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Mediocre

I used to want to be so many things.

I called it ambition.

At first I was apologetic for this ambition.

Then I learned to embrace it.

To be proud of it.

I wanted to be a millionaire, to speak on big stages, to be fluent in five languages, to lose ten pounds, to solve the hunger problem.

Because of ambition…

I learned how to take action despite fear and self-doubt, and that was a good thing.

I learned how to want what I wanted without apologizing, and that was a good thing.

I learned how to set goals despite the judgment of others, and that was a good thing too.

But I rarely ever felt contentment.

Everything was rush, rush, rush. Do, do, do. Measure, measure, measure.

Because underneath the ambition that I worked so hard to cultivate was fear — a fear of mediocrity.

As if mediocre were a disease.

What I realized is that mediocrity is nothing but a label. It is the attachment to an identity, in my case, the attachment to the idea that I have to be something “special,” that is the real disease.

I have released the need to live up to any sort of potential, to be special or a success.

You want to know what happens when you stop worrying about being mediocre?

You get to do whatever the fuck you want.

This. Is. Freedom.

Ironically, there is something incredibly un-mediocre about not giving a fuck about mediocrity.

There is a purity in it. There is joy, love and compassion in it.

That saturates every mundane, mediocre thing with a kind of magic.

I want to love from this place.

I want to create from this place.

I want to exist in this magic and see what happens.

Cancelled.

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Cozification and Other Strange Urges

In Finding Your Own North Star, Martha Beck shares a concept called “the urge to merge.” It’s an “intense, almost chemical reaction that comes out of nowhere that makes some person, place or thing so attractive to you that for a while you can’t think about much else.”... read more

27 Hacks to Cope with Anxiety [Repost]

The other day I made tentative plans with a friend to do something over the weekend. The day before, I realized I had to do some “momming” (this is my new word for running around like a decapitated chicken trying to get kids places on time), so I texted her to cancel.... read more