Category: Motivation

So often, we make choices based on “what feels right for us.” To most people, that sounds like sage advice. You’re “being true to yourself,” after all. What we don’t consider, however, are the limitations. If you’re constantly making decisions based on who you are in this very moment, you don’t leave any room for who you want to become—or who you need to. Sometimes, you’ve got to do what DOESN’T feel right. Sometimes, you’ve got to say “fuck it”

What if I told you I was giving you your very own daily column, where you could write about anything you wanted? What if I told you I was giving you your own TV show, where you’d be the star? What if I told you I was putting you on the radio, where you could talk about the things that mattered to you every week? And what if I told you that we were going to do fancy photo shoots,

Mediocre questions for figuring out what you should do with your life: What type of industry should I go into? Which career path should I pursue? What kind of job should I get? What kind of business should I start? What services should I offer? How should I price this? What do I write? How do I do it? HOW CAN I BECOME A RICH, SKINNY BITCH WHO LOOKS FLAWLESS ON INSTAGRAM AND EATS CHILDREN FOR BREAKFAST? A better one:

Change is fucking messy. You’re effectively molding yourself, and re-molding yourself, the way a sculptor would a piece of clay. And yet, nobody says to the sculptor: Shame on you, butter fingers, for not having it perfect the first spin. Rather, there’s an expectation of process. Of trial, of error, of slow transformation; of forming, fashioning, shaping and smoothing. Nevertheless, we—masochistically enough—don’t allow ourselves the same courtesy. We expect flawless perfection, right out of the box. We beat ourselves up

So the other day, it happened. There was one person stubborn enough to finally coerce me into doing the one thing I’d promised I’d never do. I’d hedged for many painful weeks. (Okay, fine, months.) I’d squirmed and I’d squithered (new favorite word) and I’d writhed and I’d wriggled. And yet, she kept asking. “Today at 5:30!” “Are you coming today?” “A little birdy told me today is the dayyyyyy.” And every time I’d try really hard to talk myself

You know what’s the absolute worst? Waiting in line at the doctor’s office. There’s a lot of anxiety around that, am I right? Nobody likes waiting at the doctor’s office because we all secretly think that the doctor’s just sitting behind a closed door somewhere, doing wheelies in an office chair, watching the minutes churn past with glee as they browse the latest in Pinterest gardening techniques while the rest of us waste away in a sea of plastic orange

So that happened this week. There’s a lot that could be said, and a lot I’ll refrain from saying, but I did want to send a courtesy note to say, first of all, that my new online business mentorship program is still moving forward—and starts tomorrow—and second, that holy moly, it’s about so much more than your career. You know, I’d never thought too much about online business as something that could save the world—at least, not in much more

Can we all just stop, already? Stop apologizing. Stop saying sorry. Stop shrinking into some small little ball-less version of yourself—you know, so you don’t make all the other ball-less twats feel uncomfortable. Or risk offending somebody. Or do something controversial. Or doing all of that and then totally screwing it up and feeling stupid. God forbid. I’m sick and tired of it. I’m sick of seeing you hesitate. Second guess yourself constantly. Smile weakly. FUCKING WILT. You’re wilting away

It’s hilarious, really. You spent the first twenty years of your life worrying what the f*ck you were suppose to do on this planet—with your ONE BIG PRECIOUS LIFE that every other Pinterest poster won’t shut up about—only to spend the next twenty years wondering if you did it right. Because, did you? Was this what life was suppose to look like? Did you do it right? Pass the test, check the box, score the A? Like, is your life

  We’re on a transatlantic flight to London. I just bite into the kind of sausage one should never bite into, and now that we’re exactly 552 miles away from our destination, I realized that my eyes were less than sprightly and my hair looked like Fiona fucked a bird’s nest. So I did what any resourceful woman on a transatlantic flight to one of the most fashionable cities in the world might do: I brushed it. With a toothbrush.