Small Acts. Bigger Leaps. That’s 43!

I’ve crossed a chasm. Being on this side requires that I keep promises to myself.

That’s not a resolution. It’s not a vision board declaration. It’s just the quiet, unmistakable truth I found sitting in the mud of Piedmont Park at the Atlanta Jazz Festival on a rainy Saturday — alone, on purpose, in polka dot rain boots — wondering how I got here and knowing I wouldn’t trade it.

I almost didn’t go.

The sky couldn’t make up its mind that Saturday morning. Overcast, then a reluctant sliver of sun, then grey again. A rainy birthday weekend felt like God asking me if I was serious. My comfort had an answer, T’ed up and ready. A blanket prayer — Lord, I appreciate this life. Let your will be done — thrown over the discomfort like a sheet over furniture in a house nobody’s living in anymore. Covered. Moved on. No follow-up. No sitting with what I just asked God to handle. Just a holy deflection and a pivot to what I know best, comfort.

And if that didn’t work? I planned on calling one of my friends. Her problem would become my Clue game to figure out. I could pour myself into her situation like a woman who had all the answers— because if I was needed somewhere else, I didn’t have to be present right here staring into the land of keeping my word to myself.

I was so good at it.

But Saturday,  I caught myself mid-reach. Phone in hand. Ready to dial out. Then something stopped me. Not a voice. Not a sign. Just a quiet recognition — there you go again. So instead I put on my khaki drawstring pants and black tube top. Slid on my cousin's polka dot rain boots — found them in the attic like they'd been waiting on me. Grabbed my I Love You Forever cream hat -my other cousin’s brand- and Hunter umbrella like a woman with a plan. I showed up. Complete. Rain or shine.

I sat down in the mud — poncho and all — and that’s when I felt it. Loneliness. Right there in my stomach, dropping like the bottom of a roller coaster giving way. Quick. Honest. Unmistakable. I noticed it. I didn’t leave.

Then Christian McBride & Ursa Major started to play. Rain still falling. Me wrapped in my poncho, alone in the middle of a crowd. And the loneliness didn’t disappear — it just flowed. Moved with the melody like it had somewhere to go. I breathed. Slowly. Intentionally. Learning — still learning — to look directly at what I feel instead of running past it like it isn’t there.

That’s new. That’s the whole thing.

I came back the next afternoon feeling like I'd done something epic. Not climbed-a-mountain epic. Just quietly, grin on face, soft excitement Yees epic — the way you feel when you keep a promise nobody else knew you made. I found my spot on the corner of the left stage. Still there. Waiting. Like it held my place overnight.

I smiled. Sat down. Alone again. Except this time, the loneliness didn't show up. Just me, the music, and the quiet confirmation that I can do uncomfortable things.

That was the icing. A whole weekend of showing up for myself. Rain or shine.

Evolution through action doesn’t look like I thought it would. I expected it to feel like a leap. Bold. Cinematic. Instead it looked like polka dot rain boots on a grey Saturday. It looked like putting my phone down before I dialed. It looked like sitting in the mud anyway. Breathing through the drop instead of abandoning the ride. It looked like keeping my word to myself, even when it is physically and emotionally uncomfortable.

A promise to yourself doesn’t need an audience. It doesn’t need a witness or a caption or even a word spoken out loud. It just needs to be kept. Once. Then again. Then again.

Small acts. Bigger leaps.

If you’re reading this from the other side of the chasm — still standing at the edge, prayer ready, phone in hand — I’m not going to tell you to leap. I’m just going to tell you to put your boots on. The uncomfortable, maybe slightly ridiculous, completely you boots. Show up for the thing you said you would.

The ride is worth it. Even in the rain. Especially in the rain.

That’s 43. And I’m just getting started. Happy Birthday to me!

Let me ask you: What's your go-to move when you don't want to feel something?

Love, Charlene