I don’t write as fearlessly as I once did.
Not because I’ve run out of things to say – but because I know exactly how they’ll be received.

Back when I started blogging and had absolutely no audience, I wrote with such abandon it startled even me. It was 2008. The world was changing fast, though most of us didn’t notice it. We were the proverbial frog in the pot of boiling water.

All that hope and change seemed like a good idea. Let’s be more thoughtful, empathetic, understanding. And I’m all for that.

But then equity replaced equality. There was a shift from personal accountability to wallowing in victimhood. Mostly because it paid. And I fell into that trap as well.

I wrote a book during those years — my memoir about growing up with a gay, conservative dad and a mom who had so much brain damage I had to bathe her and dress her before I left for school each morning.

I wrote it mostly in anger – and to garner sympathy.

Because all around me, people were sharing their stories of abuse and trauma, and it was paying huge dividends.

Drug-addicted mothers were getting book deals. Everyone was selling their bad behavior at a premium. And not gonna lie – as a divorced mom raising two kids on my own, I wanted a piece of that pie. And it wasn’t even my bad behavior.

My editor tanked the book deal I almost landed. I’m not allowed to go into details, but suffice it to say that book will never be published.

And I couldn’t be more grateful.

In the last 15 years, since I boxed it up and shoved it in the back of the closet, I’ve had time to come to grips with my childhood and the decisions my parents made.

And I’m at peace with them.

Maybe it’s because both of my parents are gone now and all I have left is their memory.
Maybe it’s because I’ve made all kinds of mistakes raising my own kids. I didn’t make them to harm them. I thought I was doing the right thing. Or I underestimated the impact they would have.

I used to think I had a horrible childhood, and if I had stayed in therapy I would probably still believe that.

When you’re encouraged to revisit your “trauma” every week – while paying someone to agree with you – it’s easy to stay stuck in that quicksand.

And I think that’s a big part of the problem our society faces today. We have a generation or two of women – mostly – who lean heavily into therapy that isn’t designed to help them out of their victimhood.

We live in probably the best time ever. We have every convenience at our fingertips. We have resources available to us that my parents never dreamed of and my grandparents wouldn’t believe existed.

And yet so many of us believe things are worse than ever.

I’ve learned that it’s all about perspective and choosing what you focus on.

I could easily stay mired in my bad childhood – focusing on the care I had to give my mother, dealing with her outbursts and anger at my father, her situation, and me. And I might even be justified in that.

But she had wonderful qualities too.

She was generous beyond compare – much to my father’s irritation, since it was his money.

When she wasn’t angry, she was very encouraging. She wanted me to be happy, like all mothers. She was an intellectual, and because of her brain damage and lack of short-term memory, I am more than equipped to argue with trolls and those who just parrot their peers.

What I’ve discovered in these last 15 years – though really only the last five – is that my childhood, my life really, and my parents’ lives and those of their parents all happened for a reason.

And that reason is simple:
That’s the way it happened.

I’ve written about fighting this idea, so I don’t mean to beat a dead horse, but I hope more people can learn this lesson. You get one life – at least as far as we know – and it’s a choose-your-own-adventure.

How wonderful is that?

I only wish I’d understood it much earlier.

And that perspective doesn’t just apply to childhood. It applies to everything – including how we see the world today.

I haven’t written fearlessly because inevitably someone will find offense with something I say.

Yesterday I mentioned how I love Minnesota even though I’m unhappy with the politicians and policies they keep ramming down our throats. I said you could still see the beauty of the city if you looked past the graffiti, trash, and homeless.

Many people took issue with that opinion.

My opinion is not going to match everyone else’s opinion. My opinion is shaped by my experiences. I have to remind myself that I cannot be responsible for how someone interprets what I say, write, or think. I wish I had that kind of power, but I do not.

For the most part, I’m still figuring it out.
But I think the first step is writing fearlessly again.