Category: When You’re Stuck

Lack of Sleep Turning You Into a Pissed Off 2-Year Old? I HAVE ALL THE ANSWERS.

  Get a load of this insider information: Did you know your brain actually needs SLEEP? I’m pretty sure that none of us are ACTUALLY SLEEPING, and you know who I blame this entirely on? Wine. Holy mother of dragons, discovery of the decade: If I have wine at night, I will not be able to sleep. And by “not be able to sleep,” what I mean to say is that I’ll be laying there in bed like a pissed

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You cannot be a sane person all the time. But you *do* get to choose where you spend your sanity.

You know what’s a real mind fuck? The whole “getting taken seriously” thing. Let’s be honest: How much do you just wish you could just hammer down some Doritos and blog about your mother-in-law? Or talk about the fact that, yes, you definitely swore under your breath at tourists last night, who, in their “Pura Vida Costa Rica!” childlike optimism, declared that the city-wide blackout—the one that happened RIGHT BEFORE YOU WERE ABOUT TO MAKE CHICKEN QUESADILLAS—was “charming.” Charming? Did

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There are two options: Make your own rules, or make your own grave.

Google can’t save you. Here is a short but compelling list of things Google is good for: Figuring out how the hell to poach a wet, floppy fish Ordering purple pimp costumes to wear to dinner at your in-law’s Frantically searching the correct pronunciation of the word “GIF”—before saying it out loud at your client meeting in 5 minutes And here are things Google cannot help you with, ever: Originality Creativity Discipline Practice Experience Trial Error Finding your own fucking

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We Desperately Need to Learn How to Be Mothers to Ourselves

The truth is, we desperately need to learn how to be mothers to ourselves. We desperately need to learn how to take our own kind hand and caress ourselves. (Not like that, though frankly that couldn’t hurt either.) We need to be soothed; instead of telling ourselves how stupid we are, we need to say the things that a mother would say to her daughter. That she is strong. That she is capable. That she is okay. That she was

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Read This if You’re an Impatient, Demanding, Self-Critical Tart Who Gets Mad at Herself When Things, You Know, Actually Take TIME

What gets measured, gets managed has got to be the most annoying piece of business advice ever. (Right next to “create epic content,” “follow your passion,” and “don’t fart too loud when the mic is on,” of course.) Coming from a background in PR, I’ve always hurled silent insults at the whole “what gets measured, gets managed” thing, because many important outcomes—like positive sentiment, for example—are harder than Donald Trump’s head to measure. And yet, all these years later, I

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Please, Don’t Get Hard (Even When Life Is)

So, I’m standing there at this bakery in Costa Rica, trying not to order the things one orders at a bakery, because if I order bakery-like things from this bakery, I might as well give my stomach pooch full on permission to never, ever fucking go away. And then what will become of me? Forget the fear of becoming a cat lady; I’m far more terrified of becoming an angry, bitter old wench who could never stand to look at

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On Not Allowing: A Message for When You’re Feeling Whiny

“Just to let you know,” the massage therapist warned over the phone, “I’m blind.” She arrived to my house by taxi, and as she pulled up, she looked out the glass toward me as if she could see me…even though she could not. The art of the gesture stunned me. “Hello!” I greeted, wanting to be helpful without being condescending—a line I wasn’t sure how not to cross. As she exited the car, the taxi driver—a shy, round thirty-something man

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When You’re Suffering, Do It Anyway. And Let NOTHING Stop You.

“I’m sorry I bailed on you,” the neatly folded note began. It was 2013. I am at a retreat, and this was the note I received from a fellow participant; a lovely woman in her early 30’s with whom I had made Friday night dinner plans. I had waited for an hour in the lobby, my black jeans tucked into my chunk heeled, cream-colored leather ankle booties. I wasn’t in a hurry; I’m never in a hurry. I just assumed

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When You’re Running Around Like a Frizzy-Haired, Obessive-Compulsive Psychopath

Nobody gets between me and my business. Nobody. Not even that shit bottle of wine from the night before. It could be Saturday. It could be Easter morning. It could be raining REALLY BIG MUSCLY MEN for all I care, but one thing is certain: I will be the most disciplined person in the room, and I will get it done. I’m like a military sergeant when it comes to execution. (Not that kind of execution.) I don’t tolerate excuses

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Entrepreneurs: When your life is fantastic and fucked up, all at once.

You know when you have a problem? When you own more EIN numbers than you do pots and pans. You know? It’s like—what are you doing with your life? Here you are, cookin’ up business plans, when you know what you really ought to be cooking? LUNCH. Because let’s face it: Just who is Paula Dean and what has she put in my meatball? Entrepreneurs are funny. You know how you know when you’re a real entrepreneur? When you actually

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