“Those who succeed do what others won’t.”
An awkward haircut, an uncertainty about where life was headed, and a Jansport backpack accessorizing my ninth-grade self, I walked into the biology class rumored to be a nightmare. The teacher, Mr. Stevens, was known as being very stern, tough, and a no B.S. kind of guy. I was always the studious type, but I knew that Honors Bio was going to be a challenge. I was right. Looking back, that class was probably harder than most of the college classes and grad school classes I would take years later. Mr. Stevens pushed us to the limit of our academic abilities. On a Friday, he’d assign a chapter that we would be tested on less than a week later. Words like mitochondria and photosynthesis floated in my fifteen-year-old brain; I would look at those chapters and wonder how I would ever succeed. I cried. I worked hours and hours on weekends. It was no joke. But through it all, Mr. Stevens always reminded us of the sentiment: Those who succeed do what others won’t. He always pointed out that the last word was won’t, not can’t. In other words, those who achieve their goals put in hard work, something most people won’t do. And here’s the thing—that class changed everything for me. First, I realized I could do it. I could be successful with dedication. Now, over twenty years later, I still think of those words and those lessons I learned. I might not remember the full photosynthesis process or every bone in a frog. But I do remember that when things feel impossible, I’ve been there before—and I also know I’m capable. Mr. Stevens gave me something I think we don’t value enough in today’s education system and in society in general—the chance to work hard and challenge myself. Through that hard work that sometimes made me cry, I learned grit, tenacity, and most importantly, confidence. If you’re never pushed past your limits, you’ll never know what you’re actually made of. And finally, he taught me that to get where you want to go, you have to be willing to make sacrifices. You have to sometimes do what others won’t. You have to get up at 5 a.m. so you have time to work on that book. You have to turn off Netflix to study for that degree you’re chasing. You have to plan ahead so your meals don’t get off course when you go out with friends. You have to sweat a little, sacrifice a little, and be willing to get knocked down. You have to do what others won’t in order to live the life you want. I’m so thankful that twenty years later, Mr. Steven’s words still ring true for me, still inspire me to chase greatness. Most of all, I’m thankful that the tough-love teacher (who probably would be scolded today for his tactics) came into my life when he did so I could learn the true value of hard work and also my own capabilities.
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How a Neck Wrinkle Taught Me to Start Living
By Lindsay Detwiler I was a few weeks shy of my 35th birthday when, staring into the mirror, my eyes landed on a prominent neck wrinkle and saggy skin that I hadn’t noticed before. Chest tightening, I ran my hand over the skin to find it droopy, dry, and scaly—the dreaded turkey neck, the epitome of aging signs, had appeared, and much earlier than I ever was prepared for. Promptly, I studied photos from the past months to see if I had been living in some state of oblivion, blind to the fact my neck had become a blinking sign for my elder millennial status. I squinted and studied, trying to find the exact month it had happened. Then, my Enneagram 3 personality kicked into high-gear as I tried to conquer the situation. I read about neck creams, perused reviews, and ritualistically slathered on potions that seemed to make it worse. I spent so much time staring in the mirror for several weeks that the “You’re So Vain” song seemed to be my mantra. I Googled whether turtlenecks were spring and summer appropriate. And then, one day last week, I asked myself: Why does this bother you so much? Because let’s face it, I am nowhere near celebrity status or a catwalk. And how many times do you actually notice the status of someone’s neck skin? I’m willing to bet rarely—unless you’ve recently become attuned to your own sagging situation. In the scope of things, a neck wrinkle does not matter. But to me, it did. And I know exactly why. The neck wrinkle, the aging skin, it was a sign that my denial of the birthday cake candles tell in recent years. I’m getting older. That, in itself, isn’t a terrifying thing. But do you know what is? Realizing you’re getting older and you haven’t really lived the vibrant kind of life you want. There it is. The truth haunting me—but I suspect it’s plaguing many women my age, too. The realization that you did all the “right” things and kept your head down. You sorted through until you could find a relatively stable life, if you were lucky. You got to a place where you can exhale because the choices have been made and roads have been followed. This is where you’re supposed to be, that voice inside tells you as you put in the top knot to do laundry on Sunday mornings before your required steps on the treadmill to hit your watch’s demand. And then, you look around at your Live, Laugh, Love plaque and the carefully organized utensils in the kitchen. You study your filled calendar of things that even sound mundane like “Tax appointment” and “Vet check-up.” You stare out the window while you do dishes for the fiftieth time this week, studying the dead grass, the abandoned lawn chair, and the view that never would make it to a postcard. And you ask yourself: Is this it? Is this the epitome of living? I think for me, the neck wrinkle was a wakeup call that life is going by—and I haven’t gotten around to the exciting stuff yet. Where was the sense of wonder, the sense of adventure? Where were the once-in-a-lifetime