I am so discouraged. Deeply. Deeply. Discouraged.

It’s the early morning hours, I’m up before the sun, enveloped in a darkness that feels appropriate. I can’t sleep.

I feel heaviness all around me. It seems everyone I encounter has a deep weight dragging them down. There is so much sadness, struggle, challenge, heartache, loss, depression, and fear. The entire city seems to be in some sort of mourning, myself included.

2016 has not been kind to most people I know.

It’s October which means I’m entering the fundraising part of the year for Million Girl Army. It’s a time of year I dread. It is immeasurably hard to ask everyone you know for money to support your dream. Their answers determine both the future of Million Girl Army, and because I’m tied so closely with its failure or success, my sense of self-worth.

This year it feels especially hard.

2016 has brought personal challenges to nearly everyone I know. An election filled with hate, tough issues, hard realities about the world we are living in, and pettiness among leaders adds a dark layer on top of everything. Challenges that are hard enough on their own feel heavier as world leaders let us down and hope fades in the chaos of the election.

I enter conversations with larger donors at a significant disadvantage compared to past years. This year I don’t have to just convince them that my dream of Million Girl Army is worthwhile, I have to convince them that dreaming itself is worthwhile.

I have to convince them when leaders feel untrustworthy that they can trust me to lead well and spend their money wisely.

I have to convince them that though the economy is uncertain and the future of our country hangs in a balance, they should generously give money to Million Girl Army, a fledgling non-profit with little track record.

I have to convince them to invest in and have hope for the next generation when they feel hopeless we will make it past this generation.

Given the air of general distrust throughout the nation right now, this is no small task.

Those who gave freely in the past now hold tighter to their money, grabbing on to the security it gives them in an unstable world. Those who once loved the idea of helping to build a new dream that changes the world for girls across the globe suddenly question our lack of track record. They approach our meeting with skepticism and unrest, making an already difficult conversation nearly insurmountable.

I understand where they are coming from. I feel the same challenges, the same trepidation for our collective future. It isn’t that I don’t understand why they feel the way they do, it’s that I don’t know how to go forward and succeed for MGA in the midst of it.

We are about to launch our annual “Matching Funds” campaign. Historically in MGA’s short life, I have secured around $40,000 from larger donors as matching funds. This year I have $23,000.

I feel like a failure.

If I don’t find another way, a better way to tell the story, we will fall way short of what MGA needs financially to function for another year.

But I don’t know how to be persuade people to be brave when they are bombarded every hour of every day with evidence of why they should remain fearful. I don’t know how to create a wave of positive hope for the next generation of girls when the media is so determined to point out all the reasons we should despair. I don’t know how to convince people to be generous and give money away when holding tight to it provides the only security they feel in an uncertain world.

So I toss and I turn and I worry. I don’t sleep.

I don’t have an answer. Even now as I write, I don’t know what to do. The dream of Million Girl Army hangs in the balance. All its potential, all its beauty, all its promise for the next generation of girls stalled and uncertain.

I find I don’t know how to be brave in this situation. I don’t even know what brave looks like. I’m at a loss. Wanting to bravely soldier on and unsure what that means.

I simply don’t have any answers. And uncharacteristically, writing about it hasn’t provided any. So I’m left nearing the end of this post with the same dark, discouraging, weighty thoughts I had when I sat down to write.

Maybe being brave this time is simply finding the courage to post this blog. To put this messy package out in the world when I don’t have a rose colored answer to use as a bow.

Maybe it will find its way to people who share my hope for a brighter and better world for the younger generation of girls.

And just maybe they will be moved to act.

-Sara

Support MGA

I’m nervous. So much of running a non-profit is outside my comfort zone. While in many ways it’s similar to running any other business, it has a key financial component that takes getting used to. A couple years in, I’m still not used to it.

Million Girl Army is a big dream. It has huge potential to change the world for the next generation of girls. The weight of that is both exciting and anxiety inducing in equal measure. I’ve blogged and vlogged often about feeling ill equipped to carry a dream this size. Primarily because while I find the vision inspiring, I don’t think of myself as inspiring. I’m not a great orator and running a non-profit successfully depends greatly on how well I can share the vision and inspire others to believe in my dream.

More than that, to actually function, I need to inspire people so much they will actually invest their hard earned money in my dream. At a time when there is little trust in non-profit leaders, I find this part of my job overwhelming on a daily basis.

Being humble enough and brave enough to ask others for money is incredibly hard.

So. Incredibly. Hard.

This is in the forefront of my mind as today I’m waiting for potential donors to arrive at my office to meet with me. I can barely sit still enough to type this. My heart is pounding wildly and my hands keep slipping off the keyboard they’re so sweaty.

This couple has traveled all the way from Seattle to hear more about MGA.

It’s a ten-hour drive one way.

Knowing that is creating extra anticipation. The weight of their time commitment and desire to be thorough has created mounting pressure. They are coming all this way to hear more about the ins and outs of MGA in order to have the information they need to make a decision about whether or not to support it financially. While I know MGA backwards and forwards, I still worry. I’m still not sleeping at night.

