I don’t think I actually have a motivation problem.

I think I have a finishing things problem.

—

It Starts Off Fine

Starting something is usually the easy part.

A new book.
A new notebook.
A new routine.

There’s a moment at the beginning where everything feels possible. Organized. Like this time I’m going to do it right.

This time I’ll keep up with it.
This time I’ll stay consistent.
This time I’ll actually finish.

And for a little while, I believe that.

—

Then It Slips

Not all at once.

Just enough.

I miss a day. Then another.
I don’t feel like picking it up “just for a little bit.”
I tell myself I’ll get back to it tomorrow.

And suddenly, it’s not something I’m doing anymore.

It’s something I should be doing.

—

The Weight of “Not Finished”

This is the part that sticks.

It’s not just that I didn’t finish something.

It’s that it doesn’t go away.

Every unfinished book sits in the back of my mind.
Every half-filled notebook feels like proof of something.
Every routine I didn’t stick to becomes another example of “I couldn’t follow through.”

Even when I’m not actively thinking about it, it’s there.

Like background noise I can’t turn off.

—

When Everything Becomes Pressure

The weird part is that the things I actually enjoy start to feel heavy.

Reading isn’t relaxing if I’m thinking about how far I have left to go.
Writing isn’t freeing if I’m focused on whether I’ll keep it up.
Even organizing starts to feel like something I’m failing at instead of something that helps.

So instead of doing the thing…

I avoid it.

Because avoiding it feels easier than dealing with the pressure attached to it.

—

All or Nothing Thinking

Somewhere in my brain, there’s this rule:

If I can’t do it completely, it doesn’t count.

If I don’t finish the book, why start reading tonight?
If I can’t stick to a routine perfectly, why try at all?
If I’ve already “fallen off,” then I might as well stay off.

It doesn’t make sense when I say it out loud.

But it feels real when I’m in it.

—

What If It Still Counts?

I don’t know how to fully believe this yet, but I keep coming back to the idea that maybe…

Partial counts.

Reading a few pages counts.
Writing a little counts.
Trying again—even after stopping—counts.

Not everything has to be finished to have value.

Not everything has to turn into a completed, perfect thing to matter.

—

Letting Things Be In Progress

Maybe the problem isn’t that I don’t finish things.

Maybe it’s that I don’t let things stay in progress.

Everything feels like it needs a clear ending. A result. A completed version I can point to and say, “See? I did it.”

But life doesn’t really work like that.

Some things stay messy.
Some things stay unfinished for a while.
Some things get picked up and put down over and over again.

And maybe that doesn’t mean I failed.

Maybe it just means I’m still in it.

—

Trying Again (Without Resetting Everything)

I’m used to the idea that if I fall off, I have to start over.

New plan. New system. New attempt to “do it right.”

But maybe trying again doesn’t have to look like that.

Maybe it’s just:
picking something back up where I left it
doing a little without overthinking it
not turning it into a whole restart

Just… continuing.

Even if it’s inconsistent.
Even if it’s messy.
Even if it doesn’t lead to a clean, finished result right away.

—

Maybe This Is Enough For Now

I don’t have a system that fixes this.

I don’t have a perfect way to suddenly become someone who finishes everything they start.

But maybe I don’t need that right now.

Maybe what I need is to stop turning everything into proof that I can’t follow through.

Maybe I need to let things exist without deciding what they say about me.

And maybe—just maybe—

doing something, even if I don’t finish it…

is still better than doing nothing at all.

Ten months ago, I wrote about moving out, moving on, and moving forward.

At the time, everything felt like it was supposed to change. New house, new town, new job—eventually. A new start, whether I felt ready for it or not.

I remember wondering if this would be the season where I finally became… me.

I don’t know if I ever answered that question.

—

The “New” That Never Quite Feels New

It’s strange how something can still feel new and not new at all at the same time.

I still catch myself calling this place “the new house,” like I’m waiting for the moment it magically turns into “home.”

It hasn’t.

It’s more familiar now, sure. I know where more things are. I’ve settled into routines—at least the loose version of them.

But that feeling I thought would come? The one where everything clicks and you just know you’ve moved forward?

Yeah… that part never really showed up.

—

I Thought I’d Be Further Along

I think that’s the hardest part to admit.

I thought by now I would:

– feel more settled
– have better routines
– be more organized
– be… better, somehow

Instead, I’m still:

– starting things and not finishing them
– overthinking everything
– trying to figure out systems that I don’t stick to

Even the things I want to do—reading, writing, organizing—somehow turn into pressure instead of enjoyment.

And then I end up doing less of all of it.

