From Pushing to Choosing

Just because I can doesn't mean I have to

A little over a year ago, during a mentoring conversation, someone asked me a question.

What brings you joy? Describe your ideal day.

Simple questions, right? You'd think after more than five decades on this planet, I'd have a pretty good handle on the answers. 

And in many ways, I do. I know I love quiet mornings on my porch, coffee in hand, watching the sun come up over the Organ Mountains. I love riding my bicycle, being near water, spending time with my husband, and losing myself in words. I love meaningful conversations and the satisfaction of making someone's day a little easier. 

None of this is particularly mysterious. So why is it sometimes so hard to build a life around what we already know about ourselves?

The trouble with being capable

I've spent much of my adult life being capable. Give me a challenge, a problem, an opportunity, or a project, and chances are I'll figure something out. I can lead. I can organize. I can speak in front of an audience. I can build websites, create marketing campaigns, develop programs, and bring people together.

And because I can, I often have.

Some of those experiences have been wonderful. Others have been exhausting. Quite a few have been both.

But lately I've been questioning something I rarely stopped to consider before.

Just because I'm capable of doing something, does that mean I should?

Take writing, for example. I love to write. I want my books to reach people. I'd love to earn a meaningful living from the stories I tell. Ask the experts how to build a successful author business, though, and you'll find no shortage of advice. Create videos. Show your face. Build your personal brand. Speak at events. Develop courses. Post consistently. Engage constantly. Grow your audience. Sell, sell, sell.

And some of that advice is probably very good. I've tried quite a bit of it.

But here's the thing. I don't particularly want to spend my days performing for a camera. I don't want to turn every thought into content or every experience into an opportunity to market myself. And while I can speak in front of an audience, I'm not convinced I want a business that depends on it.

I want to write. I want to tell stories. I want people to read them, connect with them, and perhaps recognize a little of themselves along the way.

Is that enough? I don't know yet. But I'm becoming less willing to accept someone else's definition of success without considering what it would cost me to achieve it.

Revisiting the wheel

In 2022, I published Wheels to Wellbeing, a practical guide to creating a more balanced life. The premise was simple. Much like the spokes of a bicycle wheel, different parts of our lives contribute to our overall wellbeing. When something gets neglected or overloaded, we can feel the effects elsewhere.

I still believe that. But I've been revisiting the book lately, and something has shifted.

Back then, I focused on identifying what needed care, adjustment, or repair. Am I getting enough sleep? Moving my body? Managing stress? Nurturing relationships? Making time for play? All worthwhile questions.

And yet, if I'm not careful, even self-care can become another checklist. Another collection of things I should be doing to become a healthier, happier, more balanced version of myself.

Good grief. Even taking care of ourselves can start to feel like a performance review.

These days, I'm less interested in evaluating every spoke. I'm more interested in listening. What do I really want? What do I need? What brings me joy, gives me energy, and leaves me feeling fulfilled?  And what am I doing simply because I'm good at it, because someone expects it, or because an expert insists it's the path to success?

Maybe nothing is broken

I've noticed something interesting as I've begun making changes in my life. When I stop trying to manage everything, I have more energy for the things that actually belong to me. I'm learning to tell the difference between being helpful and taking responsibility for everyone else's problems. I can contribute meaningfully without taking over. I can come alongside someone without carrying their entire load.

And when something isn't mine to fix? Well, as I've been reminding myself lately, that's nunna business, Lori Ann. 

There's freedom in that. There's also an adjustment. When you've spent years measuring your contribution by how much you accomplish, how many problems you solve, or how much responsibility you carry, doing less can feel suspiciously like not doing enough. But maybe what I'm experiencing isn't doing less. Maybe it's no longer doing too much. And maybe that distinction matters more than I realized.

From pushing to choosing

Here's something that made me smile. The final chapter of Wheels to Wellbeing is called "From Pushing to Peace." In it, I wrote about the different demands of riding a bicycle. Sometimes you're climbing, working hard to reach the top. Other times you're descending, enjoying the wind, the view, and the ease of moving forward. And sometimes, you get to coast.

I understood that when I wrote it. I'm not sure I always allowed myself to live it.

For years, I was so accustomed to pushing that easing up felt like something I had to earn. There was always another hill to climb, another goal to reach, another way to improve.

I'm beginning to wonder whether I've spent too much time asking how to become better at climbing and not enough time asking where I actually want to go. 

Because I still have ambitions. I want my writing to matter. I want my books to find their readers. I want to create work I'm proud of and earn enough from it to have more freedom over how I spend my days. I haven't given up on any of that. But I'm becoming more selective about what I'm willing to do to get there.

Maybe some opportunities aren't for me. Maybe some perfectly sensible advice doesn't fit the life I want. Maybe I can be successful without becoming someone I don't particularly enjoy being. And maybe, at 55, I'm finally getting comfortable with the possibility that I don't need to prove quite so much.

Listening for the answer

Last week, in What the Bike Remembers, I wrote about rediscovering what feels good instead of automatically doing what I think I should. This feels like the next part of that conversation. Not a dramatic reinvention. Not a declaration that I've figured everything out. Just a growing curiosity about what happens when I give my own wants and needs as much consideration as the expectations I've spent a lifetime trying to meet.

I don't think anything is missing. I don't think anything needs fixing. I think I'm finally getting quiet enough to hear myself. And perhaps those questions I was asked more than a year ago are worth revisiting.

What brings me joy?

What would my ideal day look like?

And what choices can I make today that move me a little closer to that life?

I may not have all the answers. But for once, I'm not in such a hurry to find them. I've spent plenty of time pushing.

I'm ready to see where choosing takes me.