Those are powerful words from #1 New York Times bestselling author Anna Quindlen.

My husband emailed me a couple of weeks ago and said, “You need to buy this book.”* The note included a link to Quindlen’s new memoir Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake. Shawn knows I like memoirs (the fact that I’ve written one is a clue) but I wanted to know why he thought I should read this one.  He said he saw Quindlen on “The Morning Joe”, and so I went off into Google land in search of the video. Here it is. 

In the interview, Quindlen talks about how she’s working on a commencement speech. She says to the graduates: “I was you five minutes ago.”

How many of you feel that way? That you blinked your eyes and here you are?

But Quindlen finds this realization encouraging. In an interview with “CBS This Morning“, Quindlen says that even though she will turn 60 this year, she feels 41. And yet, she likes her life so much more than she did when she was 41.

I’m 37 and all I can say is I’ll have what she’s having. 

Whatever makes you feel like your life just keeps getting better—I want that. Because I’ll tell you what depresses and scares and overwhelms me: It’s this notion that I’m in the prime of my life. That here I am, arriving at the peak. Or worse. That I’ve already peaked and am on the way down.

I look at Anna Quindlen, a woman two decades older than me, healthy and radiant and telling me that she loves her life. I find that encouraging.

She says when you’re younger you spend a lot of time backstopping yourself. Asking am I good enough? and listening to all the voices saying you should be this or that. Then she got to 50 and started saying I don’t care. She started feeling like a 5-year-old again. And she says getting that feeling back was liberating.

I personally don’t want to wait another day to stop “backstopping” myself.

What about you?

*Yes, of course I bought the book. And if you’d like to have my blog delivered to your reader or inbox, click here.

Due to the fact that this post has taken me a week to write, it is longer than normal. I was never quite sure where it was taking me, but it led me here. To Friday. And to the voice that told me to hit publish and see where it goes.  

I’m almost afraid to say it out loud. When you say something out loud two things can happen. One: It becomes a reality. Or two: It spontaneously combusts.

So I’m just going to say it.

I see the light. Not the Poltergeist kind of light. But a light at the end of the tunnel kind of light. A flicker in the maze pointing towards an exit.

Cate is now old enough to stay in the gym daycare. And since last week, Cate, Blake and I have gone to the gym four times. Four glorious times. I’m drafting this blog post at the gym right now, because they have free Wi-Fi. God love them. So, I’ve managed to work out, take a quick shower, and sketch out some of thoughts before my time is up and I turn into a pumpkin. Or back into a mommy.

I’m nervous about this freedom. I shush the voices trying to convince me the kids are screaming. The daycare workers assure me if that’s the case, they’ll come get me. After all, they know where I am. I’m right outside the door.

Freedom is tricky. The thought of it is exhilarating. On the first day back at the gym, I sang (inside my head), “Lalalalala!” And then I hopped on the elliptical machine and started going really fast. Like I needed to hurry and get the workout over with before the other shoe dropped. Simmer down. Slow down. This is your time. It’s okay to have your time.

It gets easier. I know it gets easier. But sometimes, when I’m in transition, I forget.

I’ve noticed something interesting about Cate. How she came out of the womb with this built in survival instinct. When the nurse placed her on my chest, she tried to push herself up. She pushed and lifted and grabbed at my face. And sometimes, when I lift her out of the bouncy seat too quickly, she throws out her arm and clutches the mobile that hangs over her head. I have to pry her tiny fingers from the plush, foam-filled bird and tell her she doesn’t have to hang on so tightly. That she can let go. I’ve got her.

Ten years ago, my husband and I moved from Charleston to Portland, Oregon, because Shawn got a job as a technical newscast director at the CBS station there. It was a great opportunity for him, and I told myself moving to a bigger city could be great for my career, too. So, I left my morning anchor job and our brand new house and my family and our friends. During that move, I learned that I’m very brave. Kind of a badass. The kind of woman who can drive a moving truck with a car strapped to the back for three thousand miles. Over the river and through the woods and down very steep mountains.

And, I learned I’m so very fragile. Instead of continuing my upward climb towards happily ever after, I began to unravel. I realized I didn’t want a television news job in this big city. And what on earth was I going to do with that? The path I had so carefully laid out for myself and the beautiful life I was trying to build was falling apart, and I was overcome with this sense of how I had messed everything up. What if I had been more honest with myself and my husband? Why did I have to move across the country and make such a huge, unsettling change before I could start telling the truth?

I felt a lot like Cate when I pull her out of the bouncy seat. Flailing. Grasping. Searching for something to hold onto.

And I’ve felt that way, in some ways, during this particular time in my life: a 37-year-old mom of three children. A 37-year-old woman who thought that by the time I was 37, everything would be in place. I thought I’d be at the top of my career making six figures. It never occurred to me that I’d be taking baby steps towards a new dream. That I’d still be discovering new and more authentic ways to use my gifts and talents.

