life instructions – gianna soderstrom

Letter no. 5 – not a part-way girl

February 14, 2020February 14, 2020Posted in courage, habits, motivation, writingTagged art, artists, Atomic Habits, babies, blog, blogging, change, Colorado, Colorado Springs, courage, creative, direction, discipline, Gianna Soderstrom, habits, initiation, keep on, learning, life instructions, persistance, practice, resolutions, small steps, walking, writing

[Note: this was written six months ago, while I was still pregnant.]

I think a lot about willpower and discipline, which might be because I wrestle so much with actually building them. I often act like a part-way sort of person: I build really good habits part of the way and then call them good enough, because that’s when it gets really hard to keep improving.

I don’t eat sugar often. People like me say we’re “sugar free” and it really is true; but even though I don’t eat sugar and I DO eat tons of veggies, I also eat lots of heavy food. Like cheese. I eat a LOT of cheese. (And eggs. And sugar-free, flour-free scones, slathered in butter.) So my friends are always impressed when I order a simple coffee with heavy cream or an almond milk latte with sugar-free vanilla, or something. And they admire my willpower when I don’t eat pasta. But my zucchini noodles are literally dripping with alfredo sauce. It’s a healthy habit that’s been built up part-way and then left.

I’ve done the same thing with writing. I get a few guest posts published, get paid for an essay I submitted to an outdoor writing site, and I think I’ve arrived. I stop working so hard. I write less and less frequently. And then suddenly my own blog is facing neglect and I’ve started using my toddler’s nap time for Gilmore Girls instead of a writing session (while I eat a low-carb pizza piled in pepperoni, because you can’t watch Gilmore Girls without eating.) And all the while people keep telling me what a great writer I am, so I don’t get bothered about the good habits that I haven’t kept developing.

In my more discouraged moments I think of myself as a part-way kind of person. I take on the whole persona and in an instant I can see a whole future for myself full of part-way plans that part-way succeeded. Maybe they’re enough to help me stand out just a tiny bit from the crowd, but I know that my habits and efforts will have more potential if I will sit down and put in the time. When I call myself a part-way person, it’s like claiming an identity. I don’t just picture that half-fulfilled future, I start to believe it’s all I’m capable of. I start to believe I’ll always quit just before the finish line, right when it gets the hardest. When I think of myself as a part-way person, I start to move in that direction.

That is exactly what I don’t want for us. There is never a reason to believe that we’ve failed until after it’s actually happened. And even then, failure at one step or stage or goal can just be a catalyst to the next one, if you respond to it that way. Why imagine the worst and subtly call ourselves back and downward in that direction? I don’t believe that whatever you imagine or believe hard enough will just happen to you, but I do believe that if we consistently tell ourselves we’re going to fail, that eventually we’ll stop trying not to fail. We’ll stop trying at all: there will soon be nothing left at which to fail.

This letter is a tiny success story in itself. I set a goal to write every day. It’s an indefinite goal because I have a baby coming sometime who will absolutely interrupt that streak. But let’s just say right here that I plan to write every day until my baby is born. So far, I’ve reached day eight. I don’t think I’ve ever written for eight days in a row before. This is something new. This is me leveling up that writing habit I’d already created.

I have goals to improve my eating habits – less cheese and butter, more healthy carbs. I have goals to improve how I spend my time – more reading, more cleaning, more time with my toddler; less social media. I’ve gotten stuck on these before, pictured that bleak future in which I’m only capable of part-way achievement. I don’t want to let myself walk that direction anymore. I’m sitting down with these habits and believing they can change, no matter how slowly and incrementally.

Here’s to us, babe. Here’s to the habits we’re willing to cultivate beyond the part-way stopping points. Let’s do this.

go live first – letter no. 3

January 23, 2020Posted in adventure, camp life, habitsTagged blog, blogging, Eagle Lake Camp, Gianna Soderstrom, life instructions, parenting, toddler, writing2 Comments

I think it was Hannah Brencher who said that writers aren’t people who are good at writing about life; they’re the people who’ve gotten really good at living. There is a ring of truth to her words. You can’t write if you’re not living anything. We can all see how true it is for non-fiction; you can’t write what you haven’t experienced. But I think it’s true for fiction too. You can’t write about lives in any believable way if you’re not living in the thick of them. How can you create people if you don’t live with people, love people, mingle with them and celebrate with them and mourn and dance and eat and take long walks with them? There is a vibrancy and a grittiness to real life that we can’t ever write if we don’t ever live it first.