—

The Pressure That Followed Me Here

I think I assumed moving would leave certain things behind.

Old habits. Old thoughts. Old ways of thinking about myself.

But it turns out, those things pack themselves up and come with you.

The pressure to be productive.
The feeling of not doing enough.
The constant mental checklist of unfinished things.

None of that stayed behind.

It just found a new place to live.

—

Small Things Still Count (Even If My Brain Disagrees)

If I’m being fair—really fair—there have been good things.

Small things.

I’ve tried new things.
I’ve had moments where something actually worked.
Moments where things felt… okay. Maybe even good.

But those moments are quiet.

They don’t scream for attention the way the negative thoughts do.

So they’re easy to ignore.

—

So… What Does “Moving Forward” Actually Mean?

I used to think moving forward meant progress you could see.

Checklists completed. Goals reached. A clear difference between “before” and “after.”

Now I’m not so sure.

Maybe moving forward is quieter than that.

Maybe it looks like:

– getting through a day without completely spiraling
– trying again, even after you didn’t follow through yesterday
– slowly learning what works (and what doesn’t)

Maybe it’s less about becoming a completely different person…

…and more about figuring out how to live with the one you already are.

—

Is This Still My Season?

I asked before if this was the season for me to become me.

I don’t think there’s a big, dramatic answer to that.

No sudden transformation. No moment where everything falls into place.

But maybe this is still a season.

Just not the one I expected.

Maybe this is the season of:

– unfinished things
– small attempts
– figuring it out as I go

And maybe that still counts.

Even if it doesn’t feel like moving forward the way I thought it would.

I had plans for March.

Not huge, life-changing plans. Just… reasonable ones. The kind that feel doable when you’re thinking about them at the end of February.

Finish a few books.
Catch up on my notes.
Finally make progress on things I’ve been putting off.

Nothing wild.

And somehow, I still didn’t do it.

---

The Reality

By the time I looked back at the month, I had finished one book. Maybe I’ll squeeze in one more before the end, but even that feels like I’m trying to rush something just to say I did it.

The notebooks? Still mostly empty.

The ideas? Still sitting there.

It’s not like I did nothing. I was busy. I was thinking. I was trying.

But none of it turned into the kind of progress I thought it would.

And that’s the part that messes with me.

---

The Pressure to Finish

There’s this weird pressure in my brain that everything needs to be finished.

Not started. Not worked on. Finished.

If I don’t finish a book, it feels like it doesn’t count.
If I don’t complete a set of notes, it feels pointless.
If something stays half-done, it turns into this mental weight I keep carrying around.

So instead of enjoying anything, I end up rushing.
Or avoiding it completely.

Because somehow both feel easier than sitting in the middle of “not done yet.”

---

Overthinking… About Overthinking

The worst part is how much time I spend in my own head.

I’ll start thinking about what I need to do.
Then I start thinking about why I’m not doing it.
Then I start questioning what that says about me.

And suddenly it’s not about books or notes anymore—it’s about whether I’m disciplined enough, focused enough, doing enough… being enough.

It spirals fast.

And the more I think, the less I actually do.

---

The Stuff I Did Do

Here’s the part I tend to ignore:

I did things this month.

They just weren’t the things I planned.

I tried new recipes.
I figured out textures.
I had small moments where something actually worked and felt right.

But my brain doesn’t count those the same way.

Because they weren’t on the list.

---

When “Not Enough” Becomes the Default

Somewhere along the way, “not enough” became the default setting.

Didn’t finish enough.
Didn’t do enough.
Didn’t follow through enough.

Even when I know that’s not completely fair, it’s still the first thought that shows up.

And it’s exhausting trying to argue with it all the time.

---

So What Now?

Honestly? I don’t have a clean answer.

Part of me wants to say: “Next month will be different. I’ll get organized. I’ll fix it.”

But I’ve said that before.

So maybe the better question is:

What if progress doesn’t always look like finishing things?

What if trying counts?
What if partial counts?
What if messy, inconsistent effort still counts?

I don’t fully believe that yet.

But I think I need to start somewhere.

---

Ending March As-Is

March wasn’t what I wanted it to be.

But it also wasn’t nothing.

It was a mix of effort, avoidance, overthinking, small wins, and unfinished things.

Which, if I’m being honest, is probably closer to real life than the version I had planned.

And maybe the goal isn’t to have a perfect month.

Maybe it’s just to keep going into the next one… without carrying quite as much weight from this one.

