York ad agency. This was fifteen years before Mad Men schooled the nation on how advertising works. I felt as if a lightbulb had gone off.

Writing ads and commercials? That's a job???  

I got to see the job up close and personal at my new company, where I worked much closer to the creative team. So close in fact, that I began crossing out headlines and rewriting copy myself. As the marketing manager, this was not my role. Not even a little bit. But scribbling in those margins made me feel more like myself than analyzing data in a spreadsheet ever would. Suddenly, I was a writer again. Not the writer I thought I would be, but once I let go of the notion that there are only a few ways to be a writer, I found a way to actually write. After years of treading water, copywriting gave me an actual direction to move in.

Faking It 

When I started looking for a copywriting job, I had exactly zero years of copywriting experience. I'd worked in marketing for more than five years though, which was enough to at least get my foot in a few doors. I landed two promising interviews. One person said they knew I'd do a great job, but it just wouldn't fly with HR since my resume didn't say "copywriter" anywhere. The other company offered me a position, but it looked a lot like the marketing manager job I'd left behind, not the creative role I was hoping for. Still, I considered it. Maybe they'll let me do some copywriting. Then I'll have it on my resume. It seemed like a solid plan...but something told me that if I was going to make this happen, I couldn't afford to wait for anyone to "let" me do anything. By the time my next interview rolled around, I had a resume that said "copywriter" on it and a portfolio of pieces I'd written for places that didn't exist. I finally got my first copywriting job. It was a little agency, and my biggest break. 

Lucking Out    

That first copywriting job turned out to be my last. Not because I got fired for lying in my interview, but because I had the unbelievable good fortune of winding up with a boss who brought the best out of me as a writer and a person (and who forgave me for lying at my interview when I finally admitted it years later). Over the years, that little agency grew into a place that I never wanted to leave.

The happy ending should be somewhere around here, right? I loved my job, I enjoyed my work, I got to use the talent that matters most to me every single day. Still. After more than a decade of writing ads, websites, commercials and all sorts of other things for clients, part of me started to feel like I wasn't really, you know, a writer writer, in the same way that poets and fiction writers are.  Was I really doing what I was meant to do? Or settling for some watered down version of it? One person could answer that question. 

Coming Home  

At twenty-one, I looked to the outside world to tell me what I could be. A poet. A novelist. A marketing manager at a scientific publisher. A copywriter. These were titles handed down from on high and defined by someone other than me. Now, at forty-one, I've finally realized that I don't need anyone's permission to do what feel like doing.  I don't need a publisher to be a poet. I just need to write a poem. I don't need an MFA to write fiction. I just need to think up a story and the words to tell it. It took a few decades, but I'm finally the writer I wanted to be when I grow up. While it looks nothing like I imagined, it feels exactly as I always knew it would. 

What Does This Have to Do With You? 

If you've made it this far, first, thank you for bearing with me while I rambled on about myself. Second, I'm glad you stuck around, because I'm willing to bet that you've got a dream too.

When it comes to achieving our dreams, sometimes we put a lot of pressure on ourselves to follow a certain path and get to a certain point by a certain time. And when you don't, you get discouraged, sometimes to the point of giving up the dream entirely. I know I did, for a little while. But the truth is, whatever dream you're chasing, chances are that it's not going to be a straight and steady march towards fulfillment. It's going to be a glorious mess of surprise turns, sudden dead ends, mysterious forks and occasional switchbacks. You will stumble. You'll probably get lost. You may have to elbow your way into (or out of) a few tight spots. And some days are going to just plain SUCK. You might start to feel like you're never gonna get where you're going. But you will. As long as you keep moving. And oh yeah — keep an eye out for signs. They're there, if you want them. 

I failed. Now what?

In 2015, I started this personal quest to do forty daring deeds during my fortieth year. I started with lots of fanfare — and by that, I mean a blog, a Facebook page, and a Medium profile. Then I strapped on my adventure boots and set off to get my forty daring deeds done.

Well, it’s been a little over a year, and, not going to sugarcoat it, I failed. Of my forty daring deeds, I finished exactly seven. That’s not even a 25% completion rate. If daring deeds were a download, I’d be stuck in the spinning wheel of delay. Or worse, permanent time out.

I’m not one to beat myself up for too long over failed efforts. But I am one to ask — what went wrong, and what do I do now? Here’s what I figured out.

