Siri and I have always had a love/hate relationship. She loves me (because she’s been programmed to), and I hate her. Actually, hate is a strong word, so let’s just say I don’t “get” her. We’ve been together since I broke up with my Blackberry in 2011, and this bitch still insists on spelling my name D-A-N-N-Y. I’m convinced she does it just to spite me, though as I type this I’m realizing it’s probably just because that’s the most common spelling of the name Danny. But here’s the weird thing, all miscommunication and general feelings of dislike aside, if Siri is giving me directions and announces that it’s time to “reroute”, I reroute. I change my course, without a second thought, and I don’t even trust this robot. Yet when my gut says it’s time to change directions, time to reroute, I’m suddenly paralyzed with fear. I no longer hear the word “reroute”. I hear the word “change”. I don’t know about you, but change has always been a loaded word for me- heavy with negative connotations and just ambiguous enough to make me fear taking any action at all. Change means potentially shifting our perspectives, and questioning outdated ideas and beliefs that we still subscribe to, even though they’re no longer consistent with the life we want, or the person we want to be. Change is hard work, and rarely is change the “quickest alternate route”. So we tune out our internal GPS, grip the wheel tightly (because we are SO in control), and continue down the path of least resistance.
Some food for thought:
What if we gave our internal GPS the same authority we give Siri? What if we shifted gears without hesitation every time something inside of us yelled “reroute”? What if we trusted the timing of our lives and accepted that we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be at this very moment, and any move we make is a move in the “only” direction. Because I’m starting to think that there is no “right” or “wrong” direction- no one destination. And maybe our only job is to just keep moving in whatever direction our little hearts pull us.
As you’ve probably already guessed, something inside of me is telling me it’s time to reroute. I’ll call you to let you know I’m safe when I get to wherever it is that I’m going.
– “Create Luck”
They say that not all who wander are lost. I’d like to add that not all who attend a 3-day “Wanderlust” yoga festival are looking to find themselves. Alas, I think Dan found herself, or at least the intimacy-averse, highly-inflexible part of herself (she also speaks in 3rd person now, because she’s “enlightened”). I’m kidding, chill.
When I booked my ticket to Wanderlust, a 3-day yoga festival being held in Lake Tahoe, I didn’t ask many questions. I assumed we would engage in some downward dog type activities, drink a fair amount of Kombucha and socialize with bearded men- none of which I’m totally opposed to. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I was excited, but I was up for a weekend with my girlfriends and the idea of roughing it in a condo fully stocked with premium tequila and extra-quilted toilet paper. As the festival grew closer, and life got more stressful, I started to grow more and more excited. Wanderlust was exactly what I needed. I would come back feeling recharged and totally Zen. Right?
After ingesting more kale than is humanly possible and a couple of really public ugly cries, I found myself feeling just the opposite. I felt drained. Vulnerable. Exposed. But why? Was dancing with half-naked strangers and singing in a tram full of random hippy-types out of my comfort zone? Apparently yes, and very much so. Turns out I can talk to a complete (but fully-clothed) stranger about the weather, my day, etc. but talking to said stranger about anything remotely personal makes me feel naked and afraid. While I can’t say I came back feeling recharged, I can say that I came back feeling extremely “awake”. I came back with a newfound awareness of those things that really make me squirm, those things that make my eyes well up with tears and my voice crack. And I really, really want to explore those things.
If attending a yoga festival, or getting naked with strangers in a densely wooded area isn’t your jam, I get that. But I still encourage you to step outside of your comfort zone (regularly). Look for the things that make you squirm, and start to ask yourself “why?”.
There’s something really raw and beautiful about feeling vulnerable. And there’s something really magical that happens when you let people in on that vulnerability. But I’ll let you experience that magic for yourself.
On a recent Southwest flight home from Arizona, I stumbled upon a Redbook magazine that someone had left in the seat pocket in front of me. Was this chance? Some sort of in-flight miracle? Or was it, perhaps, another sign from the all-knowing Universe? I’m going with the latter, and here’s why…
After browsing through skin care products, summer salad recipes, and a couple of workout inserts (which I quickly threw back into the seat pocket), I stumbled upon an article called “Why We’re All Getting More Beautiful” by Leslie Garrett. The article itself was powerful, but there was one quote that really resonated with me…in fact, knowing the Universe, it may have actually been written FOR me and deliberately placed in my Southwest seat pocket. Anyway, back to the quote…
“Why does it feel natural to catalog our faults, but weird to appreciate our assets”
And beyond being unable to appreciate our physical assets, why do we feel the need to be so accountable for our failures, while simultaneously refusing to give ourselves credit for our wins.
As an ever-growing-changing-woman-child who has built an entire business around the concept of “Creating Luck”, I still find myself plagued by a fear that I may have just, well, gotten lucky (gasp!). Even as I read this aloud, it sounds ridiculous- especially given that I know first hand how hard I’ve worked for everything that I have. Blood, sweat, tears…you name it, I’ve probably excreted it.
When I got into Real Estate I remember my mentor telling me “fake it, until you make it”. And so I did. I faked the shit out of it…and eventually I made it (whatever that means). Fast forward to 2015 when I decided to try my hand at Interior Decorating. “Fake it until you make it, Dan”, I confidently reminded myself. And so I did. Up went the website. In came the business. And I can’t forget that one time (like yesterday), when I really faked it and co-wrote a 96 page magazine because my inner-writer told me I could probably get away with it. While all of this “faking it” seems to be really working for me, I have to admit it’s made it nearly impossible to take credit for my wins.
Sadly, I think a lot of successful women struggle with what has been referred to as “Fraud Syndrome”. Simply put, “Fraud Syndrome” is the fear or worry that someday “others” will find out that we aren’t as smart/beautiful/interesting/hard-working/nice as we led them to believe, and in the blink of an eye the jig will be up.
What if we did just get lucky? What if our only real talent is being really, really good at faking it? We made it, didn’t we? We’re riding the metaphorical victory wave, sipping on the sweet, sweet nectar of WELL-DESERVED success and we can’t even taste it! So I propose we make a lady-pact. Let’s agree to get comfortable with giving ourselves credit. Let’s make it a point to pat ourselves on the back once in a while. Let’s try receiving compliments, and for once believing in ourselves as much as others believe in us. Let’s agree that faking success is totally acceptable…but fake handbags are not.