moments and exciting new sights and smiles worthy of Instagram? Or the unexpected surprises, the cocktail hours, the big wins, the monthly escapades to new locales? Staring in the mirror at that neck wrinkle, I felt a little shortchanged. At 35, my life wasn’t a bold, fun adventure worthy of a travel blog. It was taking out the trash on Thursdays, showing up to the office with coffee, my lifeblood, in hand to trudge through the workweek. It was figuring out what was for dinner and getting the mail and walking on the treadmill to try not to get too out of shape. It was surviving, in so many ways. But when we’re faced with this revelation, the question becomes: What can we do about it? There are bills to pay, and flights are expensive. We have responsibilities of different varieties and only so many PTO days. And while giving it all up to travel the world or start the bakery or Eat, Pray, Love it sounds wonderful (and some have inarguably pulled it off), for many of us, it just doesn’t feel like the right choice either. I’m all about bold choices, about chasing big dreams. But a girl’s gotta eat, too. And although I love the van turned home in theory, my Great Dane is a bit too big to squeeze in there along with my shoe collection, cats, and bookshelves. So how do you find the balance? How do you live a life that supports your dreams and excites you without giving everything up? How do you find a way to bring joy and passion back to your life so you don’t have nightmares about the regrets you’ll have in thirty or forty years? I don’t know that there’s an easy answer to this question, but I do think it’s possible to find a sense of adventure, a sense of living boldly, without whisking away to a private island or disappearing into the wilderness like an explorer. At least, I’d like to believe there is. I’d like to think there’s a way to find a sense of magic, of wonder in a somewhat mundane life without having to do something worthy of turning into a Netflix movie. I’d like to think, in theory, there’s hope for all of us with our rigid morning routines and dinner schedules and budget Excel sheets. After stepping away from the obsessive studying of the neck wrinkle for a few days, I’ve come to believe that for many of us, we need to sit back and ask ourselves: What really would light us up? Because maybe it’s not even as extreme as converting the van into a travel home or splashing in a waterfall or seeing a rare bird on another continent. Maybe it’s taking a ballroom dancing class we feel silly signing up for or that pole class that makes us turn a little red at the thought. Maybe it’s taking up a new sport, even if we might suck at it. It could be changing up our wardrobe and working in the dreaded crop top or making Sundays a day off from the morning routine we’re obsessed with. It could be joining a new group or going to a new coffee shop to explore. It could be going a town over and wandering around aimlessly on a weeknight, something you never do. In short, I think part of the answer is just letting ourselves be free from the routine, just for a while. It’s about searching for what makes us excited and being willing to try new things we normally wouldn’t. It’s about getting away from what we should do or have to do … and doing something just for the sake of doing it. Those are the moments that we remember. Those are the times that we understand in our bones what living is all about, big and small. I don’t think you have to spend a million dollars to live boldly, to live a life you’ll be proud to look back on someday. I think you just have to get out of the routine sometimes. You have to take the Curling Class at your local ice rink or get the tattoo you’ve been putting off. You have to say “yes” to that festival your friend wants to go to that you think might be strange, or sure to that jacket you love but think people might hate. You have to get a little wild in your choices, a little out of the norm. You have to break free of the mold society tries to put on you in order to break free a little bit. I think that’s where life really begins. These small changes, these tiny steps, can help us build the courage to perhaps, if we feel called to, take the bigger, riskier steps toward a life of passion. The job changing kind of steps. The new house or new purpose kind of change. But until then, the tiny swaps in our routine can be enough to bring the spark back and to help us realize that aging isn’t the end of excitement, not by a long shot. I’ll be honest with you—I still study my neck from time to time in the mirror and in photographs. But lately, I don’t have as much time to peruse it and analyze it like I once did. I’m too busy going to that new bakery a half hour away on Sunday and signing up for a horseriding session. I’m too busy taking my dog to a different park and trying that coffee shop that’s out of the way but seems fun. I’m busy on Pinterest looking for a new outfit I never would’ve dared try out before and painting my nails a color way too loud for the office. I’m busy living my life, in essence, turkey neck and all. It started with sagging, drooping skin on my neck and a wrinkle I hadn’t seen before. But that’s not where it ends. Not if I have anything to say about it—which I’m learning, I do. L.A. Detwiler is a USA Today Bestselling author who lives in Pennsylvania with her husband, rescued cats, and Great Dane Edmund. Learn more about her books on Amazon. Standing in front of a classroom of teenagers feigning interest in Shakespeare and commas, I steadied myself with a hand on my desk. I’m going to pass out, I think to myself while smiling through and pretending all was fine. I sent out a silent prayer to the universe and any higher power listening that I wouldn’t faceplant in front of a room of judgmental, Tik Tok savvy teenagers.
