My compulsion is to control. If it is to be done, I am to do it. I know how, come on everyone, follow along now.

Gold-star seeking is ever-present. It doesn’t matter the topic. My ego yearns to accomplish and win. My tendency is to plan and incessantly do, often, until exhaustion.

In a year poised with cliches of vision and prosperity, it simultaneously felt like time flew by and also painstakingly dripped like an annoying, leaky faucet.

I and the best psychics and fortune-tellers certainly didn’t see 2020 playing out this way. Days ran together in a monotonous manner. I often awoke in the not quite light out morning thinking, is it Tuesday or Friday?

Knowing what I know now, would I have done it differently? Not just yes, a resounding, Hell, yes!

In my first marriage, I had a season of intense emotional pull that quickly faded into a routine of comfort. I had a few years of technically being together while also maintaining a vast distance filled with discontent.

I didn’t trust myself or my partner. This was a red flag that I deliberately ignored.

The last thing I was looking for while living in cramped corporate housing with rented furniture was another pet. I got home one evening, and my husband said, “I found a cat. I think it’s living in the bushes.”

A few days later, I walked downstairs and spotted a tortoiseshell fur ball sunning on the sidewalk. As soon as the stairwell door closed, it popped up and ran toward me.

In my adolescence, acceptance conjured anxiety and strife. Regardless of my thoughts and feelings, I was told, “Just accept it,” or discouraged from questioning through the silent treatment.

Our house wasn’t an environment of nurturing conversations. Important topics of where I stayed while she worked nights, to what I ate, or who I was friends with were off-limits to negotiate.

What if I were curious today?

What if I laid down my rigid expectations of progress and productivity? What if I chose to enjoy the journey instead of meticulously chasing the so-called goal?

My attitude and my day, my partner, and my body would all be open and uplifted. Curiosity seems to be the portal for joy.

The day I met the love of my life, I was not at my best. I was in the midst of trauma — hazily walking around, teary-eyed, bumping into reality now and again.

My then-husband of nine years had moved out while I was on a work trip. I was reeling from the email he sent a few days later, stating his desire for a divorce.

Detaching from my professional identity was the piece that conjured heart-pounding anguish. Who would I be if I no longer worked? This uncertainty was terrifying.

On my last day in the office, our leader and I shared an intentionally long hug, and he kindly whispered, “Are you sure?”

The first time I made macaroni and cheese, I didn’t know to drain the water before adding the orange powdery mix.

I was eight and could read, but was already impatient with written directions.

Growing up, an only child of a single parent didn’t provide opportunities for a full pantry or culinary lessons. I was typically alone, scrounging through the kitchen to stifle my hunger.