All of this reminded me of something that happened when I was in Portland. Shawn and I were at the gym, a warehouse converted into a 24 Hour Fitness. The gym was buzzing with music and people and the sound of treadmills and clanking weight machines. Shawn and I were side by side, doing sit-ups on those big, bouncy exercise balls. And in that moment, the heaviness of homesickness, regret and worry about my future lifted. A giant, internal weight dissipated and I felt happy. Or peaceful. Or connected. Whatever the feeling was, it was different. Better. The shift was marked and profound and then, I had a thought:

I can do this anywhere.

Today, I try to remember that moment and what it taught me. I’m seeking connection. I’m seeking the way it feels when my mind, body and spirit are in sync. I’m seeking the ability to feel grounded in the moment, comforted by its unwavering presence. That thing that I’m seeking feels so elusive. And yet, when I’m flailing around, it’s right there. It’s always within my reach.

It remains within me, even when I don’t feel it. It follows me wherever I go in this life. Through every unknown. Through every season. And it says, See? You don’t have to hang on so tightly. I’ve got you.

Perhaps what we want, what we need and what we seek is closer than we think.

I’m addicted to NBC’s “Smash”. Positively addicted. The show is about a brilliant team of talent, creating a Broadway musical about the life of Marilyn Monroe. I love how the show depicts the struggle of the artist and how the inner angels and demons wrestle for center stage.

In the episode “The Cost of Art“, Ivy, who’s vying for the part of Marilyn, tells the director Derek that she just wants to feel safe. And Derek replies, “Then go back to the chorus. There’s nothing safe about being a star.”

Scenes like that have a special way of kicking me in the gut, because I know that feeling. I so know that feeling. I want to take a risk, but I also want to know that everything’s going to be okay. I don’t want to lose the other things that I value—the safer, the consistent, more practical things—in the process.

When I asked what would you do if you weren’t afraid, Giulietta commented, “I shudder to think where I would be if I had not slapped fear in the face and taken a chance on myself.” And I wrote back, “It just occurred to me that we’re not talking about driving without a seat belt. We’re talking about listening to the part of us that wants to stay alive.”

Kerstin wrote a post on her blog about learning to work with her demons, rather than ignoring or resisting them. It reminded me of an exercise at a writers’ retreat I attended a few years ago. We had to identify the demon—our biggest fear—that was keeping us from taking a chance on our hearts’ desires.

The instructor told us that our demons serve a purpose and our fears are trying to protect us. They’re trying to save us from hardship and pain. So they fight hard to maintain their tight grip, and in the process hold us back and keep us stuck. After she explained this, she asked us to write a letter to the demon.

This was one of the post therapeutic things I’ve ever done, because it helped me set aside my own defenses. Instead of being all, Back off, you rotten, evil demon!, I was able to say, Hey, listen. I understand you’ve been trying to do me a favor. In the past, I’ve needed to hide behind you and your warnings and your fear. Thank you for protecting me. I wasn’t ready to step out then. But I’m ready now. So you can go away now. I’m a big girl. I can do this. It won’t be easy. But my writer self is speaking to me now, and it’s gently urging me to come along. To let you go. So thanks again, and goodbye.

Of course the demon comes back every now and then, because demons are persistent like that. But the angels are persistent too. I can tell when I’m listening to the angel because of how it feels internally. I get a freeing sensation, like a weight being lifted. I feel like I can fly. The demon is heavy. The angel is light. The angel is my star. It is within me.

Do you resist your demons or have you learned to work with them? I would LOVE for you (if you feel so inclined) to write a letter to your own demon and share it with me in the comments or via email at angie@angiemizzell.com. Let’s work together and learn to be our own star.

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In high school, I was the popular girl. Co-captain of the cheerleading team. Senior class president. Voted “most school spirit” and active in the church youth group.

I played the good girl role well, and sometimes when I look back at her, I cringe. I was, outwardly, a stereotype. I joke that I was a cross between Sandy and Patty Simcox, and my inner Rizzo was clawing to come out. The part of me that wanted to shatter the facade, tell it like it is and live a little.

But inside that bubble of “small town popular girl” I felt safe. That protective wall shielded me from a lot of pain. Inside that wall, I felt loved. I felt like I mattered. I felt like people saw me, if only a part of me. And somewhere along the way, I began to rely on that praise and positive attention. I felt like I didn’t exist without it.

Just days before I quit my job in TV news, I had coffee with a friend of mine. He’s a personal trainer (so actually he had a green tea with no sugar, and I had a high calorie foamy yummy latte), and he’s also one of the most good-spirited people I’ve ever met. When I told him I was thinking about changing careers, he recommended the book Who Moved My Cheese? I bought  it the same day and when I flipped through the pages, this question jumped out at me:

“What would you do if you weren’t afraid?”

