This year I have readopted a title I'm very familiar with: freelance writer. I've done this before a few times in my life - not had another job while solely freelancing - and while it is "interesting" and a super flexible way to work (and it must be noted, something I am luckily able to do because of my spouse's steady job with benefits) I dislike a number of the specifics that accompany this career choice.

For one thing, even though I have better connections and am at least a little better established at this point in my life, I constantly have to think about finding new work, about how much it'll pay and if it's worth it. I also have to think about balancing my more creative work, which often requires many hours of writing and then waiting anxiously to get something placed, with my more lucrative work (things like copywriting for marketing departments at businesses and non-profits), which is guaranteed pay but takes time away from writing things I'm more excited about; things that may or may not eventually see the light of day in an actual publication.

This is where I'm going to pause and say two quick things. One, I am an incredibly fortunate person, so please feel free to find this complaining obnoxious, even though I promise I'm simply trying to illuminate feelings and not elicit pity. Two, if you do find it super annoying, but are, say, someone who works at a newspaper, magazine or website and is looking for a pretty funny, always-caffeinated staff writer who will totally gossip with you in addition to doing - oh just for instance - a regular, relatable column about all the amusing moments in her life, then, yes, I'm available for interviews.

Anyway, back to my unwarranted list of grievances. Another thing that's difficult for me about the writing life is that it can be a solitary affair. Happily, I do some journalism that requires interviews, and interviewing people about their passions is one of my favorite things. Also, because of the flexibility involved, I get to have coffee and lunch dates with friends, and I often work in public places. This is important for me because I'm an extroverted person and without the stimulus of human connection, I wither. Even a quick fix - a phone call, or banter with strangers while running an errand - helps a ton, and I try to infuse my day with these interactions.

When you get down to it, though, the actual writing part is a lonely affair. That's ok, because I enjoy the process (you know, mostly) but I sometimes wish I could schedule a meeting with a bunch of coworkers who could help me brainstorm ideas, or convince me to finish the damn article instead of checking Twitter for a quick sec, which will without quesion not be a quick sec.

But the hardest thing for me lately is that I feel badly about myself. I know. I know. I shouldn't! I know, because I have supportive people in my life who give me nothing but confidence, and I know, because I am balancing a lot of life responsibilities and it's all going well.

Also, by this point in my life, I know that this is not a helpful way to feel. It yields nothing good. I feel it anyway.

I feel badly that I haven't published more things in more places, that I'm not pitching more stories, that I'm not making lots of money. I feel badly that I'm not writing about more "important subjects." Again, I know it's all fine. That I'm busy, have three kids and multiple other responsibilities that can slow the process down and there's nothing wrong with that; that I am publishing pieces I'm proud of and writing about ordinary life is what I tend to do well.

Still.

I learned about the term "imposter syndrome" while talking with friends a few years ago. Somehow I'd never heard of it before. It's what happens when a person has trouble recognizing their accomplishments. They worry they'll be exposed as a fraud. When my friends explained the idea, I was like OH MY GOD. THAT. Yeah. I have that.

To be clear, I don't feel this way all, or even most of the time. I have productive, happy days. I think that the reason these feelings crop up with my writing is that I'm trying to define success all by myself, and I'm not exactly sure what it is. I think that so many of us have these feelings - in creative and other professional endeavors - and in our personal lives, too. Sometimes I start worrying about whether or not I'm a good enough dog owner. Then I start worrying about how we are managing our upcoming move. Then I start wondering if I'm even an adult at all.

When I start down this road of various anxieties, I don't always address it in the right way. The right way (and I know these actions are the "right way" because they feel good) might be to finish up a story, schedule an interview, or compose a perfect pitch, which, if not accepted, will be because the person on the receiving end is insane (is something I tell myself). The right way might be to get a few great paragraphs in on an essay I'm writing, or to do something totally non-writing related: call my mom, or exercise.

The right way, it turns out, is not to start anxiously scrolling jobs sites or looking at questionable "freelancer needed" posts, and thinking about how to get more work in the quickest way possible. The right way to handle my feelings of insecurity is not eating candy or looking at social media and getting nervous about how successful all you guys are. It's not to text J one million stress-driven messages about whether or not I'm doing anything with my life, although, sorry buddy, I'm never going to stop doing this, you made a decision when you married me and it involved "in good times and bad."

I don't have a tidy solution to resolve this issue. I DO find great solace in commiserating with friends, fellow writers and other parents. And in dumping on my feelings in a public forum like this one. Thanks, guys.

I also decided to break out some elementary school math symbols, marking the first time ever I've used math in real life, and create this lesser than/greater than list to help me navigate these feelings moving forward, and maybe help some of you who trend towards this particular form of madness. Your examples are probably different than mine, but you get the picture.

frantically scanning media jobs sites < writing an essay
working on my book > wondering if I'm too old to go to grad school and become an English professor
confidently telling people "I'm working on a book" > nervously telling people "I'm working on a 'larger writing project'" and then changing the subject
looking at social media, cursing myself for not being good at social media AND not as successful as that friend-of-a-friend who is really good at self-promoting < going for a run
watching another hour of cable news < reading a chapter of a good book
blogging > composing a probably clever Tweet then deleting it at the last second
Googling people to find out how old they are and then feeling resentful of their youthful accomplishments < taking a 15-minute restorative nap
"fake it til you make it" > "I have no idea what I'm doing"
making an ambitious daily to-do list > indulging in negative feelings about my career
scheduling my time effectively > waiting for inspiration
sending out more pitches, ideas and introductory emails < checking again to see if anyone emailed me back
tea > Diet Coke
walking the dog > all of the above

