Baby Steps

Building a new life in the face of fear and uncertainty -- and in a foreign land to boot

Photo by Alaric Duan on Unsplash

The subtitle is over-confident. I say I’m building a new life, but it’s more like I’m being dragged kicking and screaming into a new life, after blowing up my old, perfectly good one in California.

Here I find myself in Madrid, “living the dream.” I claim that I’m not happy even though I am here, I did it, I pulled it off… I claim I remain unhappy because of financial pressures, and that’s largely true. But my son calls bullshit.

“Mom, you’re addicted to fear,” he says. God, what a thing to hear, and from one’s own child.

The beautiful part, of course, is that he believes in me. Do the thing, he says. Embrace your life. Stop looking for a job. Go after the life you really want. The life you’ve always dreamed of.

Write every day. Write every day on Medium and weekly on Substack. And Mom?

Yes, I say meekly.

Send an email to an editor daily. One email a day to one editor.

I promised to do this.

And guess what? I did it. Today. Finally. I published the daily essay and pitched an editor. Then, I worked on an essay-tracking spreadsheet. Then, I made a list of editors to pitch. Then, I began trying to figure out a structure for a memoir draft I have to have in hand by September.

In Lily King’s Heart the Lover, the narrator claims she writes first drafts of her novels in single-subject, spiral-bound notebooks. She said it only take about two notebooks to produce a novel. And, she writes in pencil.

When I read this, I left the house with hope in my heart, again. I bought four single-subject, spiral-bound notebooks and a box of pencils, a pencil sharpener, and an eraser. And a mechanical pencil to boot.

And they have sat where I left them in my new Madrid apartment for weeks.

Yesterday, I searched whether Lily King also uses this method to write her novels. Sure enough, she does, at least according to the articles I skimmed.

Today, I gaze at the black-and-orange-striped pencils I placed in a mug with hope and bemusement.

Whenever I thought about bringing a notebook and a pencil to the cafe, I got scared. I didn’t want to try and discover I felt silly. I couldn’t face the blank page. I couldn’t face the mean voice that would begin to flay me. I couldn’t try and fail. I couldn’t, I just couldn’t.

This morning, I thought, I will take pencils and notebook, just for fun, to the nearby library, and I will LEAVE BEHIND my phone and my laptop. That suddenly seemed possible and like a good idea. It’s worth a try, anyway, and it didn’t scare me to death. I haven’t tried it yet, however.

Working with ChatGPT today, I discovered I have 700+ published and draft essays on Medium and Substack. ChatGPT averred I likely already have a draft memoir in those essays, essays that can be further developed and worked into a frame or structure. The model then offered to help me identify a progression. It gave me hope, this. It did.

The big news I have to report today is that I kept my promise to my son, and more importantly, to myself. I published an essay on Medium, and I sent a pitch to an editor. I made a tracking spreadsheet, and I have a list of editors to approach in the coming days.

What would happen if you took yourself seriously? a therapist asked me at least 15 years ago. I didn’t know. I didn’t know quite what he meant by taking myself seriously. I was not a serious person. Riven by drama, yes. But serious? Not particularly, I’m afraid.

I’m working on codependence with my current therapist, and with individuation. He scarily said two weeks ago, I don’t think you ever individuated. That’s as appalling as it sounds. I’m 57, for Christ’s sake. If I haven’t individuated yet, when will I?

Individuating, as far as I can tell, has to do with owning oneself, one’s life and voice, one’s preferences. It’s learning to trust your own preferences and intuition. And—importantly—it’s doing this without the need to explain, justify, or apologize. What a concept!

There is pain when buds burst, said the caption beneath the photo of the young adolescent in the book of photography my friend S. gave me as a teenager. Indeed there is.

Buds are bursting all over the place now. Up and down my street, and in my heart. Maybe it’s a bud that burst when tears gathered in my eyes as I watched the young mother in the cafe this morning dandle her infant in her lap, and then place him or her right on the table, facing out, like a little Buddha, no taller than a vase.

My therapist said my anxiety, when I’m in the throes of it, prevents me from experiencing the present moment. My life passes by while I’m riven by regret for past decisions and terror at future catastrophes. It’s such a bad way to live.

My “scarcity mindset” as my son calls it prevents me from feeling gratitude for what I have now, which, of course, is so much.

On Monday, in the Metro on my way to my tango class, I strode past a man crumpled in a wheelchair with a sign above his head, fastened to the back of his chair, that read, “Vendo cupcakes.” I was already halfway up the escalator when I read the sign, and my heart shuddered. I was deeply moved, and caustic with myself. You think you can’t get a job. Look. Even this man is trying, and see how much dignity he has. How much courage.

And tears gathered. A bud burst.

I’m emotional lately, and that’s a good sign.

Mom, feel the feelings, my son says. Go deeper.

I have more good news to report. I have had fleeting moments of self-compassion, times when I’ve wanted to wrap my arms around myself. Times when I feel immense love well up for the scared little girl I was, the confused teen, the terrified young adult, the grieving mother.

And also, a kinship. Life is hard for all of us, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. No one has this thing figured out. No one. And all of us will meet our demise. And all of us hope to leave some sort of legacy or sensibility, some sort of there, there. Some sort of meaning or purpose. A purpose-driven life.

How does one achieve that?

I got one step closer today. In keeping my promise to myself and my son, my life meant something today. It had a purpose, it had a shape, it had inner momentum, it stemmed from something inside. Maybe, just maybe, I individuated today, just a little bit.