There’s a lot of reasons this is hard, but can we just talk about two of them for a second? 1. It’s easy to get caught up in our own heads, trying to write and stumbling against our own lack of experience without realizing it. 2. It’s also easy to swing the other direction, to get so caught up in trying to live a life we can write about that we forget to just live, to be present and unguarded, to be alive in the moments that will later become the stories we have to tell, without having taken notes on or wondered at them as they happened.

I’ve done both of those before: lately I’ve been living all in my own head, trying to write about life without sinking my teeth into the meat of it myself. It’s a cyclone of an existence. I think of John Green’s book Turtles All the Way Down where he opens up about his experience of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and how it becomes, for him, a whirlpool of thoughts spiraling tighter and tighter in dangerous directions that feel completely beyond his control. On a very different scale and in a manner very much more IN my control, that is what it’s like to live stuck inside my head, and maybe anyone’s head. When you close the doors and sit down to analyze what you have without letting in light, fresh air or new ideas, you spiral around and around in the same frustrations, fears, and failures.

I began to come out of that shell late this summer. One day during camp, I walked outside onto the sunlit deck and stood, soaking in the morning warmth for a moment. There were kiddos already running back and forth, but there were also mamas. And they were sitting. There were cups of coffee on the arms of their chairs. They weren’t just wiggling their toes in the sunshine before they walked back inside to do the dishes, they were sitting outside drinking deep from the cup of mountain air and children’s playtime and mama-friendship that life was holding up to them in that moment. And I had almost missed it. I had been missing it most of the summer. I don’t want to miss moments like that for the rest of my life; they’ll be the moments that come back in stories one day too. They’ll be the moments of conversation that inspires me, of wisdom that empowers me, of joy that refreshes me. Maybe quiet moments sipping coffee together won’t come up in dramatic retellings of the stories of my life, but they will influence and shape and nurture me as a writer all the same.

Learn to live, darling. Learn to look up from your desk in time to see a squirrel leap into the trees, learn to laugh at the weird, new, odd things your toddler does that could, if you’re not careful, drive you crazy. Learn to laugh so hard you pee a little and learn to cry when the people around you – your people – are crying too.

But I have a word of caution for you. As you learn to live, don’t think so deeply about it that you begin to spiral in on yourself again. Life is not a race to collect stories or a contest to acquire the richest material. There’s no prize to the one who’s lived in a tiny home and a mansion and also backpacked through Europe: you can live in a cul-de-sac and vacuum your split-level stairs every week and still be living the life that people need you to write about. Trust me on this.

When I moved to Colorado in my early twenties I believed that adventure was out there and I was going to find it. And I also believed that if I didn’t find it, I’d never be the writer I wanted to be. I’d never have the words or inspiration or opportunities that a writer needs if I wasn’t out there living the adventure that everyone wants to read about. It took me a very long time to realize how wrong I was. Adventure wasn’t just waiting in the wild aspects of a life few people get to live; adventure was waiting in the mundane, belly-laugh moments that everybody gets to live. I was given the adventure of a lifetime – the lifetime of one human being, which is always, always an adventure. I had no idea then how poignant, how rich, how write-able that one wild adventure would be. And wouldn’t you know it, here I am with two children and a tiny cottage where I can sit and watch the squirrels, where my toddler counts to ten and inserts “four” whenever he can’t remember what number comes next. Here I am with my one computer and the under-the-stairs bedroom that makes me feel slightly like Harry Potter, and the gallery wall of art complete with kitchen cooling racks that I use as photo grids. There is more adventure in my three red picket fence gates than in the life I thought I would have when I moved out here, single and hoping that a good story would find me.In all the advice that we give writers to sit down and write the thing, don’t forget to go out and live the thing too. I mean yeah, you won’t get far at all without plunking yourself down and opening a tab to your writing platform of choice, instead of streaming another episode. But you won’t get far streaming another episode anyway. You’ve got to be wildly, vastly, energetically present in this one grand life of yours. You can’t hope to write it if you don’t live it. So go live, darlings. Go live deep and real and hard and beautiful. Then we’ll write.