It took eight weeks of intermittent fasting for me to realize the truth: No matter how many influencers swore it was the best way to feel energized and lose weight, it wasn’t right for me. Eight weeks of feeling dizzy, of feeling moody, and of fantasizing at unnatural levels about food, I learned that what everyone said would work just wasn’t it for me. So I changed it up. As a chronic self-improvement addict and goal chaser (I’m an Enneagram 3, if that means anything to you), perfecting my routines and trying to live my best life is a habit of mine to a fault. I’m always looking for ways to be better, do better, and live better. Especially since turning thirty, living the best version of my life has become an absolute focus. But one thing I’ve learned these past few years is that if you’re going to try to find a life you love, you’re going to mess up. You’re going to mess up a lot. Intermittent fasting isn’t the first or last failed effort on my part. Yoga, seed cycling, learning the violin, learning to cook, and many other endeavors are on my growing list of “failures.” These were all choices I thought would heighten my life and lead me to happiness. Instead, they just didn’t turn out. And you know what? That’s okay. That’s more than okay. Because by crossing out things that don’t work for me, I’m more apt to find things that do. We live in a world of constant access to resources and ideas, which is a wonderful thing. However, it’s also a dangerous thing when we start to feel like all ideas are equal. It’s a harmful thing when we believe that just because something works for everyone else, it will work for us. When you’re seeking your happiest version of yourself, you’re going to try things that work for everyone else and fail miserably for you. You’re going to implement tried-and-true tactics that make you miserable. But that’s part of the journey. In order to find your best self, you have to be willing to first explore and then to mess up. You have to be flexible enough to try new things and also let go of things that don’t suit you. Finding happiness isn’t about perfection, after all. It’s about being adventurous and flexible enough to try a different way–and perceptive enough to self-reflect and realize if it’s a good fit for you. This willingness to fail isn’t limited to health journeys, either. It applies to love, hobbies, careers, and everything in between. From that new haircut you think will make you feel amazing to the new job you hope will change everything, the key to happiness, I think, is to be willing to take the risk in the first place–and then to be honest with yourself as to whether or not the thing you chose is actually making you happy. Most of all, I think we all need to remember there is no formula for success or happiness. It’s a journey, one we go on alone at the end of it. It’s a journey without road signs or stop signs. It’s a journey that requires turning inward, not outward. And, most of all, it’s a journey that will require you to fail sometimes. For more inspiration, be sure to follow me on Instagram.
Zoo by James Patterson
My rating: 5 of 5 stars "There is no soft living now." This dystopian, scientific thriller is not usually my kind of read, but I found myself flying through it. Essentially, all of the animals in the world have gone mad with some sort of virus or illness that causes them to attack humans in droves. Will the protagonist, a scientist named Oz, be able to make the world listen to reason, or are things too far gone? I loved the premise of this book. It was exciting and also felt realistic in its portrayal. It wasn't too science-y to be boring but also felt grounded in intellect. The main character was likable in his flaws and his strengths. I also enjoyed that the book covered a span of years in an effective way. the chapters are super short, which makes it perfect for a busy person who still wants to fit in an exciting read. I also found the ending satisfying. I really didn't have a knock for this book. Some will argue it is unbelievable or unrealistic. However, I enjoyed the sort of out-there premise. Fans of Hitchcock's "The Birds" will love this modern, updated, and arguably enhanced story of animals leading to the downfall of man. View all my reviews Sweat beading on my forehead as my stomach sank, I bolted awake and tried to wipe away the nightmare. But those thirty candles flickering on the cake were not some unrealistic phantasm of my imagination–they were a fast-approaching reality. The nightmare was coming for me, and at twenty-nine, I feared those candles more than any monster that could prey on me while I slept. My fear of thirty potentially started with Jennifer Garner’s appearance in the movie Thirteen Going on Thirty, where a thirteen-year-old girl wishes she could be thirty, flirty, and thriving. When magic happens and she wakes up as a thirty-year-old, she realizes her life is nothing like she could have wished. Her thirties were not, in fact, thriving because she’d made all the wrong choices. The movie infused my then teenage self with terror. Maybe, too, my fear stemmed from a social standard all around me–and the women’s magazines I used to steal from my mom. They made your 20s look like a wild cocktail party while your 30s, in contrast, were about settling down. Your 20s required, according to the magazines, a lot of sparkly, work to after-work looks, while your 30s just required a smart blazer and a great appetizer recipe. Talk about game over. Regardless of where the fear started, in my late 20s, I found myself terrified of turning the big 3-0. I would jolt awake night after night, thinking about how I was going to be that troubling age soon. I was terrified of the prospect I had hit my peak–and, to be honest, I wasn’t that impressed with the peak of my life if that was it. I dreaded watching my body age and of having to have life