1. I underestimated how much I hate to break with routine.

Between working, taking care of my home and family, and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life, my days are ruled by routine. I used to think of “routine” as a dirty word. Operation Goosebumps sprung from my fear of life becoming too routine. But in fact, routine keeps me sane. Without it, I could never manage the mountain of obligations I wake up to every day. So to disrupt that routine, something has to be pretty important or meaningful. And the thing is…

2. Things that used to be important to me are no longer that important.

I used to be quite the thrill seeker. I’ve jumped out of a plane in New Jersey, gone hang gliding across a beach in Rio, ziplined across the jungle in Kauai, snowshoed up the the mountains of backcountry Alaska three months pregnant. If any activity carried a hint of danger, I was up for the challenge. So when I made my list of forty daring deeds, I packed it with motorcycle lessons and hot air balloon rides and other activities that would prove to the world — or at least to myself—that I was still the fearless “adrenaline addict” I bragged about being on my first online dating profile. But, just like I no longer need an online dating profile (found my soulmate — that adrenaline line really worked!), I no longer need to flirt with death to feel alive. That’s because…

3. Things I used to dread suddenly fulfill me the most.

I never planned on having kids. I thought that parenting would make life predictable and boring. I swore that even if I did have them, I would never become one of those moms who was “all about my kids.” Well guess what? Now I’ve got two, and I’m pretty much obsessed with them. My kids turned the whole world into uncharted territory, and helping them navigate it is more fun than anything I’ve ever done myself. Sure, I can no longer hit the road and drive four states away for a music festival at the last minute. But I can go for long walks with Maxon, searching for the perfect sticks to fight off the bad guys. I can hold Cooper’s hands and dance around the living room while listening to hair metal on Spotify. We can have family movie night every Friday, eating popcorn on a picnic blanket on the playroom floor. Somehow, these boring everyday events, the predictable reality that I started Operation Goosebumps precisely to run away from, thrill me beyond belief. Not in an adrenaline rushing, blood pumping sort of way. But in a way that makes me feel like my heart has broken free from the confines of my body. Which it has, because here it is, sitting next to me on the blanket, hogging the popcorn bowl.

4. Challenging myself isn’t always all about me.

I’m not giving up on Operation Goosebumps. I’ve just given myself an extension—indefinitely. And why not? I hope the urge to challenge myself stays alive until the day I die, even if the definition of “challenge myself” changes along the way. For instance, this year, I plan on spending more time helping other people achieve their “daring dreams,” including my big brother, who just published his first memoir, and my husband, who has his first book of short stories on the way. In fact there’s that a whole other aspect of Operation Goosebumps that focuses on bringing people together so we can all empower each other to get those daring dreams done. Now that feels like pretty important stuff. Stuff that might even be worth breaking routine for.

When giving up on your dreams is a good thing

Dreams. Twenty years ago, I was full of them. I spent countless afternoons with my friend Maddy, cutting our college Astronomy class to go sit on a dock in Port Jefferson. We would linger for hours, our legs dangling over the water, our lips dragging on one cigarette after another, our conversation full of books and boys and friends and parents and the past and the future and of course, our dreams. Always, our dreams.

Oh, the places we will go! The people we will meet! The adventures we will have! They were so vast and so varied and so numerous that all the Parliament Lights in the world couldn’t burn long enough for us to ever really finish the conversation.

I did, however, eventually finish college and enter the real world. Degree in hand. Dreams in heart.

I’ve made pretty good progress on those dreams these past two decades. I’ve got the stamps in the passport. The skydiving and hang gliding photos on the wall. The stories that I love to tell to anyone who will listen…plus a few that I’ve only shared in tipsy whispers with trusted comrades. I wrangled my way into a career that I truly enjoy. And I have the privilege of waking up next to someone I love and raising the two dynamite little boys we brought into the world.

But that old list of dreams still has plenty of empty checkboxes. And with every passing year, the chances of marking them all off get slimmer. And you know what? I don’t care.

How my bucket list became a fuck it list

Look inside my closet. You’ll find shoes for stand-up paddleboarding next to hiking boots crusted with dirt from Red Rock Canyon. A cotton yoga hoodie next to a leather fringe halter top I bought for biker week one year. Roller skating sneakers next to seven-inch platform heels for pole dancing fitness class. These aren’t skeletons. They’re the remains of my life’s passing fancies.

