inspired by sweatpants and coffee breath.

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My goal for 2018 was to write once per month for this little space. It didn’t have to be perfect, it didn’t have to mean anything, but I wanted to stay faithful to a thing on a consistent basis.

Did I make a plan to accomplish this? Absolutely not. Which is how I found myself at 9pm on May 31st scrolling through the Ghosts of Google Doc’s past looking for a semi-finished thought to quickly edit & share here. And — no surprise here — everything sucked.

Granted, I’ve been writing a lot for other projects which is just the best. But if I don’t create space to write for myself then it won’t happen. Because I romanticize the writing process: sitting in a coffee shop and stringing together pretty words as they come to me on a caffeine-induced whim pretending I’m Meg Ryan in her 90’s RomCom prime. It’s all based on the idea of being a “writer” than the struggle of sitting my butt down and writing so many crappy first drafts it makes me question why I like doing this in the first place.

The writing process looks less shiny and more like humbling yourself with your sweatpants and coffee breath, typing the goal of 500 words per day. You end up re-reading what you wrote and realize how much it sucks. This makes me remind myself that I actually have no talent whatsoever, so I might as well give up and make more coffee to soothe me then quit for the day by taking a nap and reading a book. The next day I wake up, re-read the previous day’s work, notice that it isn’t completely terrible, and wash, rinse, repeat.

So here’s what I learned tonight: goals are great. Creating habits to meet those goals is even better. I knew the day would come when I had to create a writing routine. I promise next month will be inspired by sweatpants, stale coffee, and my own self-loathing/doubting tendencies.

But for now, here’s the best I could come up…

A Lazy Listicle of Things That I Know to be Absolutely True

1. Boundaries are love.
2. Bangs are most likely not a good idea.*
3. Honesty is the best policy.
4. The Office truly is the greatest show of all time ever.
5. Your time is limited. It’s okay to guard it for the things that matter most to you.
6. It’s okay not to be everyone’s best friend, but you do have to be kind.
7. Dry shampoo changes the game.
8. Always remove your make up.
9. Say “thank you”. And stop saying “sorry” so much.
10. Do everything in your power to show up for your people.
11. Read non-fiction and fiction. Just read in general.
12. Life is hard, but it’s less hard when you can laugh easily.
13. Like what you like and don’t give a damn if that’s not cool.
14. Trust your gut feeling.
15. You are already more capable than you think.
16. Stay curious. Ask questions.
17. Put your phone away. At weddings, at dinner, at concerts… just put it away.
18. Always have ice cream in your freezer and a bottle of wine on hand.
19. When you stop trying to be seen, you end up being more fully known.
20. Drink water.
21. The best time to see a movie alone is at 1pm.
22. Make sure you move a little every day.
23. Call your mom.
24. Breathe prayer.
25. Follow the Photo Booth Rule.**
*I said MOST LIKELY. Shoutout to all of my fringe-rocking friends who are chic and way more hip than I’ll ever be.
**When you see a Photo Booth, you have to take a picture in it.

my car insurance broke up with me.

a story about why what you call yourself matters

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My own mother likes to gently remind me that I am good at many things, so I need to hold close the things I am terrible at. This is so I will stay humble and actually have friends who want to spend time with me. Good moms do that. They slip in subtle criticism next to a reminder that they think you are the most special, amazing human being that ever existed ever in order to preserve your self-esteem and have their own contingency plan in place for the amount of issues you will likely bring up in counseling years later. I hope to be exactly like her one day.

It is with this advice in mind that I have become a great passenger. I know how to AUX-cord-DJ for the specific company in the car, I always bring snacks, I can talk about anything in order to stay awake with the brave driver on long road trips, all because I loathe driving. Lucky for me, driving dislikes me almost as much as I hate it.

For years I’ve been in denial, telling myself that I am a good driver but I just don’t like driving. Because I should love driving! It means freedom: it’s a major rite of passage to turn 16 and get your driver’s license. And I didn’t even fail the test my first time! Therefore I must be a great driver. And then one month ago this little narrative was shattered by a seemingly harmless piece of junk mail.

My car insurance sent me a Dear John letter effectively ending our nearly 10 year relationship. It started off sweet by thanking me for my years of commitment but it took a turn when I noticed the kind introduction was soon followed by a list of “incidents” that have occurred over the past three years. When you lay them all out, it really does look like a rap sheet straight out of Mario Kart’s Rainbow Road that all points to one truth: I am a terrible driver.

