Tag Archives: Overthinking

Dreaming Amongst Reality

I’ve always called myself a dreamer.

That’s what I’ve always felt, and believed myself, to be. Yet I’ve hit a couple of occurrences lately where I’ve found that to be less true and that I am, in fact, can be more of a realist.

Example time.

So, you know when you have those bad days at work and then you immediately go searching for another job, even when you have no (real) intention to quit (maybe)? My boyfriend had one of those days and sent me a job that he was super excited about, working with robots. Something I could totally see him doing and being happy doing. But the job was in Boston and we live in Kansas.

Before I tell you how this bit ends, let me paint a parallel for you.

The other day, there was a posting for an Editorial Assistant position, working with science fiction and fantasy publications (my dream job, basically, aside from writing full-time). I sent it to my boyfriend, freaking out and quite possibly considering applying, before I thought to look at the location. It’s in London. We still live in Kansas.

Now, here is how my boyfriend responded: with empathy and excitement, he told me to apply. He knew how much that job would mean to me and knew how badly I wanted to work in a position like that. It was so sweet and I felt supported.

Here is how I responded to him: freaking about about the fact that it was in Boston, we have no money saved up to move halfway across the country, would he want me to move there with him, would he expect us to do long distance, where would I work, what would I do, money money money, panic panic panic.

I didn’t ask, at the time, but I doubt he felt supported by me in that moment.

I didn’t realize how crushing my respond had been until we had a reverse situation and I saw how he responded. Even later, after we talked about it and we knew it really wasn’t realistically possible for us to just hop over to London if I actually landed that job, he didn’t crush it right away. Instead, he supported my enthusiasm and made the personal decision that, if there was actually headway on that position, we’d discuss our options on how to make it a reality or if the price of making it a reality was too high for us to pay and I’d have to decline it. Me, on the other hand, went straight to freaking out about all the impossible logistics we’d have to overcome, instead of encouraging him to chase this opportunity that got him excited.

Though he tells me not to, I still feel ridiculously horrible about this.

It’s happened a couple other times, too, where instead of being supportive and looking for solutions to work around a problem that is preventing an opportunity, I point out all the possible roadblocks and immediately panic. I’ve noticed that this “realist first” kind of thinking usually only happens when money is involved. Money could be considered, easily, the bane of my existence. It stresses me out almost more than anything else and yet I have strong budgeting skills and a (un)healthy frugal way of spending.

I don’t like this approach.

I do think it’s important to be realistic about things. Just because I want to write full-time doesn’t mean I can simply quit my day job and start doing that and be okay. I have bills to pay and a part of my soul to reclaim still from student loans (only nine more years…) But I also think it is so, so, so important to chase after those dreams and opportunities, even if the realistic choice would be to do the opposite. Sure, if he got the job in Boston, we’d have a lot to consider and a lot to work through. But together, we could have done it. It was feasible and not as impossible as my realistic, overthinking brain first panicked it out to be.

I guess I’m just realizing that I’m not just the hardcore dreamer I’ve always thought I was. I’m more realistic than I ever considered myself to be. A little bit of both, if you will. And that’s not a bad thing. Honestly, that’s probably a good thing. But, like so many other aspects of my life, it requires a certain balance to get it right.

*sigh*

Balancing is not easy, friends. It’s something I think I’ll always navigate through, never perfect, never master. But realizing that need for improvement is a pretty good first step.

Cheers.

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A Small, Mental Quandary

Writing this latest book has been….really different, especially from the last one I just finished a few weeks ago. Before, I was hitting every word count goal I made each day and usually surpassing it, averaging between 2,000 and 3,000 words each day. Sure, I had the harrowing experience of knowing exactly what was wrong with the book and exactly what I need to change about it the entire time of writing it, but I still made really good progress and was particularly excited about the ending chapters, giving me hope for the entire book as a whole.

This book, I’m struggling to meet the bare minimum word count every day. I do. I push myself and make sure I make it and sometimes go a couple hundred words over, but it’s not nearly as impressive as how I wrote the second book in the Artemis quintet.

I’m not exactly sure how to read that, if I need to read into it at all.

Part of me fears that this book is just horrible and everything is wrong with it (beyond the usual happenings of a shitty first draft) and that’s why I’m struggling to write it. Another part of me wonders that, because I’ve increased my writing output so much this year, writing five to six times a week on a consistent basis since February, if I’m not potentially burning out (though I really don’t feel that is the case, in my gut).