figured out when I still felt like a teenager on the inside. I sit here now just days away from turning thirty-five, half-way through the decade that haunted me.I won’t lie–it hasn’t been a perfect or easy decade in any way. I suffered a lot of loss in the past five years, including the loss of my soul dog, Henry (our mastiff). My husband lost his job, and we spent a few years in financial scarcity. I lost my passion for teaching, my career, and switched jobs, which has been wonderful but also tough. It’s been a decade, so far, of change and fluctuations, of questioning and soul-searching with few concrete answers. Remembering that twenty-nine-year-old’s panick, I wish I’d known then what was really to come with those candles. I wish I’d understood what turning thirty meant and what it didn’t mean, for better or worse. So, whether you’ve already hit the milestone of thirty or you’re getting ready to face that warped birthday song, I hope you’ll glean some understanding about your own journey in your thirties from what I’m sharing below. 1. Yes, your body does change in your 30s.Recently, I saw a study that mentioned how metabolism doesn’t change as she ages. Other scientists argue that it does due to fluctuating hormones. Regardless, I’m here to tell you on a purely anecdotal level: your metabolism is going to shift. I swear on the skinny jeans that stopped fitting in my thirties, which are still balled up on the floor of my closet. As soon as I turned thirty, even looking at a cookie added a pound. I found that I had to clean up my eating habits to stay healthy–and not from a size standpoint but from an energy standpoint. If I threw fast food and sweets into my mouth with the wild abandon from my twenties, I would not have the energy to power through my day. Also, those glasses of wine I liked to toss back on the weekends suddenly seemed to lead to a migraine-inducing, comatose state the next morning like I’d never experienced. In short, your body will change. Your metabolism will change. I’d like to put a positive spin on this and tell you it’s all okay–but in truth, I really do miss those cookie-eating, wine guzzling binges of my twenties that didn’t seem to have any effect. 2. You still won't know what you want to be when you grow up.There’s this myth in our society that your 20s are for exploring and sorting through who you are. They’re for adventuring and switching jobs. They’re for figuring it out so you can be set in your 30s and stable. But I’m here to tell you that you still might not know what you want to be when you grow up in your 30s–and that’s more than okay. There is no cutoff to career happiness or to finding what fulfills you. Also, what makes you happy in your 20s might not fit you anymore in your 30s. As you change, perhaps your dreams will, too. I think the best gift you can give yourself is to cut the deadline for “figuring it all out” and to be flexible with what sets your soul on fire. 3. Society will tell you that you've peaked. You haven't.There’s this tendency to see thirty as an endpoint, both good and bad. Society tells you that you’ll have your shit together by thirty, but also that you’ve lived your most exciting moments by then. They are wrong. Wow, are they wrong. There’s a new glow that comes when you reach thirty, mostly because of #4. When you learn to stop living for social standards and for others’ validation, your life begins in a new way. You walk differently through life. You seize new opportunities because they light your heart up. Sure, you might still fumble. You still might have doubts, and you still fall prey sometimes to questioning your worth. But overall, your thirties will bring a newfound sense of confidence that comes with experience, with maturity, and with aging. Once you understand that, you understand the most important truth: It really isn’t about the candles at all. It’s about your inner confidence. Once you can own that, you can own any age. 4. You'll learn to validate yourself. It's freeing.The same way a switch seems to be flipped in your metabolism when you blow out those thirty candles, I think an “I don’t give a shit” switch is also flipped. I’ve found that in my thirties, I just don’t care as much about what people think of me. So my side part and skinny jeans are out of style? That’s okay. I love them. So you think I dance weird or that I’m too quiet or too loud or too bossy? Okay. I’ll sleep just fine. You hate the career path I picked? Luckily, it’s mine to travel and not yours. I can hear my twenty-something self reading those statements and audibly gasping. There was a fatal flaw with my twenty-something self, though–she cared a heck of a lot about the opinions of others. She was worried about image, about living right, about others’ validation. The beautiful gift your thirties can bring if you let them is that you’ll learn to live for yourself and validate yourself–and more importantly, you’ll understand that it’s not selfish to do exactly that. If I’d have understood that at twenty-nine, perhaps I would have had more well-rested nights. 5. You won't survive--you'll thrive.Like any stage of life, your thirties won’t be a cakewalk. You’ll shift friendships and relationships. You’ll struggle to prioritize. You’ll spend a lot of time wondering if you’re living out your purpose. You’ll stumble and triumph. You’ll move mountains some days and barely get out of bed others. You’ll face all sorts of hardships, successes, challenges, opportunities, and experiences. But you know what? Just like your twenties, you’ll find a way to not only survive but thrive. Your thirties aren’t perfect, but neither is any other decade. Still, turning thirty should never keep you awake at night with a sense of dread. Instead, your thirties are a way to showcase who you are, how far you’ve come, and to set yourself up for the next part of your adventure.
