Full of Possibility

One of the biggest challenges in my life is kind of surprising sometimes. I talk a lot about my author life, sharing what stories have meant to me over the years and how deeply I feel called to spend my time writing books. And sure, sometimes I share about faith and motherhood and what my life looks like behind the scenes; I share what I've learned about personal growth, self-reflection, and healing after trauma. It's no secret that uncertainty and overthinking are constant companions in my mind, and anyone who knows me has probably noticed how close I am at all times to drowning in a pile of unfinished projects.

Currently, I've got a binder full of books to be written, half a dozen baskets filled with crocheted blankets in various stages of completion, boxes of fabric waiting to become something lovely, and a Pinterest account so overstuffed it's almost unbelievable. My creative life is full of possibility.

And to tell you the truth, sometimes that's actually the problem.

It's funny how life transitions can leave us feeling stuck. I mean, here we are, overcoming obstacles, embracing change, moving forward, creating momentum. Some of us are making difficult decisions on the daily, turning potential into something tangible because standing still is simply not an option. And still...trusting the process isn't always easy, is it? Sometimes choosing a direction means letting go of possibilities we might have been excited about. Sometimes taking the next step means learning to accept progress over perfection.

But what about when too many choices keep you stuck, or when waiting for the perfect time leads to decision paralysis? What about when you're standing in a moment brimming with potential, but fear of making the wrong choice makes it hard to move from possibility to progress?

This week a pile of lumber showed me the hidden cost of keeping your options open, the freedom that comes from choosing, and maybe even why it's so hard to make a decision in the first place.

I could almost feel them looking at me. The first time my oldest daughter moved out, I bought them to use as bookshelves as I converted her empty bedroom into an office. Layered with bricks and lined with books, those 2x8 slices of unfinished pine looked like a writer's life on the move. Natural, sturdy. Strong.

I sat beside them for months, using a wobbly card table as a desk, sharing my thoughts on personal growth through everyday moments illustrated in prose. Slowly letting possibility become reality, surrounded by stories I loved. The shelves filled with books, but they held more than words on paper—a stack of memoirs from people I admire stood beside the box that holds my dog's ashes. A little gnome figurine kept my daughter present in the room, even though she didn't live there anymore. A postcard from my mother's house kept her alive in my mind as a I wrote a book she didn't live long enough to read. Potted plants and gifts from friends brought life to the stories those planks held.

And then my daughter moved back in. My younger daughter and I readjusted schedules and plans. We rearranged and made space available again. The bricks went downstairs, where they still stand stacked on the front porch, occasionally swarming with tiny trails of spider mites. And those planks got stacked on the floor. Still full of promise and potential.

Maybe for a while I even liked it better that way, because the options felt unlimited. They could be strong and sturdy bookcases used to replace the cheap ones I got from Walmart years ago. They could be tables, measured and fitted and customized to the couch I built. They could be a new TV stand, or modular storage cubbies, or plant stands. Or they could be the vanity my youngest daughter has been dreaming of. So many possibilities—and I spent countless hours deliberating.

That was over a year ago. And those planks are still exactly what they've always been. Full of potential...and cheated of purpose.

I'm not afraid of messing them up. I'm no expert carpenter, but I'm plenty capable of cutting wood planks into small pieces and turning those pieces into something functional. I'm not afraid of the effort, and technically, I have everything I need to turn that wood into something wonderful. I just haven't done it.

Because once I measure it, cut it, glue it, screw it, and finish it...that's all it can be. If I cut it down and turn it into cubbies, I can't ever make those little pieces into long planks again. When I cut the wood, I cut the options for its usefulness. And maybe that's why choosing one path when everything feels possible feels...impossible.

My oldest daughter doesn't live here anymore. My youngest daughter moved into her room because it's bigger, and once again, I have space that could become an office dedicated to my calling as a writer. That same wobbly card table. Those same plants. The same digital photo frame that reminds me of everything I'm writing toward. And those planks, lying stacked in the corner.

This weekend, I folded the card table and stashed it behind the door. I used some old wire cube shelving to prop those planks up. I ran my fingers over the wood, tracing the warmth of something full of options. I set my laptop there, and stood back for a while, just looking. Thinking about how writing books and crocheting blankets and building furniture are all just different forms of the same thing: turning ideas into reality. Letting go of perfectionism. Making peace with imperfect decisions and building the thing that's needed now, on a quest to create a future you couldn't see before.

Tucking that rickety card table behind the door triggered a mindset shift I hadn't realized I needed, and I stood in that room for while, slowly absorbing the lesson of the moment.

Sometimes, keeping every door open isn't about preserving possibility after all. And we're not always stuck because we don't have enough options—sometimes, what keeps us stuck is the fear of making the wrong choice when there are more options than we know what to do with.

I still need paint or stain or varnish before those planks become the functional desk my office needs. But the planks themselves? Well, I'm pretty sure their destiny has finally been defined.

*****

I won't pretend that overcoming indecision is easy, and I won't discount the fear of choosing one path over another. What I will say is this: I think learning to move forward in uncertainty is directly tied to our emotional healing, commitment, and growth.

There's a grief that comes with decision making, with taking a step forward when the ground feels uncertain. In choosing a direction, a destination, or even a furniture plan, we release other things we might have been hoping for or working toward. And it's okay to admit that sometimes it stings a little.

For me, the addition of a new desk will represent accomplishment and capability. But at least in the short term, it also means the loss of bookcases and end tables and storage cupboards. And even if I change my mind tomorrow, there will come a day when a choice is made, action is taken, and going back is no longer feasible.

And that's okay too.

Someone told me recently that they hate the season I'm in, and there's a part of me that understands why. The truth is, I'm busy. I'm often overwhelmed, I rarely have time for the kind of rest my spirit needs most, and I simply cannot do everything I wish I could. But while this season may be filled with challenges, it's also full of opportunities. To learn. To grow. To change and observe. And through it all, to...