Moved into our new home in our new town to start a new life nine months ago now. Never being one for trying new things, I have always felt like this was going to make me feel like my life would go from bad to worse. Always the pessimist, though, I really think of myself as a realist because when life gives me lemons, as Bo Burham says, “You probably just FOUND lemons.” I have never been good at making something out of nothing, let alone lemons into lemonade. It took me months to find my first job here, and I only got in because a friend from college knew someone who knew someone. I have never had the pleasure of being someone who knows people and gets places and does things. Recently, though, I took a swing to get a new job at a daycare that is even closer to the new house than the one I am currently in.

Yes, I just called it the new house. I have yet to truly call it home and actually mean it. Where I lived for 30 years will always be the place that I call home. Where I sit and write this right now is just the place where all my stuff is. Organizing everything to nearly the way it was before or at least in a way that I can easily access is all that I care about at this point. This also goes along with a weekly thought and subsequent argument with my mom that I have no idea where anything in this house is ever. Not totally true, again with being the ever pessimist, but it still took me halfway through the hockey season to find my Pittsburgh Penguins socks.

Now that there are only a couple of days left at my current job and a week until I start at the new one I have been thinking alot about creating new routines and gettng to a happier and healthier point in my life than I have ever been. My to be read shelf has become beyond overwhelming (not sure what I have done to myself there), my to be watched list is finally caught up with what is current and ready for a good Summer binge of something new and different. Not to mention, I have gained a good deal of weight since the move, and I would really like to figure out how to fit in a workout routine to try and become fit. The seasons are changing, and the clothes I just switched over for the summer need to be able to look presentable for my new job, among other things. While I have a problem with the Christian faith and especially the Catholic church that I grew up in the quote ” for everything there is a season,” makes me think and gives me pause. Is this the season for me to become me?

You can’t choose the family you are born into, but you can choose the people around you that you consider to be your real family. Throughout one’s life, people from both families come and go either for a brief while or forever. No one knows exactly when someone will walk into your life who will change your life forever or walk out of your life and turn everything you have ever known to be true completely upside down.

This year has been riddled with what feels like complete upheval. My mom bought a new property near her hometown the day after Christmas last year. The house started being built at the beginning of March. It is a few minutes away from my aunt’s house and less than an hour from my uncle’s house, my biological family.  My aunt on my dad’s sister is about an hour away, too, in the other direction. Because I can’t dig myself out of the financial hole I live in with the jobs I have been able to attain in my adult life, as I said in my last post I have no choice but to follow. To leave the only home I have ever really known and the family I chose to surround me with love and support and taught me how to make conscious decisions and meaningful connections.

The last month, the struggle has been truly deeply real. I already had come to terms with losing some connection with most people in my chosen family. Then something happened that I never saw coming from a person I would have never expected anything the like to say or do. I have put a lot of thought into this over the last month. The thoughts took me back two years ago to dad’s death. The stages of grief are a simple concept with a complex construct.

Denying the lying didn’t happen. it is just foolish. The lies were perpetrated, and they grew, and they multiplied. Even I was made to be a part of the excuses and copouts told to others to make it seem like everything was as it should be. Denial was never part of the stages of grief as this web of lies became unraveled. The person was just denying it to themselves that anything in their life and about their actions and words was wrong.

Anger, it’s the one emotion I feel like I have been in a constant state of for the longest time. The anger I hold is usually aimed at myself for the circumstances that I haven’t figured out how to break myself from. Knowing that I have a lot of growing up to do was also the excuse that this long-time loved and trusted person in my life gave when she began to finally speak her truth. Looking back, I see that’s what we had most in common. We were both children who had others do for us what we felt we were unable to do for ourselves.

Our other friend is the only one who truly tried the whole bargaining thing. The whole come back to us because we need you clearly more than you need us thing. Posts, texts, and letters to try and plead our way back to what once was and will probably never be again.

Depression! Here is the one we all know and love. The one that makes this whole blog tick. The state of being that is  also constantly sitting in my head saying “today I think I’ll cry because of anxiety” or “today I might cry because the thought of my dad on my parent’s anniversary is just what we’re doing.” Hopelessness is another part that likes to seep its way deep down in there, too, with thoughts of never making any new friends in my new home.

Having hit this last button of acceptance on the relationships inevitable end wasn’t easy. The only thing that made it easy enough was that they left and have barely been in contact since. They chose to leave the people who told them that the lies weren’t really the problem. That is what set me on the road to acceptance. She just left. Here I am, waiting for nothing.

The stages of grief like the stages of friendships come and go, ebb and flow. Sometimes, one just jumps from one stage to another, never really landing on any of the stages for too long. Each stage hurts in more ways than one lasting as long or as short a time as it wants to be there. You don’t have control of any of them as much as you think you do.