So whether you’ve already blown out those thirty candles or are just getting ready to, I hope you can not only come to terms with your thirties but really value the magic they can bring to who you are. So blow out those candles–all thirty, forty, eighty, or one hundred of them–and know that every decade has the possibility to be magic, pure magic. L.A. Detwiler is the USA Today Bestselling thriller author of The Widow Next Door, The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter, and numerous sweet romance novels. She is married to her junior high sweetheart and works as a Communications Specialist. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband, their rescue cats, and their Great Dane, Edmund. It’s a Warped World When It Comes to Women’s Weight I’ve been seeing so many Facebook posts lately that have jarred me to the core—because they’ve all demonstrated that when it comes to women’s weight and social expectations, we’re living in a warped world. Certainly, this isn’t a shocking revelation. We’ve been talking about the role social media plays on our self-image for years. We’ve all seen the before and after retouching photos that remind us what real women’s bodies look like. We’ve subscribed to the motivational body love accounts and sworn to ourselves we’d chant positive mantras when we look in the mirror. Still, sometimes it feels like we’re fighting a losing cause because it really is a distorted world we live in. It’s a twisted view of women’s weight and ridiculous expectations that are reinforced over and over and over again. No wonder so many of us can’t escape from the demented rabbit hole. Repeatedly this week, I’ve been seeing evidence that as a society, we have a true problem that we need to address when it comes to the expectations we put on women regarding their weight. When a woman thinks she has to remain the same size and shape she was at 18 for her entire life—despite fluctuating hormones, life circumstances, stressors, and aging—it’s a warped world. When a woman thinks her husband has the right to say he doesn’t love her anymore because she’s put on some pounds—and she believes that—it’s a warped world. When a grown woman finds herself swamped with murderer-level guilt over a cookie, a piece of cake, or an extra glass of wine—it’s a warped world. When women spend billions of dollars on potions, pills, weird underclothing to suck it in, diets, and exercise machines that look like torture devices—it’s a warped world. When a woman thinks the number on her jeans determines how worthy she is of unconditional love and support—it’s a warped world. When a woman walks into a room with her eyes averted and head down because she gained some weight—it’s a warped world. Changing the Body Image NarrativeAll around us, there are signs that we’re not okay, not by a longshot. There are signals that our society has a sickened view of women’s bodies, women’s worth, and women’s expectations.
This is not to say there aren’t pressures put on men. There are absolutely are. But I think one of the problems with this battle women are facing is that many of us believe the lies we’re told to our core. We build our personalities around them and our lives. We believe them, even if we say we don’t. We believe them to the point of cutting carbs and starving our bodies and exercising until we can’t move. Some of us believe them to the point of never looking in the mirror or covering our bodies in billowy fabrics so a single ounce of fat doesn’t show through. Some of us believe them to the point we stay in relationships with people who tell us we need to lose weight so they can be attracted to us. We believe that we don’t deserve an unconditional love because we have a few extra pounds on us. That’s the problem, ladies. It isn’t the media or the warped social standards or any of that. Yes, those things make it hard to break the cycle. They plague us and challenge us. They unfairly put ridiculous standards in our heads. That’s not fair at all. Still, at the end of the day, the real problem is that we give into them. We believe them. We don’t fight against them. If we’re going to create a new view of women’s bodies, of expectations, and of true self-love, we need to fight. We need to stand up to ourselves when we feel that negative thought creeping in about our stomach roll or our thighs. We need to stand in our worth as women and know we are millions of other things besides our weight or physical appearance. We need to know we are worthy because of who we are, not what size we are. We need to start believing it and saying “no” as a collective whole to the dangerous narrative out there—that to be happy, you must be a certain weight. Yes, we should strive to take care of ourselves, to bless our bodies with healthy foods, and to move our bodies. But this shouldn’t come at a cost of mental sanity or self-love. It shouldn’t be to “earn our keep” in this world or to make others respect us more. Because there isn’t a weight or an amount of reps that can do that for you. In order to get the respect you deserve—you need to first know you deserve it. We can do better, all of us. We can remind each other that bodies change, that weight fluctuates, and that we will not be the same weight we were when we were 18—nor should we be. We need to celebrate change in our bodies, in ourselves, and in where we’re going. We need to stop accepting others’ critiques as truth when it comes to how we look. We need to look inward, each of us, to understand that there is a powerful warrior woman in each of us. And we need to start valuing her for who she is, not the size society wants her to be. L.A. Detwiler is the USA Today Bestselling author of The Widow Next Door and numerous other thriller novels. She is a Communication's Specialist, a former English teacher of ten years, and a dog mom to her Great Dane, Edmund. Visit her on Instagram or Facebook to learn more. You’re not here.