But mostly, I’m not sure why I’m not cranking out the word count left and right with this one.

Don’t get me wrong: a thousand words a day is nothing short to balk at. And I do think the pace might increase once I get my characters out of this maze and into the next hurdle they have to endure–that one, I know is going to be really fun to write and explore. I recognize that, though I also can’t help but get hung up on the fact that I’m not writing as quickly as I usually do.

Honestly, I’m probably just overthinking the fact that I’m writing less and comparing myself too much to other writers, authors and even my own past works. I don’t want to give up on this novel (again). And I have no intentions to, because I know I can make this story something really special. I think, instead of focusing so much on how much I’m writing or how quickly I’m writing, I just need to be happy that I’m finding time every day to write and I’m making progress on this novel and am still well on pace to finishing a draft by the end of June. Once I get a draft written and can look at all the flaws together, then I can decide if this is a book worth editing or a story I truly need to give up on.

But not before. Not with this book.

Cheers.


So Guess What, Brain?

This mini…dare I call it a rant? I think it’s more like word vomit. Yeah, let’s go with word vomit. Anyway, this word vomit is brought to you most likely by a combination of period hormones, the general nature of an overthinking soul and the need to release emotions through writing it out.

Ta-da.

So, feel free to just brush off everything that follows because it’s a result of all of that above, or feel free to continue reading and then offering your own two cents in the comments below. You do you, I’m not here to tell you how to live your life.

Except, don’t compare yourself to other people.

Because honestly, it really doesn’t help anybody.

So, I overthink. That’s as plain and obvious as gravity or the sun shining (the latter being a little more questionable, thanks to our unrelenting winter, but you get what I mean). Recently, it seems like I’ve been overthinking everything that happens to me or everything that pops into my brain. By stopping to try and think for a second, instead of just doing what overthinking does, where I have a thought and then let my emotions run away with it as truth, I’ve come to realize that a lot of my overthinking–and the negative outcomes that I create as a result–is thanks to my comparing my current experiences with similar ones I’ve observed others go through, instead of looking at what I have and appreciating it for what it is.

psych GIF

Let’s show some examples.

I love my boyfriend. Seriously, he is positively fantastic and I adore him and I am so, so, so incredibly happy to be with him and consider myself beyond lucky. Our relationship, however, has always been pretty private, on his end, especially on social media. Me, I enjoy posting pictures of us together and writing gushy birthday posts like I did for him last weekend. Him, not so much. When I do, it doesn’t bother him at all (I’ve asked), but he isn’t one to really do that that often. So when I wrote a gushy birthday post for him, he didn’t “like” it or say anything about it on social media. Did he thank me 100 times for making his birthday awesome and going above and beyond with the cheesiness levels in person? Absolutely.

Yet did I still get a little bit bummed that he didn’t say anything on that post? Or that he doesn’t really post cute, cheesy things of us together?

Sure, yeah, I did.

But why?

It took me a while to figure it out. It’s simply because that’s what I’ve always seen only couples do. When I reached the age where dating started to become a thing was also the time when social media really started to pick up, so I’ve always been used to my friends having very public relationships on social media. So that’s what I’ve always expected to have, while I dreamed of being in a relationship for so long. Now, I finally found a man willing to put up with me and he just happens to be the type where he uses social media to share recipes and DnD memes and that’s about it.

Guess what, brain?

That’s okay. Stop trying to convince me otherwise and get upset when his way of showing affection is slightly different–and more private–than yours. If he doesn’t comment or like something you shared? That doesn’t have to mean he doesn’t like you–so stop telling yourself that, you dolt.

kenneth branagh film GIF

Let’s take another example.

Because I’m a writer, I absolutely love to read the acknowledgements sections in the books that I read, because I understand how much work it takes for an author to write a book and I like to read who they thanked in helping them through that process–because after it’s written, it becomes a very big team effort. Plus, I just like reading them and then dreaming about writing my own, one day.

When I read them, the expected culprits are usually there: parents, siblings, close friends, partners, dogs (because let’s be real, dogs are an amazing support system). And I read about how vital the support from those people was for the authors over the book I’m currently reading and sometimes I feel…jealous.

Because when I start comparing, my experience doesn’t feel the same.

I’ve written quite a few books, now, and I have a great support system. My family, close friends and my boyfriend all believe in me fully and don’t hesitate to tell me that. Their support is…everything. Yet my best friend has read a novel I’ve written. My Mom, two. No one else has read any of them, not even when I actually sent them out to them and invited them to read them and tell me what they think. I have my beta readers who have read more, of course, but sometimes I look at how little those close to me have actually read and I begin overthinking why they haven’t.