But as life got longer, the days got shorter. Now, every single hour offers but one choice: attend to this pressing priority or that one. Or that one. Or that one.

When I first created my list of dares for Operation Goosebumps, I started by thinking of all the fun, interesting and cool things I’d heard about, read about and talked about doing over the past twenty years. Then I crossed a whole bunch of shit off. Bungee jumping? Fuck it. Running with the bulls? Fuck it. Spending a night in a hotel made of ice? Fuck it. Motorcycle lessons? Fuck it. On second thought, keep it.

Stacking up my to-do list against the time I actually have to get things done forced me to make a critical distinction. There’s the stuff I want to do because it would make me the coolest kid at the table. And there’s the stuff I need to do because my soul demands it.

The difference between dreams and diversions

I once wrote about the pitfalls of trying to “find your purpose — one of them being that you can become so focused on looking that you can forget to simply live. Funny thing is, sometimes through that very process of living and doing and trying new things, a pattern emerges. And if you pay attention to it, it just may point you toward purpose after all. Or at least some version of it.

My modern-day dreams list doesn’t point in a single direction. It produces a heat map of my psyche, illuminating the things that matter most. Writing matters. Creativity matters. Family, travel and the fluctuating state of my body matters. That leather halter top matters, evidently (though pulling it off will depend on the fluctuating state of my body).

What didn’t make the cut were the simple diversions. Diversions are those meaningless activities that you turn to when you have some time to fill. They’re fun. They’re exciting. Some of them may evolve into full-fledged dreams. Most of them will pass, leaving nothing behind but a few photos, Facebook posts, and perhaps some specialized footwear.

Your actual dreams on the other hand, the ones that come from that pure and wide-eyed space inside your soul, they’re not going anywhere. Those tenacious little suckers will follow you around your entire life. You can’t shake them, no matter how long you starve or neglect or deny them. And they’ll never abandon you. Even if you abandon them.

You're not the first. You're not the best. Get over it.

A few weeks ago I had a conversation with my friend, Devon. An accomplished designer and illustrator who loves working out, she’s thinking of bringing her two passions together by creating a line of fitness shirts with fun sayings, which she would hand-letter herself. I loved the concept and mentioned a shirt that I’d seen a while back, and the cute saying that stuck in my head. Almost immediately, she started questioning her idea. “That’s the problem!” she said. “It’s already been done.”

Back in my twenties, my friend Maddy and I decided to create a graphic novel together. I wasn’t a comic book person, but I could write and tell stories. She didn’t write, but she loved comics and was a great artist. It was the perfect project for us. We came up with a protagonist, a dashing, time-traveling anti-hero named Grey. We roughed out our supporting characters and the universe they inhabited. Then, in an effort to understand the comic book genre better, I did something that destroyed me. I read the graphic novel series, Sandman. It was such an intelligent, dazzling and magnificent piece of literary work that I never thought of my own lowly graphic novel project again.

What is with this drive to be the first and best at everything we do? I used to think it was the root of all ambition and achievement. Now, I finally recognize it for what it really is: a dark hole where dreams go to die. Here’s how to stay out of it.

Forget being first.

There are too many of us human beings and we’ve been on this planet too long for any of us to be wholly, truly original. In fact, there are 2,404 people around the world right now with the same exact great big idea as yours. (Trust me. I took a survey.) The good news is, novelty is not a prerequisite for success. Ever heard of the MPMan F10? It was the world’s first MP3 player. Launched by Saehan Information Systems in 1998, it beat Apple’s iPod to market by three full years. And we all know how that turned out.

Let the excellence of others inspire, not intimidate you.

Those 2,404 people I mentioned before? Several of them have already taken your idea and run with it. And a small handful of them are fucking killing it. Good for them. You can look up to them, love them, learn from them all you want. But don’t let their mere existence convince you that there’s no space or place for you. Because only one person can approach this idea from exactly your perspective, and handle it precisely the way you would. And that could be great in a whole new way.

But still…

Stop trying to achieve greatness.

By now, you’re probably feeling pretty good about yourself. Well, here’s a gut punch for ya. When you finally do decide to dust that dream off and devote some piece of yourself to it, the Earth may not exactly shift on its axis. You could pour your heart, soul and sweat into it and still never be seen as the best. Or even the second best. Or even in the race at all. In fact, the vast majority of the world won’t even notice what you’re doing. Sure, your friends and family will pay attention for a bit, until they get bored and turn their focus back to their own lives. But you won’t get to quit your day job. You won’t win the field’s most coveted award. You won’t be discovered by Oprah through a quirky twist of fate.