The words tumble through my heart like an oil-laden ocean, like gritty rocks that eviscerate your leg as you hit the bottom. No matter how many cookies I bake or gifts I buy or times I let the Christmas carols reverberate, the stark truth stands. You’re not here. You’re gone. Everyone tells me to live in the memories, to remember you were loved, that we loved. But love and memories don’t fill the gap your absence left. They don’t warm the blackened night. They don’t illuminate that wondrous star that seeks to guide. You’re gone, and I’m here in your empty spot, aching for something that can’t be. The futility of the wish doesn’t make it dissipate. The heart is foolish but strong. The holiday hustle and bustle distracts me for a while, but in the Silent Night moments, I am drowning. Still, I trudge on, knowing time won’t heal this wound. It will simply mask it, a patch that allows me to limp forward. A bandage that stops the life-threatening injury from completely usurping my life force—just barely, it feels sometimes. I hang the mistletoe and drink the hot chocolate. I numb myself when the holiday movie comes on you used to love. I brace myself as your favorite cookie sends grief washing over me. I readjust the bandage on the wound, put more pressure on it, and try to keep from flat lining. Sometimes, if I’m honest, I wish I would succumb to the rotting injury that is grief. But tonight, I took a moment to separate from the Christmas carols and sap of the tree. I stepped onto my deck and let the bitter cold envelop me. I exhaled a cloud of guilt, of regret, and of melancholy. And standing there, looking up at the same stars that graced our memories, I inhale you. The love we shared fills me, embraces me from the inside out. I realize the truth I’ve almost forgotten. I realize the magic that is still alive. Because it’s true, you’re not physically sitting here at the holiday dinner. You’re not stealing my scissors or hiding the tape as we wrap gifts. You haven’t helped the elf take flight this season or sang out “God Rest You Merry, Gentleman.” You’re not glowing with the thought of that gift you bought me and are hiding. Still, the magic is still there, perhaps even bigger this year. Because the magic is this: against all the impossible odds, you ARE still here. You’re settled into my weary bones. You’re wrapping my heart in the love I know still exists between us, even though we’re farther apart than we ever were. You’re here in the courage I find to go back inside, to wash down the candy cane with eggnog like you taught me. You’re here in the magical moment I realize I can carry on the traditions. You’re here, still, always, because as I realize now, love does not simply vanish. Love is not banished to memories. Love subsists, even when the body does not. You’re here, so I find the power to uncover a sense of magic. Not the same magic, of course. But magic, nonetheless. Because you were here, and because you still are, I know I must find the magic for the both of us this season. You’re not here—yet you are. And that, perhaps, is the biggest sign of holiday magic there is. ~To all who are grieving during the holidays. The magic will be different, which is okay. But it’s also okay to still find a version of the magic, no matter what that looks like. Author L.A. Detwiler If you don’t have kids, you’re missing out. Your life is less. As a 35-year-old who has been happily married for 11 years, this statement has been spouted to me more times than I’d like to count. Especially around the holidays, there is this overwhelming sense of pity for my husband and me that we don’t have kids, that we don’t experience holiday magic. But I’m here to say: Our lives aren’t less magical because we don’t have kids. I know, I know. This can be a controversial statement. Let me be clear: I am not judging anyone who has children or saying I can understand what that undoubtedly magical experience is. I am not here to say my husband and I live a life of luxury (We do not. I know many couples with children who travel 10x more than we do, have a much better social life, and live in houses much more worthy of a magazine than we do). I’m not here to say having kids is a mistake or that your holidays aren’t magical if you have them. I’m simply here to say that you don’t have to have children to have a magical holiday season … or life, for that matter. Finding the Childlike Wonder Without KidsFinding the Childlike Wonder Without kids, certainly our holidays and lives look different—but the magic is still there. It just means we’ve stopped barring ourselves from experiences just because we’re adults. It means that we find ways to make the holidays special, like adding a 12 days of stocking stuffers tradition this year for each other or baking cookies or making that horrid looking gingerbread house. It means that we watch The Grinch with alcohol and whiskey instead of hot chocolate. It means we go to the tree lighting just because we can. It means that we go see Santa with our dog (when we had a dog who wasn’t afraid of Santa). It means that throughout the year, we find ways to experience that childlike wonder that so many think we miss out. It means we still go to the zoo several times a year or that I stand in line with the kids at Harvest Fest to get into the petting zoo as a grown woman—and I admittedly have a bigger smile on my face than the children in line. It means that we go to parades and arcades and play the carnival games at Delgrosso’s and see fireworks and make each other Easter baskets. It means we play in the snow with the dog and still smile with glee as the local fire station carts Santa through the streets a few weeks before Christmas. It means we buy Dunkaroos and popsicles and all the dream foods of children just for ourselves. The thing is, we still have those experiences of magic and adventure in our lives. We still find ways to have the childlike wonder—it just looks different. I’m not diminishing the fact that having children is a bond like no other and is something I can’t understand. I don’t know what it’s like to see your child experience Santa for the first time or take first steps or call you Mom. Still, I’m here to say that a childfree life can still be a magical life. Really, I’m here to say that no matter what kind of life you choose, the important part is just that: that it’s the life YOU choose. Not society, not your family, not even your significant other. It’s the life you find happiness, peace, joy, and worth in. And that can be found kids or no kids; house or apartment; partner or single; cold or hot weather. At the end of the day, magic doesn’t come from making choices others approve of or even understand. It comes from making the daily choice to find your own magic, no matter your circumstances, and to make your own adventures, big and small. To Those Who Don't Want ChildrenI write this not to stir waves of controversy or even pity. I write this because I know somewhere out there is a woman in her twenties or thirties or forties who worries that because she doesn’t want children, her life will be less.