I decided to take a walk. Once outside, I shifted my focus to the sky. I could feel the quiet rising up all around me. I knew what I wanted—really wanted—was to use my gifts and talents in new and more creative ways. And that’s when I came to terms with my biggest fear:

I was terrified of becoming irrelevant. Insignificant. If the proof of my work wasn’t broadcast live on the evening news, then what would that say about me? About my success? Did stepping out of the spotlight make me a failure? Unimportant?

That day, I heard a voice. Let go of the struggle. Let go of the quest to be somebody. You are somebody. You are enough. You are whole. Regardless of who sees you. Even if no one sees you.  I knew those words were coming from someplace bigger than me. Someplace honest and someplace safe. And it gave me the courage to break through the chains of fear and move on with my life.

Here’s one of the biggest things I’ve come to realize: the voice of my soul wants me to use my gifts of writing and communicating with audiences just as much as my ego does. My soul reminds me that I am an artist. It assures me that the need to express myself creativitely, to tell stories and connect with others is a calling, my purpose.

My ego warns that my gifts don’t matter if they aren’t accompanied by a round of applause. That the days I till the soil aren’t as significant as the days I harvest a crop. That if I can’t measure the impact, then the work is pointless. A waste of time. Irrelevant. My ego says if I’m not producing, climbing, winning, succeeding right now, right this instant that all my hard work will fall away. So I hurry up and stress out and forget to trust and believe.

And when I’m losing faith, I ask myself: what would you do if you weren’t afraid? The voice brave enough to answer is the one I—eventually—listen to.

What would you do?

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Springtime has presented itself and I’ve found myself with nothing to wear. And while that realization can hardly be classified as an epiphany, it got me thinking about them. I have epiphanies in all kinds of situations, even in restaurant bathrooms.  When I return to the table Shawn usually asks, “Have any epiphanies while you were gone?” I’m not sure what’s so effective about the back of the stall door, but perhaps it’s the simple act of walking away from a conversation that leads me to clarity.

In this particular case, the lack of clothing did not lead me to a higher level of self-awareness. It led me to Kohl’s. A new store has opened up near our house and I decided to try it out. I also had to decide whether I wanted to channel the style of Vera Wang, Jennifer Lopez, Daisy Fuentes or the models in Elle magazine. I opted for Vera and Elle and headed to the dressing room.

A 7-week-postpartum woman has no business in front of full length mirrors under the glare of florescent lights. But there I was, coming to this conclusion: buying bigger sizes of normal clothes is not the answer to the way my body is shaped right now. I left and retreated to the maternity store.

The trip to Motherhood produced exactly one outfit that stretched in all the right places and a curious stare from a pregnant woman who saw Cate in the stroller and wondered aloud how I could be pregnant again. Um, no. No and no. Please don’t misread this paragraph and start spreading that rumor.

There is nothing confidence boosting about buying maternity clothes after you’ve had a baby. So I decided to continue with the beat down. I went to Target and bought this:

I’m so sore right now I can barely sit down. The workout is about 25 minutes long and progresses in intensity over a 4-week-period. After I completed the first workout, I felt good. All sweaty and accomplished. And then it hit me: I have to do this again tomorrow.

Damn.

That’s the same thing that happened to Dillon when he started kindergarten. At the end of that first day, he was all “I rock kindergarten” and then cried when he realized kindergarten wasn’t a one day event. He had to go  back the next day and do it all over again.

Six.

That’s how many blog posts I wrote in a new way before I woke up feeling panicky. You mean I have to keep doing this?

And then I remembered the epiphany I had a little more than a decade ago. I was standing on a rooftop overlooking a big city when I realized there was more to life than the stressful ladder-climbing one I’d been living. When I realized what I wanted more than anything was the freedom I felt standing on that roof.

The epiphany was eye-opening and convincing. Taking a leap of faith was, indeed, freeing. But the transition was tough.

So perhaps this post is just a way to clarify to you and within myself what’s going on here. Weeks ago, I had an epiphany to begin weaving in scenes and themes from that defining moment in my life, and to do it right now, while I’m going through yet another life transition. When I start to second guess and convince myself it’s a stupid idea that will lead absolutely nowhere, maybe I’ll hear Jillian reminding me that it’s not about doing it perfectly. In fact, her exact words were “perfect sucks”.

If you’re in transition, too, I’m here to remind you, and myself, that we don’t get to duck behind the curtain or start spinning like a tornado and emerge a superhero. We have to do the work of putting one foot in front of the other and trust where those steps are leading. When I feel lost, I go back to the epiphany. To the moment of decision. That’s where I’m able to rest, center and reconnect.

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