getting stuck

July 1, 2019Posted in courageTagged goals, hard times, life instructions, parenting, small steps, winterLeave a comment

This post is full of instructions. They’re instructions that we all need at some time in our tumultuous years. Sometimes the days begin to feel long and pointless. Maybe you’re sick – sick for a long time and it feels, or is, debilitating. Maybe you’re just low on inspiration and working the 9-5 because it seems that is all life has for you. Maybe Netflix has convinced you that you owe it your attention, despite nagging doubts. Pretty much anything can suck us down into the stuck place; a job, finals, parenting, moving, dim living spaces, too much pasta.

Please know I’m not talking about depression here. I know depression can be influenced by all those things and more but you usually can’t just “get un-stuck” when it comes to mental health. You’re worth enough, valuable enough, to close this blog post right now and get help. But if it’s just a weird little inward battle to get up and get dressed on those days that feel pointless, then this is for you.

I’ve had plenty of my own stuck days. In fact I think I wrote this during one of them. (To be honest I was just looking through my unpublished posts and decided it was time for this one to come alive.) But stuck days don’t last forever – I know this because after months of feeling sick and watching the light at the end of the tunnel receding as fast as I advanced, I’m beginning to come out into the light. It’s just been little things – morning sickness for four months, a sinus infection for as many weeks, a toddler who’s getting faster as I’m getting slower and more pregnant. But for all that, the sun is coming out. Joy is breaking through (accompanied by warmer weather, hey!) and now I want to share some of the things that have helped me walk through it with hope. In fact, many of these things are still working habits mine – practices to fight back against the dark we all face any given day.

Do what you can. Go slow, as slow as you need without critizicing yourself at all. But if you can get dressed, then do it. Getting dressed will make you feel better. And hey, now that you’ve come this far, eat some breakfast. Try to get some protein in. Do what you can, even if it’s a microwaved hotdog or a bowl of breakfast cereal. Do what you can. If you can get through work, do it. If you need to take a nap and safely enclose your contented little babes in their crib for half an hour while you sleep, you set yourself a time and get those 30 winks. Do what you can.

Move a little. Maybe exercise just isn’t really an option. Ok. I’ve been there. I’ve had my afternoons of laying on the couch watching old movies because my body won’t move without pain (or just nausea. Babies, I tell you.) But if you can, take a walk around the block. Get a little air. Maybe stretch out with some gentle yoga. Movement will help your mood, gently lift you just a little bit. Trust me – I’ve felt it happen on the most disappointing days. Heck, if you don’t have any physical restraints, push yourself a bit and get in some solid cardio. You’ll thank me later.

Go outside. Maybe the most you can do is go sit outside. Maybe you can’t even do that. Find a sunny window. Or sit on the patio if you have one. Walk around the yard, around the block, down to the park or coffee shop. Take a long hike if you have the ability. Exercise plus fresh air is a vital combination.

Set a goal. Pick something small that you can achieve within a day or so. Write a card to a friend, finish the dishes from last night, wash a load of laundry, cook a meal at home. There’s a sense of achievement that comes when you finish a task or a goal, no matter how small it is.

Put down the phone. I know it seems small, but try to replace a few minutes of phone time every so often. Pick up a book. Stare out the window and let your mind wander. Take that quick walk around the block we’ve been talking about. Take a few minutes to stop the games, the comparison of social media, the branding and promotion and posting to prove that your life is good too. Just enjoy your life for a few minutes. I don’t say there’s anything wrong with your phone, only that we humans have the capacity to get so sucked in that it begins to dominate every nook and cranny of our life.

I hope these ideas help you. I hope they remind you that even on the ugliest, hardest days you can find a small ray of light. I hope these ideas walk with you through the dregs of winter and into the spring. Here’s to you who feel stuck. We’ll make it, friends. Sunshine is coming.