How These Stories Help You Make Your Own Damn Decisions

So far, I’ve told you how I ended up here, and I’ve told you about the thing I can’t shut up about: capable women who can figure out everyone else’s problems but question their own decisions to death.

Which brings us to a good question: Why the hell should you care about my stories?

Fair. Let’s talk about that.

I’m not Carrie Underwood. Nobody needs a breaking-news alert because Vanessa Somerton changed her mind about something. My breakfast isn’t particularly interesting, and my morning routine is definitely not aspirational. If you ever catch me voluntarily plunging into an ice bath at the crack of dawn, please assume I’ve been kidnapped and send help.

I’m a woman who’s lived some shit.

Just like you.

The details of our lives might be different. That’s okay. The useful part of a story isn’t always the event itself. Sometimes it’s the question hiding underneath it.

Different kitchen. Same question.

I can tell you about becoming an empty nester and standing in my kitchen with no fucking clue what I wanted for dinner. Maybe you don’t have kids. Maybe yours are still small. Maybe dinner has nothing to do with the thing keeping you up at night.

But perhaps you’ve had your own version of that moment.

Your relationship ended, and you didn’t know what you liked doing on weekends anymore. You left a job and wondered whether you’d made a mistake. You want to start something, end something, say no, ask for more, or admit that the plan you made five years ago doesn’t fit you now.

Different kitchen. Same question: What do I actually want to do? And right behind it, another one: Can I trust myself to choose?

That’s why I tell you what happened to me. Somewhere in the story, you might recognize what’s happening in your own life.

I’ll give you my intel. Then you decide.

I’ve always loved people’s stories. I want to know how you got here. Why did you do that? What did you think would happen? What actually happened? And, on occasion: What the fuck were you thinking?

I’ve noticed that you can give someone advice until you’re blue in the face and it won’t move them an inch. Then you tell them a story, and something clicks. They see a piece of their own situation that they couldn’t see while they were stuck inside it.

That’s what I hope happens here.

I’m not going to pretend I have your answers. I don’t know the whole of your life, what responsibilities you’re carrying, or what a particular decision could cost you.

What I can do is tell you what I tried. What worked. What didn’t. What I believed at the time and what I think now. I can tell you what I learned raising kids, building businesses, working in corporate, starting over, and getting things spectacularly wrong.

I’ll give you my intel. Then you decide what you want to do with it.

Naming is the game

Some of the most exhausting thoughts are the ones we won’t quite say out loud.

• I don’t want this anymore.

• I want more.

• I’m tired of being the dependable one.

• I think I already know what I need to do, but I’m scared of what happens if I do it.

So we keep the thought circling. We try to solve it without admitting what it is.

The second we name something, we can start making sense of it. Naming is the game. Until then, it runs around in our heads making a racket while all the little minions wave their warning signs.

Naming it doesn’t mean you have to blow up your entire life by Friday. Sometimes you’re allowed to tell yourself the truth and sit with it. Then you can decide what comes next.

You get to make up your own damn mind

The internet has plenty of people ready to tell you exactly how to live. Wake up at 5 a.m. Meditate. Journal. Manifest. Build seven streams of income. Drink more water. Take a cold shower. Apparently, we’re all one morning routine away from becoming completely different human beings.

Pass the cheese, please.

Some of that advice might be useful to you. I’m not here to make the decision for you. I’m interested in what happens when you hear a story, ask yourself an honest question, and listen to your own answer.

Maybe something I write makes you laugh because you’ve done the exact same ridiculous thing. Maybe you feel relieved because somebody finally said the thing you’ve been thinking. Maybe you disagree with me. Good. That tells you something too. And maybe a story helps you notice that you’ve been asking for another opinion when what you really need is to trust the one you’ve already formed.

That would make writing it worth my time.

Pull up a chair

Letters from Ness won’t be one giant existential crisis. Jesus. Can you imagine opening your email every Tuesday and thinking, Great. What’s Vanessa going to make me question about my life today?

We’ll have some fun. Life is funny. People are weird. Getting older is especially weird. There’s plenty to talk about between the hard decisions. I’ll bring you honest stories, hard-earned lessons, and something useful to try or think about. Some letters will hit. Some won’t. You’re allowed to take what helps and leave the rest.

I want to hear your stories too. What are you thinking in circles about? What do you want so damn much that you can’t let it go? What decision are you hoping someone else will make for you?

Pull up a chair. We have shit to talk about.

I’m going to keep sharing what I learn along the way. The good stuff, the ugly stuff, the funny stuff, and the things I would absolutely not recommend trying at home.

You take what resonates and make up your own damn mind.

It’s your life.

See you in the wash,

Ness