But I should be a good driver. I drive more often than most for my job, I’m a relatively safe driver (despite my extensive list of offenses, the majority were very minor) and, most importantly, I’ve told myself that I am a good driver for years. I wonder if I didn’t live in a society that says freedom is having a driver’s license and a car if I would even have discovered this part of me wasn’t true? Or what if I took public transportation my whole life, would being a bad driver even define me if I never experienced it?

That letter helped me piece together a little more of my identity: I am Emily, a really bad driver.


It has recently come to my attention that the way I refer to myself when I first met people is not actually the way I move through the world. In the past, I used terms like “awkward” or “embarrassing” or to self-describe personality quirks in social situations. Which everyone does. People can laugh and deal with awkward. It’s the selfishness, fear, and pride I want to distract them from noticing.

Maybe you can relate. If I can get ahead of the flaws, then it would keep the world from being disappointed in my other very real and very not-so-desirable character traits. People like us, we put all of our junk right out in the open so that when we inevitably mess up in front of others we can say, “See?! I told you when we met — I’m the worst. This shouldn’t surprise you. You can’t be disappointed because I already gave you the heads up that I’m imperfect and WILL let you down because this is who I am.”

This is two gross realities wrapped up in one broken-identity burrito: (1) these words are a self-fulfilling prophecy and (2) they just highlight how much of a fraud you’re making yourself. You do what you say you are, and if you aren’t what you’ve been telling people then you also have the difficult task of keeping up appearances or risk being exposed.

If you want to avoid accountability and rejection, you quickly learn how to operate based on the rules learned in middle school on the bus, at home, in church, on a team. For me, this looked like having the personality version of a classic 2000’s throwback playlist – a definite crowd pleaser in the churchy circles I ran in, but when you listened too closely the lyrics they never quite match up with what you believe. I experienced acceptance and success when I was told I should self-identify as the type-A, perpetually positive achiever to feel like I had a place in the communities I called home .

No matter how many times I told myself that being this kind of “leader” was a good thing, this wasn’t the identity that should define my life. It got tiring always having to pretend that I like being in front of people and making decisions. That’s normally the last thing I want to do. That stage held up by the label “leader” fueled my pride and being seen made me want to tell lies to make sure people liked me. Just because I should be a leader and that should be good doesn’t mean that it was what should define me.

It is a beautiful, hard, never-ending process of getting to know yourself apart from the experiences that have told you who you should be.

After my fraudulent identity was exposed last year, I learned how sorry these attempts to be accepted were. Belonging requires you to be yourself. Not some version I think will gain the most amount of admirers, not the version I tell myself I am because I get a front row seat into my own cynicism, but the realest of the real version of me. Uncut, live, on the couch watching Golden Girls, and likely going on my 4th day of unwashed hair.  The person who aims to please no one but her ever-present, unseen Jesus friend. The one whose name was whispered by an unseen, unfamiliar God way back in 2009 when I was still operating under the label of “nice, responsible girl” by day and “bitter, angsty, know-it-all” by night.

I love that this is the way God gets his kid’s attention. He called their names: Abraham, Jacob, Martha, myself. I love that God shares his name with us and that name is self-descriptive. Did you know that? What God calls himself is exactly who he is. He doesn’t bait and switch to get us to like him. He is unapologetically, totally God and I think that’s one of the biggest privileges of being in relationship with anyone – loving them exactly as who the were made to be. Might as well start with yourself.

I spent time trying on words like “follower” and “dreamer” and “good” and many more this year.

One of the different names I’ve tried on this year is “creative”. I’ve never seen myself as creative, which is wild considering this little blogosphere exists and I suppose that’s creative enough. But I do have a creative energy that needs air to make me feel more like me. The more time and energy I devote to making something – a meal, cutting a pair of thrift shop denim jeans to a length I like, writing copy for a marketing project – the more I can breathe easy. My sleep comes out of a day’s satisfaction instead of exhaustion. So I’m Emily, and I’m a creative.

What you call yourself matters because you become what you say you are. And the names that seemed forever like tattoos were just temporary. You belong. You were always invited into the party, but you have to be honest about what name is on the list.

I’m Emily.