I write this post as we are days away from welcoming a new year.
When I was younger, the New Year always held so much promise, a chance to re-invent myself.
As a teen, I’d scribble long lists of resolutions in my diary. “Stop picking zits” was one that made it onto the list year after year, to no avail.
And every year, somewhere in mid-February (or mid-January if I’m being totally honest) I’d realize I hadn’t met those goals and would feel like… a total failure.
So over the years, I ditched the habit of resolution-making, because I had decided it inevitably lead to resolution-breaking.
And yet… with the beginning of each new year, I’m still met with that tingling desire to start fresh, create goals, and become a better version of myself than that of the year before.
Fast forward twenty-odd years, and I’m a working children’s book illustrator.
The things I aspire to accomplish are larger, but the challenge remains the same.
You see, the professional goals I set for myself are tangible like “Write a picture book and become a published author”, but the steps needed to get there often feel like a blurry, abstract mess.
I mean, the ideas for stories come to me at the most inopportune moments, like when I’m in the shower, or moments before I doze off to sleep. They surely don’t come when I sit down at my desk, eager to write.
And sure, I write them in my notes app, blah blah blah… but what I mean is that my inspired brain and my working brain don’t often know how to cooperate.
And so oftentimes, for me, the climb to reach my dreams feels unclear, and I just want someone to hold my hand to help me get there.
As the years went on, bridging the gap between my goals and executing them became harder and harder.
I had struggled with this for years, constantly berating myself for just not getting my shit together. And then, somewhere during the last year, something incredible happened:
I was diagnosed with ADD.
That term gets thrown around a lot these days, but for me it struck a chord. And it took me a few months to come to terms with it, as I still held within me some stigmas deeply ingrained in me from childhood.
At first, the diagnosis made me feel less-than, or incapable.
I was sure if I just tried harder, I could be more organized, more focused.
For those first few months, my husband even lovingly teased me for using the label as an adorable excuse for being the way I am: a slightly frazzled, creative, day-dreaming astronaut.
But with time, we realized this diagnosis was the missing piece of a puzzle, and certain parts of my personality just started making sense.
Like my inability to focus on a task until I had cleared off my desk of clutter.
Like my tendency to start a thousand projects…but rarely finish any.
Like my phone being full of to-do lists, time-management apps, and reminders but with little productivity to show for it.
Like the paralysis I feel when placed in front of a chore that would otherwise take me ten minutes to complete.
And like the faint beeping of a garbage truck outside totally distracting me from a simple task at my desk.
Here I should add, I am probably on the low end of the ADD spectrum. I’m a pretty high-functioning ADD lady, and I manage to stay fairly grounded.
But as the years went on, so did my anxiety rise. And as a mom of three, the added responsibilities of staying on top of laundry and keeping everyone fed and happy… was becoming too much.
I constantly compared myself to other moms who seemed to have it all together, and my self-worth took a beating.
But with time, and guidance from my amazing therapist, I’m slowly learning to love that part of me. To understand and accept that my creativity, my creative self-expression is owed in part to my brain’s quirkiness. I may be an astronaut who forgets to launder the white shirts for White-Shirt day at my kids’ school… but I also let myself float to Imaginary Places to which many others dare not travel, a quality that’s very useful to a children’s book illustrator.
That spacey trait of mine lets me create wild characters. My hyper-keen sensory input abilities allow me to notice the world around me and capture delightful details to use for stories and drawings.
And a grey shirt on White-Shirt Day is a small price to pay, if you ask me.
Oh, and I have found some tips and ways to make my day-to-day more manageable for myself, but that’s for another day.
So, why am I writing this post?
For one, I’m going into the new year with the hope of sharing myself more openly, more vulnerably.
Working as a picture book illustrator is incredible joyful and rewarding, and I feel so grateful to have made it my career.
But I think it’s important to also share the less-than-photogenic moments behind the squares on Instagram, the moments where realizing your dreams can also feel like a daily struggle to pick yourself up by the bootstraps.
Second, I know many of you reading this are fellow creatives. And if some of my examples resonate with you, maybe you won’t feel as alone as I did all those years.
With 2023 just a few short days away, instead of resolutions, I’ll be adopting a trend I’ve seen the last few years, which is choosing a word for the year.
To guide me, and keep me focused on where I want to be headed.
I know the word needs to be about self-acceptance, about celebrating small wins as much as chasing goals. It should be about persistence and small, meaningful steps in the right direction.
I’m still stumped as which word can sum it all up. I’ve got a few days to decide.
Can you help me come up with my word of the year?
I want to thank you for reading, for following along this journey of my life and my art, and I want to wish you all a happy new year.
XOXO,
Shelly.