It’s because my books suck and they lose interest. They believe in me, but they don’t actually care about the books I’m writing. I’ve somehow failed in ways that these other authors haven’t…

Yeah, I know.

Ridiculous.

For one, everyone’s experience is different. Two, I have no idea, when an author thanks someone for their support, what that support looks like. It could be reading every draft they’ve written of every book they’ve written. It could be texting them and asking how writing is going. Or it could be cooking meals so they have extra time to write or telling them they believe in them, even if they haven’t read a single word they’ve written. Just because my support looks different doesn’t make it less. Just because I read about someone else’s Mom reading their novel in one sitting doesn’t mean my novel is suddenly worse because mine doesn’t.

Guess what, brain?

Support comes in all different forms and just because mine is different than what I read about and see (and don’t fully understand) doesn’t make it any less important, meaningful or real. So let’s back up on the self-pity and novel-deprecation, okay?

You see what I mean?

dule hill burton guster GIF

Through comparison, it’s so easy to take something good: like my healthy, loving relationship with my boyfriend or the amazing belief, faith and support I get from those close to me with my writing; and suddenly become insecure or question how those relationships and that support works, simply because it doesn’t match up 100% to those similar to it I’ve witness or seen and believe to be good, as an outsider. Obviously, that’s a silly thing to do, because I do have a wonderful boyfriend who treats me right, loves me and is fantastic…even if he doesn’t use social media to shout out those truths or he doesn’t always text me back. I do have a great support system with my writing from my parents, sibling, close friends and boyfriend…even if they haven’t read the books I’ve written.

It’s time to stop comparing what I have to what others have and instead, remember and look at what I have and been thankful and cherish that. Because honestly? I’m really damn lucky and I’m tired of my brain trying to convince me otherwise.

Cheers.


Just That Mental Game

I’m pretty sure I’ve written about this topic before, so I’ll try not to rant about it too much here. But, you know me: when I need to get something off my chest, half the time, if I don’t blog about it, then it ends up festering, and that’s not helpful or enjoyable for anyone involved.

I want to talk about losing weight.

Specifically, my journey to do that and how half the time, it’s a bigger mental game than anything else. And most of the time, it’s that mental game that is more detrimental or harder to deal with than any lifestyle change I’ve made since I started seriously pursuing this journey, a little over a year ago.

You see, I’ve lost 30 pounds out of my 40 pound goal. I knew the last ten pounds would be hard to lose, but they’ve been particularly troublesome, especially since I haven’t really gotten to work out much, thanks to the cold weather and the fact that I’m not to the point where I’ll work out, regardless of how cold it gets (and honestly, I’ll probably never get to that point). I’ve gain a little and lost it again, but mostly maintained. Which is a good thing, but I find myself getting frustrated that I haven’t really made any forward progress on losing those last ten pounds.

There are a couple of reasons for that, honestly.

One, I haven’t ran consistently since November, which is a huge aspect (and was the only element, for most of this) of my working out routine. I haven’t eaten less to make up for the calories I’m not burning, so it makes sense that I’m maintaining, instead of losing.

I also started doing some strength training, so even if I was stuck indoors, I wouldn’t just be sitting around and doing nothing. Not nearly as high in calorie burn as running, but after only doing that routine for a little over a month, I’ve felt my body change in the way it looks and is shaped. I’ve felt myself get stronger. So there’s a good chance that some of that weight I have now is muscle weight, instead of fat.

I also still have splurge days. Granted, I will admit I could do a better job at not going completely overboard, when those days come up (usually Saturdays, if not the entire weekend, when I don’t have a routine that I follow as much), but I do have those, because sometimes, I just want to eat a little extra and be a little lazy. And that’s totally okay, too, even if it slows down my progress a little bit.

All in all, I’m not doing too badly.

Yet I keep fixating on that number on the scale, how I still haven’t “truly” achieved my goal, since I haven’t hit the number I initially set out to hit.

You know and I know it.

That’s bullshit.

I may not have lost 40 pounds, but I have lost 30. My weight may fluctuate a little bit, but I have keep up a consistent workout routine and changed my eating habits to be healthier and more conducive to the lifestyle I want to live and the body I want to have. I have proved to myself that I can create this lifestyle and keep it up, even when I make mistakes or have to recover some lost ground when I slip up. I have developed a confidence and a self-love with my body that I’ve never had before.