I write this because I know there is a married couple out there who is being hounded about children to the point they wonder if maybe they can’t find happiness with just the two of them. I write this because I think social media tries so hard to pit the childfree against those with children when it doesn’t need to be that way. There is not a limit or a recipe for happiness, for holiday magic, or for fulfillment in this life. There Is not one path that is better—there’s just the path that is best for you. I think the more we talk about that, the more we understand that there are so many ways to live this life, the more we can be happy for each other and, most importantly, find happiness, real happiness, for ourselves. Happy holidays, wherever you are in life and whatever you’re doing, Author L.A. Detwiler L.A. Detwiler is the USA Today Bestselling author of numerous novels including The Widow Next Door. The World Needs More Wednesdays
You’re the girl with the seat on the corner, straddling the legs awkwardly as you try to fit into the swatch of leftover table.
You’re the girl invited to the party—sometimes—but never the one at the center of the crowd who everyone turns to see walk in. You’re the woman in the meeting who tries to speak up but is always an afterthought to the more boisterous voices in the crowd. You’re the one who has never had a friendship bracelet, a best friends forever necklace, or someone to drink mimosas at brunch with. You’re the one on the edges, the fringes of the group. You’re the one always trying to step into the inner circle a little more but never quite making it work. And, if you’re being honest, it’s hard being the invisible girl on the fringes who never quite fits in enough to be called one of the crew but isn’t completely on the outskirts, either. You’re somewhere in the middle where you just feel invisible. Life in your twenties or thirties isn’t like the movies—we all know that. It isn’t always filled with the girls’ trips and the best friends you can call and confess your sexual exploits to or go for drinks after work in that work-to-weekend look. There’s really nowhere to where that sparkly shirt to or anyone to call for a mani/pedi date or a girls’ brunch. For so many of us, female friendships aren’t the thing of a chick lit novel. Even though social media tries to make us think otherwise, many of us women in adulthood struggle with female friendship. Even the somewhat dysfunctional friendship in Firefly Lane seems out of our realm because we don’t even have a Tully to love/hate. In honesty, many of us smile in the group photographs or at the luncheons—but behind the mask, we just feel alone and, quite frankly, like there’s something very wrong with us. Why Female Friendships Are Challenging
As one who has consistently been on the fringes of female friendship her whole life, I’m here to tell you that the more and more I talk to other women in person and online, the more I realize that this isn’t a rare occurrence. So many of us women feel exactly this way—like some sort of female friendship predilection alluded us in the gene pool.
Some of it certainly is a result of the chaos that is adult life. Whether it’s our careers, kids, significant others, pets, families, hobbies, or just life in general, things are hectic. It’s difficult to make friendship a priority sometimes, and for many of us, it just falls near the bottom on the list of priorities. Connection, true connection, requires time, and that’s something a lot of us don’t always have the opportunity to put in. For some of us, the lack of friendship comes from hesitancy and walls. Many of us have tried to be vulnerable in the best friends’ necklace kind of way only to be backstabbed. Once you’ve been hurt by someone you thought would be a lifelong friend, it isn’t easy to trust again. Even when we feel someone getting close or find a potential friend, we sometimes sabotage it because we don’t want to risk getting hurt. Female friendships are complicated relationships, even though the movies want to make you think that’s not the case. And sometimes, it’s just that who we are differs significantly from the mainstream. We might try to be who we really are only to get weird looks from the main group of women in our lives. We may feel so different than the women in our workplace, our families, or our hobbies that we just feel it’s easier to gravitate to the edges so we don’t risk being embarrassed. Our teen years often remind us that not fitting in is a shameful thing, and we carry that with us into adulthood. But I think there are lessons to be learned here. Maybe it’s not about trying to escape from the edge to worm our way toward the center of the group. Maybe, instead, it’s about learning to love the fringes and own the fact that we belong exactly there. Be a Wednesday
So many blogs and articles I’ve read try to give you advice on how to fix your friendship woes. They tell you where to meet new friends, how to play nice, and how to make those connections. But I’m here to tell you—don’t change who you are to fit into the girl group. Truly. I think the real answer to our lack of friendship is to accept who we really are and be unapologetic about it, even if that means we have to stand outside the circle sometimes.
