I created the graphic below years ago when I was a raw foodist and making my first attempt at being a writer and creator full time.
It still makes me smile each time I see it. Hopefully, you are at least mildly amused. I ate a lot of bananas in those days.
I’m not saying that procrastination has disappeared from my experience. Sometimes it takes me longer to recognize it than I would like to admit. However, once noticed, I have found ways to squirm my way out of its sneaky grip.
Fear in Disguise
I personally find that I procrastinate most often because I am afraid to start something and not do it well. Or, I think that I will waste time doing it wrong and have to start over. So instead of beginning, I end up playing mental chess with myself—trying to foresee every move before I make it.
Spoiler: That’s not how creativity works. Or life, really.
Just Look It Up
One time I told a friend I was stuck on a scene because I didn’t know much about the topic. They stared at me and said, “Just look it up.”
I wanted it to be harder than that. It wasn’t.
That’s when I remembered: We don’t have to figure it all out alone. Between books, articles, podcasts, videos, and actual conversations with smart people, there’s an abundance of help at our fingertips.
Of course, there’s also the danger of falling into an eternal research spiral. (Ask me about my deep dive into obscure types of rope knots. Or don’t.) I’ve found that setting a timer for research helps. When it dings, I get back to the page—even if I don’t feel “ready.”
My Secret Weapon
Want to know what really kicks me into gear?
My husband.
He’s one of those magical creatures who just does stuff.
He doesn’t worry if it’s perfect. He doesn’t plan himself into a corner. He sees what needs doing and then… does it.
Watching him helps me remember that action doesn’t have to be fearless—it just has to start.
And if it doesn’t go as planned? I can pivot. I can adapt. I can learn.
Structure, Lists, and Shifting Landscapes
I’ve also learned to lean into planning and structure.
Time blocks, lists, and small achievable goals give me just enough accountability to bypass perfectionism. It’s not always about massive output—it’s about showing up and seeing what happens.
And in the end, I find the creative process to be an ongoing journey in which the terrain changes, I change, and the days are a mix of visiting new and old pathways—each freshly wonderful in what they show me of life.
I have been looking through some of the old photo albums my grandma has in her house. I don’t know a lot of people in the really old black and white pictures and it is interesting to try to figure out their personalities based on their expressions and posture and such.
Many of the people I do recognize. My grandma is there with a young version of my grandfather who passed away when I was in high school. Grandma’s brothers and sisters are there, too. And then there is my dad and his brother Henry and his deceased sister Kathy.
What I Realized About My Dad
I find it particularly interesting to see younger pictures of my dad. It makes me realize that I know very little about him. Sure, I’ve heard stories about his childhood, but I look at the pictures and I wonder what dreams did this boy have? Perhaps I should ask him.
When I sift through the memories of my dad, something is there I can’t quite put my finger on. My mom was a much more dominant presence in the family. Still is. Thinking about it, it seems that my dad represents strength to me and solidarity. He has physical strength for sure, but I also think of him as the man who never cries. When you’re tough (or strong), you don’t cry, right? (I actually believed that for a really long time).
A Childhood Memory: Our Beach Trip
Anyway, seeing the pictures of my dad and thinking about our relationship over the years reminded me of a poem I wrote quite a while back. Thought I would share it.
Beach Trip The waves seemed higher when I was five or six.
My sister and I would go out as far as our toes could touch the shifting sand.
It was a family event – the beach, the sandy towels, Grandma’s old camper with the bunk bed at the front where I snuggled each night in its dark, secure crevice.
Each morning we’d run out to water with buckets and yelps, and salty breath.
Mom would stretch out in the open to catch the sun.
On rare occasions, my dad would venture with us and we’d press ourselves further into the deep.
The big waves would come, rolling and pushing us under and apart.
My dad’s strong hands held our fragile wrists firmly,
and we bobbed in the vastness of the ocean –
laughing, and unfearing.
Share Your Family Memories
Do you have a favorite memory of your dad? Or maybe a beach trip that lives in your bones the way this one does in mine? I’d love to hear your stories in the comments.
Writing this brought back a wave (pun 100% intended) of feelings—nostalgia, gratitude, and a touch of wonder at how our memories shape us. Thank you for taking this little trip with me.