I’d say I’ve achieved a damn lot, even if that number on the scale still isn’t exactly where I want it to be. Even if I have cheat days that sometimes go overboard, like last weekend. Even though my own brain tries to diminish my progress by pointing out what I haven’t yet achieved, thus also trying to derail my ability in attempting to achieve those lingering goals, before I make new ones.

I should be proud of all of that, instead of beating myself up for a bad eating day, a missed workout or that number on the scale. Because at the end of the day, I’m putting in the work, I’m creating a lifestyle I enjoy, I’m happy with who I am and I can look in the mirror without cringing.

And that’s pretty damn important, too.

Cheers.


Huh, Would You Look At That?

As everyone does with their dreams, sometimes (read: all the time), I question whether I have the chops to actually achieve it. If I have the talent, the drive, the passion, the work ethic, the stubbornness, to pursue writing and my dream of being a published author (hint: I do, but it’s easy for my brain to convince me otherwise. Yay, overthinking!).

Usually, I’m able to swallow those doubts, shove them into a dark place I hope to never discover again, even though they always resurface eventually, and I push forward and continue on. I realized something, though, the other day, that will hopefully make these recurrences happen a lot less frequently, so I can continue chasing my dreams without interruption.

I write.

A lot.

That might seem like a dumb statement or like that’s not important or perhaps even obvious. But I didn’t realize to exactly what extent that I truly incorporate writing, almost every single day.

Let’s just look at an average week, based on what it’s been like for this year, and you’ll see what I mean.

I’ve been writing, on average, 2,000 words a day for five days a week, so 10,000 words in my new book. Then, I usually write three blog posts for this blog, all of them averaging another 1,000ish words, so there’s another 3,000 words. Plus my book review over at Erlebnisse, so that’s another 700 words right there. Then, emails. You’d think that wasn’t a lot, but between responding to work emails, catching up on personal emails, not to mention the few email chains I have to stay connected with Twitter friends (and each of those is easily 1,500 words, because hey, each of us are writers and we have a lot to say to one another), that’s a lot of words. Those email chains alone, I prolly have roughly four or five of those going, so let’s say another 10,000 words, just for shits and grins.

All in all, on an average week, I’d probably say I write at least 30,000 words before you even start thinking about social media sites, random letters I get to respond to, texts, etc.

That’s a lot of words.

And aside from the work emails, practically all of that is not only voluntary, but unconscious, on my part. What I mean is, I write that much because I can’t imagine doing anything else. I write books because I love it. Same with blogging. Email chains to stay in touch with out-of-state friends make sense to me, even though it’s weird to other people. I like writing book reviews to help authors out, make connections and rave/rant over a book I’d just read.

Looking at all that, how can I ever, even when the overthinking is strong, question my passion for writing or my desire to chase my dream focused on it?

Cheers.


This Post is Definitely All Over The Place

I’ve written about my brain before.

Sometimes, my brain really sucks.

You know, like how it always goes to the worst case scenario whenever a situation pops up. Or how I overthink every little thing, to the point of exhaustion. Or how the combination of these things makes life just a little more complicated than it needs to be and even though this happens over and over and over again, I still repeat the same cycle.

Let’s go on some ramblings, shall we?

This year, I met a really wonderful guy. I fell for said wonderful guy and I’m very elated to be his girl. I’m hoping it stays that way for a long time, if I’m being honest. It’s the first relationship I’ve ever been in and, needless to say, that comes with a lot of firsts. Yet it’s also the first time I’ve really experienced a lot of the…more complicated aspects of being in a relationship, I guess? I’m not exactly sure how to describe it, but I’ve certainly learned a lot about myself.

I realized I have jealousy issues, so that’s fun. Fear of abandonment, thanks to all the guys who liked me, but choose a different girl instead. Super rad. Still got those bouts of confidence droughts that have followed me since middle school, which is every guy’s turn on, right? Sometimes, I struggle to open up to him about how I’m feeling, just because I care about this man so damn much that I don’t want to lose him over being a crying emotional mess, which, in turn, makes whatever I’m struggling with, build up and up and up until I break, and I end up being a crying mess, anyway (which, btw, if a guy is willing to leave you because you’re human and you feel things, maybe he isn’t the right guy for you? Luckily, my human is the exact opposite and is one of the most empathetic, patient souls I know).

Oh, and I really struggle at balancing things.

