Starting Over at 50
What the Early Posts Sound Like
I went back and read my March posts today. The person who wrote them kept apologizing for taking up space.
The Preference I Didn't Have in May
I spent twenty minutes choosing a photograph tonight. In May, this would have taken three.
The Function I Filled
In a meeting this morning I read a client situation correctly in ninety seconds. I've been thinking about that all night.
The Two Sentences I Can't Finish
Two sentences in the unnamed document have been waiting since June. Tonight the gap looks different, but not closed.
What You Can't See When You're Inside It
115 posts in and the thing I built is starting to look like a different thing than I thought I was building.
The Sentence I Have Ready
Back at work Monday with a sentence practiced and ready and no one left to say it to who doesn't already know the old one.
Five Sundays
Thirty-four days until September 19. I counted them in Sundays this morning. There are five. I keep rehearsing an answer I don't fully have yet.
What the Sentences Are Waiting For
Thirty-five days until September 19. I opened the document, tried to finish the two sentences, and closed it the same way I opened it.
The Document That Didn't Wait
Thirty-six days until September 19. I had a sequence: consulting first, writing second. Zoe named something at dinner that I'm still trying to work out.
What She Noticed
The dinner at six happened. What Zoe said about the unnamed document is the thing I am still sitting with Thursday morning.
What I Said First
The Zoe conversation I've named here four times finally opened this morning. In the kitchen. In less than fifteen minutes. Before I finished my second cup of coffee.
Forty Minutes of Prep
The one-on-one went fine. Better than fine. What I am less sure about is what it means to keep being this good at something I am leaving.
What I'm Waiting For, Exactly
I've named the Zoe conversation here four times. I still haven't opened it. I'm trying to figure out what I'm actually waiting for.
What Travels With You
I named what my institutional context is worth yesterday. This morning I found the version of me that is already detached from it.
Twenty-Three Names
I made the first list over four months. I made the second list this morning in forty minutes. They are not the same list.
The Post-It on My Desk
Two days after making my case to a stranger in real time. She said she'd think about it. I'm still sitting with what that means.
I Made the Call
Wednesday at 11:14 I said the five words I had been rehearsing for four months. Here is what happened.
Before the Call
The notification fired yesterday. I named what I was doing wrong. Now it's Wednesday morning and the phone is on the table.
The Notification Fired
August 4. The calendar alert I set in July fired at nine-thirty this morning. Four emails. Zero conversations. Here's what I did with it.
Something I Have Not Done Before
One hundred days. I've never had a streak like this. What I'm sitting with on the morning before August 4.
What She Already Knew
The call with my mother was twenty-four minutes. I had been bracing for an hour. She said 'I know' before I finished explaining.
Strangers First
Someone read fourteen posts this morning. I have no idea who they are. They know more about what I've been thinking than most people I see every week.
What the Map Didn't Account For
July was supposed to be the month of first conversations. Today is the last day of July.
The Honest Version
She's been trying to prepare the honest answer to her mother's question. Wednesday morning she caught herself doing the same thing in a different medium.
What I Keep Rehearsing
She's been rehearsing what to say to her mother. Wednesday morning, she noticed she'd been building a presentation instead of an honest answer.
What I Was Keeping
She went back and read the 2015 conference story. It didn't tell her when she first knew. It told her something else.
The Year I Keep Landing On
She told her mother Sunday. Now it's Monday and her mother's question won't leave: not when did you admit it, but when did you know know.
I Told My Mother
Eighteen Sundays of fine. The nineteenth was different.
Between Sending and Sunday
She sent the fourth email Friday evening. Now it's Saturday morning, inbox empty, Sunday a day away.
Too Much to Be Vague
She said she'd write the fourth email last night. She did. Three drafts, same opening, no ending that felt right.
The Last Name on the List
She said she'd look at the list last night. She did. One name remains before August 4, and she still doesn't know what she'll say on Sunday.
What the Calendar Doesn't Say
She moved August 4 to the calendar. What she didn't put in the entry was a name.
Three Silences
The third outreach email has done what it's going to do. Three sent, three silences. She moved August 4 from a note to the calendar.
Where the Noticing Goes
The third email is still unanswered and Monday is not over yet. She watched the pattern happen in a meeting this morning and is trying to figure out what that means.
What I'm Still Waiting to Know
The third email is two days old and a Sunday doesn't count for waiting. She opened the document instead and found the same two unfinished sentences.
What the Third Time Means
She sent the third outreach email at 1:07 on Thursday. Twenty minutes to write. She is still figuring out if that is progress.
Why I Picked Her First
The rule revision still held this morning. But changing a rule and knowing who goes first are two different problems.
What a Rule Is For
Fifteen days left in first-conversations month. I looked at the four remaining names this morning and thought about why I built the rule I built.
What Waiting Looks Like in Practice
Sixteen days left in first-conversations month. The follow-ups are past their windows. The second inbox check had less voltage than usual.
Eighty Days of Something
I went back and read the first post this morning. Day 1 was April 23. I didn't think I would still be doing this at eighty.
The Two Sentences I Keep Not Finishing
The unnamed document has eight stories and a conclusion I cannot write. Last night I figured out why: it might not be a writing problem.
Twelve Sundays
Eleven Sundays of 'fine.' Today was the twelfth. Something was different this time, and I'm still not sure if different counts as progress.
The Part I Cannot Make Move
July is first-conversations month. It's July 11. I have twenty days left and nothing scheduled.
The Part Nobody Told Me To Do
I've been adding photographs to these posts since June. Nobody told me to. I spent eighteen minutes choosing one this morning.
What I Haven't Told My Mother
I've called her every Sunday for eleven weeks. She hasn't read a word of this.
The Other Side of the Follow-Up
I built a methodology out of knowing how to handle silences. Now I'm on the wrong side of one.
The Reader I Didn't Plan For
I started this writing to nobody. Then a stranger. Now my seventeen-year-old is asking about the emails.
What I Keep Going Back To
Three days after Doug's question, I'm noticing which things I return to when no one is making me. The job is not one of them.
The Date Is Set. The Question Isn't.
Doug had one question. I said 'both.' Twenty-four hours later I'm still not sure if that was the real answer or the comfortable one.
The One Question He Had
I told Doug I knew he had follow-up questions. He said he actually only had one. It was not the question I was expecting.
I Used to Be Good at Turning It Off
The job has always had an off switch. I have always used it. This long weekend I'm not sure the same rule applies.
I Have Been Filing Things Away
I started this blog as a commitment device. At some point it became the thing I'm writing toward when I'm not writing.
The Month I Planned For
The backward map said first conversations needed to happen in July. July is here. The inbox has three things in it.
The August Meeting I Accepted
I have a biweekly one-on-one with my manager. Today he said he'd resend the August 11 invite. I said sure. I accepted it.