I’ve caught myself saying it more times than I’d like to admit: “I just don’t have time.” And for a long time, I believed that. Actually, no, I didn’t actually believe that but it sounded better than ‘I’m avoiding that’.

It felt true and sounded valid. But it wasn’t entirely accurate.

Because somehow, I have time to scroll. Time to rewatch a show I’ve already seen. (likely Friends, Sons of Anarchy, Prison Break or Game of Thrones for the 4th time)
Time to respond to things that aren’t urgent.
Time to help other people move their lives forward.

But when it comes to the things that would actually move my life forward?

That’s where time suddenly disappears.

We fill our days without realizing what we’re filling them with.

And I know this because I used to start my days the exact same way.

I wake up, grab my phone and open my email.

And just like that, before I had even had a coffee, before I had a second to think about my own life…

I used to believe that if something didn’t work right away, it meant something about me.

If a post didn’t land.
If no one signed up.
If something I created didn’t immediately turn into an opportunity…

I made it mean it wasn’t good enough, or worse, that I wasn’t.

It didn’t matter how much thought I put into it or how aligned it felt when I created it.

If the outcome didn’t show up quickly…my brain filled in the blanks.

Was that not good enough?
Do people not care?
Am I doing something wrong?

It doesn’t take long before it stops being about the work…and starts being about your worth.

Release the expectation.

For years, it was everyone else first. Everything else first.
Writing was what I did after. If there was time. If I had energy. If everything else was handled.

But I always did have time. I just never treated writing like it mattered.

It wasn’t “the thing.” It was just… a thing I did.

Recently, I found myself trying to figure out where I was going.

What I should do next.
What made the most sense.
What would be productive, responsible and sustainable.

And then it hit me:

I’ve already been here the whole time.

I got rejected today. Third time this week.

And for about 30 seconds, my brain tried to convince me that meant something about who I am.

But a recent conversation prepped me to redirect this thought.

She said: “You have to believe you’re worthy before the world says so.” And I’ve been thinking about that ever since, because most of us are walking around waiting to be chosen. I know it rings true for my life, I wrote a whole book on waiting to be chosen and validated by someone or something.

Chosen in relationships.
Chosen for the job.
Chosen for the opportunity.
Chosen to be seen, validated, and approved.

We don’t always say it out loud, actually we barely say it out loud but it shows up in how we move.

We attach our worth to the outcome, right? “If they pick me, I must be good enough.” “If they don’t, something must be wrong with me.” We allow someone else to decide how worthy we are.

And that’s where things start to get heavy. Because if your worth is tied to being chosen, then every rejection starts to feel like proof that you’re not enough. And that’s a dangerous place to live.

I know this feeling well.

I’m going to say this a bit louder than usual, not because you need it but because I do and I need this really click this time.

You are not required to keep living a life you no longer want just because you once chose it.

And not that you need the permission, but let me say this so you can start to believe it:

You are allowed to change your mind.

About the relationship.
About the job.
About the city.
About the investment.
About the version of you that said yes in the first place.

And it does not mean it was a waste.

The moment we think something isn’t for us anymore, this thought creeps in:

“I just wasted so much time.”
“I can’t believe I spent that much money.”
“I put years into this.”
“I should just stick it out.”

We treat time, money, and effort like they’re receipts we need to justify.

For a long time, being alone felt like proof that I wasn’t wanted.

It was a reason why I ended my first marriage.

There was a time when being alone felt uncomfortable. Exposed. Like something was missing. If I had an event, a trip, a dinner, a social gathering, I wanted a plus one, I needed one.

I was traveling alone for work.
Going to events alone.
Building a life that required visibility and presence.

I had a husband at home. He just didn’t want to come.

At the time, that felt personal. It felt like rejection or like something was wrong, either with him or with me. I resented it.

What I didn’t understand then was…I didn’t actually know how to be alone.

“Good on paper” is a theme I’ve carried for a long time.

When I realized that in three simple words I could explain what I’ve been thinking, what I’ve been feeling… it clicked. It’s catchy. It makes you curious.

But when when I think deeper about it, it all boils down to this question worth asking yourself:

It might look good on paper.
But does it feel good?

That’s where we go deeper.

This is why I called this blog ‘Good on Paper’ and while the theme surrounds everything I do.

These aren’t surface-level conversations.
These are the thoughts I have at 7 or 8 a.m., walking through the forest with my dog, recording voice notes before the world gets loud.

We all know what “good on paper” looks like because we’ve been trained to chase it.

I spent years chasing things that, if I’m really honest, were never meant for me. I mean, I wrote a whole book about all the things and people I chased.

I chased relationships that required me to shrink.
I chased approval from people who weren’t even right for me.
I chased career paths because they looked successful, not because they felt aligned.

And every time I wasn’t chosen, I made it mean something about my worth.

Because when you tie your value to being picked, every “no” feels like a final decision.

For a long time, I thought I was the issue.

My hair was “too frizzy.”
My skin was “just like this.”
Too dry. Too oily. Too sensitive. Never quite right.

Stay with me here, I’m not actually just talking about my hair or skin. There’s more to this.

I assumed my body was the problem instead of looking at what I was putting on it, how I was using it, or whether the tools I’d chosen actually suited me. Then something small changed.

I started switching things out.

A different hairbrush.
Different products.
A new way of caring for my skin.
Even, a different makeup sponge and how I used it.

Suddenly, my hair wasn’t the problem. My skin wasn’t the problem.

The way I had been approaching them was.

If you are sitting at your desk, staring at a blank screen, trying to “be creative,” I’m going to gently tell you something you might not want to hear.

You’re probably not going to find it there.

Creativity does not arrive because you scheduled it in your calendar, opened your laptop, and forced yourself to produce something. It does not show up on command. It does not live inside your phone, your analytics, or your to-do list.

Creativity shows up when you stop trying so hard.