The other day we were chatting after finishing part of the multi-faceted drive we've undertaken for this year's Presidents' Day/February vacation: from New Haven to Chapel Hill to reunite with wonderful friends we hadn't seen in forever, then onto Charlotte for our annual Presidents' Day tradition with the crew - and learning that James K. Polk actually did some important stuff, you guys - then onto Charleston, SC, where me and the kids met my mom. J had to fly back to work this week but the kids are on break and while being in the house with them all week sounds interesting, we decided to prolong our absence from the northeast.

We're here in this glorious city til the weekend, when we'll make the drive home, dropping my mom off in MD along the way. That drive will be FINE and probably FUN (positive mantras are important!)

I mean, car rides our tough. Take, for instance, the extreme, very negative reaction my children displayed upon being a little bit uncomfortable while getting into the overheated minivan following a lunch break near Columbia in such gorgeous, mild 75-degree weather that we got to sit outside. My children are far too used to being freezing by this point in the season and, it's ok - say it - also insane.

Anyway, we were talking about the phrase, "worth it" when we got to our hotel in Charleston and I was deciding between valet and self-parking. I was telling the kids that the valet parking wasn't "worth it" when the garage was right there, and parking the car myself was no problem.

Gabriel asked what "worth it" meant, and I explained that it means when having, or doing, something might be a little bit of a struggle, or cost some money, but it's really good and you don't regret it. And that not worth it was the opposite.

So we parked our car easily in the garage and made our way down to the hotel where we - in rapid-fire fashion - found some snacks, went for a quick swim and then met my mom before heading out to dinner.

I've only visited Charleston once when I was much younger and it's a fantastic city. It's one of those places that makes me a little stressed, to tell you the truth, because there are so many things I want to be doing every second of the day (fine, mainly food things) but when you're vacationing with young children you kind of have to go with the flow. Especially when there's a pool at your hotel that has an adjoining, sunny patio and kids mainly want to do that, and when you explain to them that it's time to get ready and go to another restaurant, they make faces like you've killed their souls. Despite the fact that what you actually have done is brought them on a lovely vacation.

Yesterday we went exploring in the car, which is something I'd been really excited to do. I like laid back beach towns and wanted to check out some of the nearby islands. Sometimes I think I would have been happy living barefoot on an island somewhere listening exclusively to reggae music, although to be honest, I probably I would have gotten super annoyed with a lot of things about that lifestyle eventually. Or. Sooner then eventually. Like, immediately.

We had lunch in Folly Beach, then headed over the impressive Ravenel Bridge to Sullivan's Island, where we got gelato then drove around to look at all the pretty houses. We went down a side street and discovered an artist's home studio filled with eccentric teapots and garden ornaments with cheerful little faces. Then we found a wooden bridge leading over the dunes and through all that gorgeous South Carolina foliage ("Mommy! Is this the forest?" Aidy asked) to the wide, pristine beach studded with people and lots of dogs. And then my kids RAN. They ran like they'd never seen the ocean before, splashing and digging in the sand and getting their clothes totally wet, while my mom looked for shells and I screamed after them not to run too far away and none of them listened.

When we got back into town, we decided to forgo real dinner plans and have snacks and drinks at our hotel, which is exactly the kind of thing that can save the evening on a trip like this, when everyone is staying up past their bedtime on a regular basis and the most relaxing thing is remaining as physically close as possible to where the beds are.

When I woke up the next morning I realized my children were sleeping in and that if I was stealthy could make myself a cup of coffee, watch the news in bed, and catch some coverage of the utterly inspiring high school kids in Parkland and the nation's reaction to them, giving me more hope than I've felt in a long time. I tiptoed to the Keurig that was unfortunately closer to their beds than mine, quietly poured in the water, pressed the correct buttons and then silently cursed the fact that goddamn Keurigs make A LOT OF NOISE. I was hightailing it back, hot cup in my hand, when I noticed Gabe, always our earliest riser, lying awake and wide-eyed in his bed. With intense hand gestures and mouthed instructions I told him to come join me in my room, where we made an impromptu "art studio" for him on the floor next to the open curtain, letting the morning light flood in on his notebook and pencils.

I turned the news on and settled in, and suddenly remembered a conversation J and I had with someone a long time ago, who told us that hotel coffee pots are infamously germy. J has brought it up every time we're in a hotel that has one. I don't worry much about germs; it's not one of my chosen anxieties (which believe me, I have) but I thought about it as I looked down at my frothy cup of French roast, perfect mostly because it was available to me before my family was mobile that morning. Then I took a sip and sank into the moment, Gabriel - so often complaining - was lost in his project on the floor and the girls quiet. I wondered about what you could get, really, from exposure? Legionnaires' Disease? Avian flu?

"Worth it," I thought, as my son and I enjoyed a memorable few minutes of calm while he drew, the newscasters proclaimed change was coming and the sun steamed in our window and on the streets of the awaiting city below.

Regarding all the feelings of failure

Postcard