You see, this morning, I got a really surprising offer: to go on vacation with his family. Next week. To Disney World (I know, right? I’ve never been to Disney World *cue excited screaming*). Last minute, sure, but super exciting. Honestly, a trip of a lifetime.

Yet what’s the first thing I do?

Panic.

Can I even get off work? Do I have enough vacation time? How am I going to afford it? Will I piss off my family, being gone the entire week before Christmas? What about changing my eye doctor appointment or my phone call date with my friend?

the incredibles slapping GIF

Which then began the spiral of anxiety and overthinking that related to that balancing struggle I mentioned above. You see, ever since I started seeing him, he quickly became a really important aspect of my life. I want him to stay that way. My life began to become more busy, with dates and hanging out with his friends, things like that. So, some things, that I used to do when I was single, have sorta stopped happening. Like having an abundant amount of free time, not leaving my apartment for three days in a row, playing my PS4 way too much…

Seeing my family.

This has been bothering me for a while. Between working nights five days a week, having two different DnD groups that take up two large chunks of my weekend and then a man who actually wants to spend time with me, for a change, and suddenly, my family has been put on the back burner. Which really isn’t okay with me. If you know me, you know how important my family is to me, so the fact that I’m going a month–if not longer–between seeing them when I live less than an hour away, is really not working.

Then, you add in the changes that I’m experiencing for the first time, mainly the “being-in-a-relationship-during-the-holidays” shenanigans. Balancing two Thanksgivings and two Christmases has been something I’ve never had to do and it’s been a challenge for me personally (though this is a challenge I’ve always wanted to experience and I couldn’t have found a better man to experience it with). I want to spend time with my man during the holidays, obviously. I want him to be able to see his family and I want to get to know them better. But, my family is everything to me, so I want to spend time with them, too. Yet there’s still only so much time in the day, especially during the holidays.

Cue stress and anxiety.

Especially when I don’t tell anyone involved about any of these feelings.

Which results in bawling your eyes out in stress, fearing that you’re going to piss off your family to go on a vacation you really want to go on with your boyfriend, while also trying to figure out logistics of said vacation mere days before it happens while being a Type A planner, and oh, you’ve been on your period for over a week now.

You might be getting a mental picture of where I was at, this morning.

There are a few important things I’m missing, here.

One: I must stop worrying about what everyone else thinks.

Though I have gotten better about this, I do really need to take this advice to heart and follow it like it’s my religion. Because at the end of the day, this is my one shot at living the best life I can and the happiest life I can. If I want to take a day off work to do something else, I can (without worrying that my boss is suddenly going to think I’m lazy). If I want to spend the day with my man, I should do that (without feeling guilty it’s been a few weeks since I’ve hung out with my family). If I want to go and have dinner with my folks, I should do that (without stressing that my man is going to get irritated that I love my family so much).

I’ve gotten a lot better at being true to myself: being that nerdy, LOTR-obsessed, quiet, introspective, passionate, straight-edge, hopeless romantic I’ve always been, but sometimes too scared to stay true to. Now, I’ve got to also give myself permission to do what I want, as well, without considering every other party before I make a decision (because half the time, my anxiety is giving them untrue opinions/reactions to those choices to being with, which just makes everything unnecessarily complicated).

Two: Perhaps throw a little trust around, eh?

I have this ingrained fear of pissing people off. My friends, family, boyfriend, all of them are included in this fear, no one is exempt. I can’t really describe where this fear comes from, but it taints a lot of my thoughts and fuels a lot of my anxiety and my decisions. Yet it’s also wrong, because none of those people have ever given me a reason to doubt them or my relationships with them–not to mention the strength of those relationships, which I’m very lucky to have strong ones in each regard. I need to start trusting in that strength and the people that I care about; trust that their care for me is genuine and it’s not going to dissipate the moment things get rocky.

Three: The people I love can’t know what I’m thinking/feeling/needing if I don’t tell them. 

Self-explanatory, but apparently something I really struggle with. Gotta love the introverted shyness coming out in me, forcing me to resort to writing letters or long texts or hiding notes or passive aggressive blog posts to communicate how I’m feeling about something; causing me to wait until whatever’s concerning me has reached the boiling over point and I become the crying mess I was this morning. A mess who was answered by an understanding family, excited that I’m going on an awesome trip, instead of being angry or feeling jipped, like I feared; and a boyfriend who doesn’t understand why I’m not hanging out with my family more, because he knows how important they are to me–and isn’t going to go anywhere, if I do.