The sad (yet liberating) truth is that most of us are not exceptional. We may be passionate about our ideas and enthusiastic in the execution, but in terms of actual ability, most of us are, by definition, merely average. Just okay. Only human. And afflicted with all the hopes and dreams that accompany that condition. You could choose to ignore those hopes and dreams. After all, there are plenty of easier ways to fill your days. Or, you can do something about them. Even if no one cares and greatness is not guaranteed. Either way, our little lives are slipping away. And in the end, you’re the only one who gets to decide how well yours was lived.

Why looking for purpose can lead to paralysis

You hear it all the time. Everyone was put on this earth for a grand purpose. And once you find yours, everything will fall into place like a cascade of rainbow sprinkles on the ice cream cone of life. Of course, until that magic moment comes, your entire existence will be empty and meaningless.

Please. Stop. Believing. This.

Because what all those voices fail to mention is that sometimes, the relentless quest for purpose can stop you dead in your tracks.

Sometimes, looking for purpose keeps you from trying new things just for shits and giggles.

Sometimes, looking for purpose stops you from doing what you love because it’s not getting you anywhere.

Sometimes, looking for purpose forces you to forego fun, and adventure, and any exploration that doesn’t lead to some type of achivement.

And when you fall into this well of psyche sabotage, purpose is the last thing you’re going to find down there in the muck.

So here are a few things to keep in mind.

Finding your purpose is like dating. 

You have no idea what’s going to stir your soul if you don’t get out there and try a bunch of different things. Most of those things will not be “the one.” But many will be exciting, or inspiring, or just plain fun, at least for a little while. And every single one will add to your understanding of who you are, what you want, and perhaps more importantly, what you don’t want. So go ahead. Let your soul have its slutty phase. No one’s watching (unless you’re into that).

Floundering does not equal failure.

Unless you’re fortunate enough to have been bitten by the purpose bug early on in life (you know, like those people whose magnificent childhood Lego palaces foretold a dazzling future in architecture), chances are you’ve floundered a bit on your way to your one true calling. You may be floundering still. And that’s okay. Better to flounder on than to let the pressure of your search sink you like a stone.

Having a purpose does make you pretty damn unstoppable.

Make no mistake about it. Finding that sense of purpose will make life more fulfilling, more thrilling, more rainbow sprinkled. It’s sort of like having a super power that makes every course of action clearer. But, your calling may not come at you like a lighting bolt from the sky. It probably won’t knock on your door one day and say, “Hey there, I’m your raison d’etre!” It could be something that slowly presents itself to you over time as you continue to test the waters. To have adventures. To pay attention to what you love and what gives you life.

You're allowed to have more than one purpose.

Surprise! There is neither a quota nor a limit on your purpose. You could finally find that purpose you’ve been searching for all your life, then a year later, a whole new set of priorities could point you down a different path. You could think you’ve discovered the passion to end all passions, then you try something just as amazing and suddenly you have two reasons to jump out of bed in the morning. That doesn’t mean you’re noncommittal or indecisive. It means you’re open to the many opportunities and possibilities that life brings your way. Lucky you.

Daring is caring

A while back, I heard a speaker share three questions that are supposed to help you figure out your purpose in life. I can't remember his name or the first two questions. But I remember the last: "What breaks your heart?" I felt like the answer was supposed to be about children or animals or climate change or something grand and global like that. But after some reflection, I had to admit that I'm a little more selfish than that. What breaks my heart is the idea of a life not fully lived. And not just my own. So when people tell me about something they dream of doing, I believe them. And I want it for them. And I really care whether they do it or not. So I'll make some suggestions. And I'll offer some help if I can. And I'll ask how it's going in a month. And in two months. And in six months. And after a year, when it comes up in conversation again and I hear that glorious dream being pulled off the back burner and boxed up for good, it breaks my heart. Sometimes, I think, more than theirs. 

Every now and then, I tell myself to just back off and leave people alone. Let everyone have their dreams and do with them what they will–or won't. But damn it, I just can't help myself. So just know this. If you tell me you want to do something, I'm going to take your word for it. And I'm going to push. And pressure. And it may get really annoying. But I promise, it's only because I care. And I hope you care enough to do the same.