The older I get, the more I realize this: Maybe some of us don’t fit in with the traditional female friendship model because we were never meant to. Maybe the popular, girls’ trip girls aren’t actually our crew. Maybe we were meant to accept our otherness to inspire others, to connect with those who also feel invisible. Maybe it is when we own our placement on the fringes that we can really abate the loneliness and find our true sense of connection. In truth, maybe more of us need to learn to be a Wednesday Addams as portrayed in the Tim Burton adaptation. We need to stand firm in our outfits that don’t match the others. We need to stop smiling to impress others, stop trying to be part of the crowd. We need to learn to dance at the party to our own rhythm and not care who is watching or poking fun at our eccentric moves. We need to learn to love the fringes sometimes and own our otherness. We need to bask in our weird, our different, our aloofness in order to not only reach our own greatness but to attract the kind of friends who will accept us for who we are. Even Wednesday eventually finds a friend in Enid, not because she changes who she is or tries to fit in but arguably because she stays unabashedly true to herself. I think more of us need to be a Wednesday and step into our truth, our own version of ourselves, and know that it’s okay if that puts us on the edges sometimes. Happiness can be found in all sorts of ways, and connection doesn’t have to be the trip to the winery and movie nights like social media portrays. In short, those of us who struggle with female friendship need to learn that the best friend we can ever have is ourself. We need to learn to validate ourselves and not seek validation from others. Wednesday doesn’t look to others for approval—she is fine with being who she is and unapologetic for her own sense of worth. This isn’t to say we don’t all need connections or should push people away on purpose. It’s more about being your own friend first and foremost and learning to love who you are, even if that doesn’t make you popular. We all need to learn that we don’t have to have girls’ trips and mimosas to be valued. Being alone sometimes doesn’t have to feel lonely. And, in truth, there are worse things to be than to be alone—like being someone you’re not. I think the lesson we can all learn from Wednesday is this: Keep showing up exactly as you are. Keep putting yourself out there, sure, and keep looking for connections when you can. Keep sitting at the edge of the table if you have to … but don’t be afraid to take up more space. Keep speaking up in the meeting, but don’t be afraid to get a bullhorn if you need to because you know your ideas are valuable. And don’t be afraid to walk into the center of the party if you’re on the edges. Some people won’t get you. That’s fine. Because I promise that somewhere, there’s a girl on the edges just trying to find the courage to do just that—and maybe that’s the encouragement she needs. Maybe if more of us on the edges stepped into the spotlight in an unapologetic way, if we showed our otherness and our weirdness, if we showed we aren’t afraid to stand alone—maybe more of us Wednesdays could find each other. In short, you don’t have to be the popular girl or the girls’ night girl or the one the others laud in order to be happy. I think the world needs more Wednesdays. Or, in other words, the world needs more of you, girl on the fringes, exactly as you are. L.A. Detwiler is the USA Today Bestselling author of The Widow Next Door with HarperCollins UK as well as numerous other thriller novels. Follow her on Instagram for more advice for modern women, inspiration to chase your dreams, and book recommendations. Leaves under our feet and blue sky above our heads, we saunter into the empty solitude of the tiny park near our house. My Great Dane Edmund cannot keep his feet moving fast enough underneath him to keep up with his excitement. Nose plowing through the piles of leaves as his tail wags, the park is a beacon of curiosity and contentment.
However, it’s really nothing special, in truth. A few play areas for kids, a few pavilions, and lots of trees. The paved path loops through the entire park, and we rarely leave the road. Edmund is, admittedly, not a huge fan of nature. He appreciates sniffing the grass, the trees, and the forest creatures from afar—he enjoys this park because it is an urbanized version of nature. Still, his entire body relaxes when we are at this small abode. The typically anxious, always on high-alert Great Dane settles into himself and the freedom I offer him on his leash to just sniff, to just be a dog. To Edmund, our weekly jaunt to the park near our house is an adventure, a reminder of how the world is there purely for exploration. If I’m being honest, though, our weekly trip to the park isn’t just for Edmund—it’s for me, too. For while the park is a chance to get out and explore for Edmund, it’s a chance for me to get away. It’s a place of true quiet, where even the traffic fades into the distance in favor of the heron’s calls overhead. It’s a place that doesn’t require anything of me—not money, not interaction, and certainly not status. It’s a place where I can breathe in the silence and exhale all of society’s pressures as I take in the vastness of the trees, the leaves, and the fact that nature doesn’t care about any of it. Watching Edmund explore this simple place near our house, I’m always reminded that the world really IS a vast, wide-open place waiting for us to notice it. And I’m also reminded that even though exotic trips and locales are exciting, you don’t have to jet-set to Paris or the Caribbean or Egypt to find marvels. There is exploration and adventure to be done right in your hometown that doesn’t cost a thing. There is inspiration around you if you take a moment to unplug and appreciate it. There is always something new to see, to marvel in, to revel in, if you’re willing to go out and find it. You don’t have to go somewhere to special to realize how special life is. That’s the lesson I’ve learned from this tiny, humble park near our house. That’s the lesson I come back to every single week when I come with Edmund to this holy ground of sorts—because isn’t it just so easy to forget all of that in the hustle and bustle of life? Don’t we all need a reminder sometimes of the words my favorite poet Whitman says when pondering the meaning of life: Answer: That you are here. That life exists and identity. That the powerful play goes on, And you may contribute a verse. |
L.A. DetwilerUSA TODAY Bestselling Thriller author with Avon Books (HarperCollins), The Widow Next Door, The Diary of a Serial Killer's Daughter, and other creepy thriller books Categories
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