*sigh*

It’s safe to say, friends, that I’ve still got a lot of learning to do: in life, in love and in learning how to balance the two.

 

Cheers.


The Never-Ending Cycle of Learning Lessons

This freakin’ brain of mine, friends.

This freakin’ brain.

So, as you (might) know, my birthday was last week. *throws celebratory balloons* As such, it was a lot of eating really good food. Including cake. Like, Oreo Blizzard Cake from Dairy Queen (because my family is awesome). Plus, homemade strawberry pretzel salad (because my family is awesome). And letting me choose the restaurants, so places like Olive Garden (because, hello pasta) and Texas Roadhouse (can I have another basket of rolls, please?) were both consumed. It was a glorious weekend.

You know what didn’t happen?

Running.

Or working out of any capacity.

Monday’s are my weigh-in days. Which, in retrospect, makes me wonder why I picked that day, out of any day of the week, because it’s always after the weekend, which is when I usually fall off my eating plan and don’t work out at all, so it’s probably my “worst” weight of the week (as compared to Fridays, after I’ve worked out all week and ate well). Yet it’s also probably the most accurate, so I’m sticking with it.

Anyway, this morning, I was terrified to weigh myself. In my mind, since I went a little overboard with the birthday shenanigans, obviously I’d gained five, ten pounds back and I was going to lose all motivation I had to keep up this lifestyle I’ve now officially kept up with for a year and suddenly I’ve become the cow I always thought I used to be, before.

Dramatic, right?

Everyone told me to skip weighing, do well this week and then weigh next week. And I wanted to do just that, but I couldn’t. I wanted to be honest with myself.

So I weighed.

And gained 0.08 pounds.

Then, I ran three miles and weighed again, just for shits and grins.

And was right back where I was last week, perfectly maintaining.

Related image

I know.

know.

You gotta love that overactive imagination, right? That over-thinking part of my brain that just so happens to be more powerful than other part of my brain? Yeah, it definitely took over this weekend, being so nervous that a couple days of not eating the best was going to ruin a year’s worth of progress. But I don’t believe that was the main factor, the main influence, for my over-thinking.

It was fear.

You see, the most amazing part about this lifestyle change; about losing 30 pounds of my 40 pound goal; about figuring out eating habits that are healthy yet aren’t restrictive; about incorporating working out as part of a routine (and a main part, at that); the most amazing part about all of this has been the self-love I’ve finally experienced, after so many years searching for it and failing to find it.

Ever since 7th grade and I first slipped into the 180 pound range, I’ve hated myself, physically. And that hatred manifested, through depression, into practically every area of my life.

For years.

Until this past year.

As I’ve discovered my strength, I’ve discovered a pause to look in the mirror when I usually stared at the ground. As I’ve discovered my control, I’ve discovered the excitement to go shopping for a new pair of jeans instead of dreading it. As I’ve discovered a healthy lifestyle, I’ve discovered the joy of releasing endorphins, actually creating the way my body looks, enjoying foods that I make myself and eating a healthy amount, all alongside discovering a love for me, and my body.

It’s an incredible feeling. Addictive, really.

I never want to go back to what I used to feel. I never want to hate myself again.

So when I mess up, I get scared. Because I’ve messed up before. Over and over again, I’ve messed up, which is how I got to 200 pounds in the first place, being labeled as in the “obese” category at the doctor’s office. And though realistically in my mind, I know that a few days of poor eating, or a week of not exercising, isn’t going to kill me. Hell, gaining a pound or two back isn’t failure. If nothing else, I should be confident that I can conquer any obstacle, now that I’ve already done what used to feel like an impossibility, so whatever I gain back, I know I can lose it again.

Yet the fear remains.

And that’s the next thing to conquer.

It’s especially prevalent now, that winter is here. Because I know I’m not going to run as much as I’ll want to. It’ll get cold or the weather will get bad and I’ll have no desire to run at all, let alone leave the warmth of my bed. I’ll want to eat warm, filling food and play video games. Plus, we got Thanksgiving coming up, not to mention Christmas. And all that Halloween candy still to eat. It’s the holiday season, paired with the worst weather to run in, basically setting me up to not lose weight. Or maintain, which is my goal. And potentially gain.

I know that, if I set my mind to something, I can achieve it. I know that, if I focus on the unrealistic roots and unfairness of this fear, I can overcome it. I know that, if I learn to embrace forgiveness on the times when I mess up or the weeks that I don’t do very well, this fear will quietly become silent. I know that.

Now, it’s time to learn it.

Cheers.