Will I say the right thing? Do I have the answers they are looking for? Can I inspire them on demand? What if I completely blow it? What if the success of MGA rests on my ability to have conversations like these and I learn I’m unsuccessful at it? What happens then?

The questions go around and around. Fighting back is true test of my mental capacity. How many times can I successfully talk myself off the ledge? It’s a game I play with myself.

It’s so much easier to believe the negative voice in my head that tells me I can’t do this, that I don’t have what it takes. That voice seems so real, so certain. To convince myself of the opposite takes incredible dedication to fighting back against that voice. And it’s so much harder. Exhausting in fact.

And now that they are moments away from arriving fear is closing in. My co-workers are distracted by my pacing back and forth. I can’t focus on anything they are saying to me. I’ve sat down to write because historically it has helped relieve pressure but I have no idea if anything I’m writing makes sense.

And yet I’m writing anyway. I’m having this meeting anyway. Because I’m on this journey to be brave not perfect.

I’m on a journey to face the fear that lurks behind each of these moments. In this case, a journey to do what I need to do to move Million Girl Army forward even when it feels far beyond my skill set.

So ready or not, here goes nothing.

They’re here.

-Sara

Two words: Audience. Participation.

If those words don’t cause a negative physical reaction when you read them, this post isn’t for you. If, however, you suffered an involuntary shudder when you read them or maybe threw up a little in your mouth, you will appreciate this post.

Last week I heard words I have come to dread, “Hey, do you want to go to the Brewery Follies?” I have nothing against the performers of the follies, they are arguably some of the most talented people I have ever seen perform. I simultaneously laugh and marvel at that show more than any other. Heck, I would go every year if it wasn’t for their penchant for including random members of the audience in their performance.

If you read my post last week about introversion, it should come as no surprise I would frown on audience participation. It’s everything my introverted self hates. Talking in front of strangers without preparation. Being the center of attention. And in the case of the follies, strangers looking at me while laughing. It’s the stuff of my nightmares.

I have been to the Brewery Follies many times in the last 17 years and have devised strategies to avoid being in their target. Sit in the back. Don’t make eye contact. Bring more outgoing people with me who thrive on such things. Use the bathroom at opportune times. Duck down behind the people in front of me. Fake a coughing fit and run from the room when they head my way. You know, those kinds of things.

It has always worked.

Until this week.

Sure enough, two songs from the end, just as I was beginning to breathe and relax thinking I had escaped once again, they did the unthinkable. They started down my row. In the back.

My mind started to race. My palms started to sweat. I began to hyperventilate. What was happening?!? They’d never come down the back rows. Ever. In all seventeen years. My internal dialogue kicked in.

Crap. Is he headed towards me?

 No. He stopped at that other woman.

 Shit. He’s moving down my row and his bit isn’t over yet.

 What did I just do?! Did I make eye contact? I’m doomed.

 Yep. He’s coming towards me and still talking.

 Do I make a break for it? Do I push my friend in front of him? Put my hood over my head? No, that would make it worse.

 Fuck. He’s here. He’s standing above me. People are turning and laughing. Don’t look up. Don’t. Look. Up.

 Crap. I looked up.

 He’s looking down at me. Am I supposed to respond? What did he just say anyway?

 For God’s sake, breathe. This is not the end of the world. You’re being brave remember. No one is judging you, they are just enjoying his performance. You should too. Suck it up. Be in the present. Enjoy the moment.

 Wait. Where’s he going? That’s it?

 Well that wasn’t so bad.

And that quickly it was over. The entire experience lasted less than ten seconds. I survived. I have dreaded being chosen for seventeen years, more often than not turning down invitations to go because of it. And here it wasn’t so bad. In fact, the fear I’ve had of it for this many years was way worse than the actual experience. What a bunch of wasted time worrying.

And isn’t that the thing about fear?

Often my feelings of fear leading up to a moment are worse than the actual experience I fear. It does make me wonder if I’m missing out. What if I just embraced the anxious feelings and faced my fears? What if I stopped letting fear push me around? What might I experience that I would otherwise miss out on? Where would my life lead me?

It’s really just a small shift in thought, a change in internal dialogue, to conquer fear. But could that small shift alter this journey from one I’m reluctantly on to free myself from things that bind me to one of expectation and anticipation? By deliberately turning to face fear, can I remove its power?

Can I transform from a victim of fear to a warrior against the power of fear?

Because I find I love that image.

A warrior against fear wouldn’t be pushed around by public speaking, groups of smart women, hard conversations, failure, risks, rejection, audience participation, or grasshoppers. (Yes, grasshoppers. Ironically the smallest item on the list is my largest fear.) Because she would always have a greater purpose: to defeat the fear that keeps me from achieving big things, trying new things, or experiencing the fullness of life while I’m alive to live it.

She would fight to free me so I can be the best version of me.

And as I think it, write it, read it, I realize she’s been in me all along. In this moment it’s as if I’ve finally turned and noticed her waiting in the wings ready to spring into action. In fact, I suspect it’s this little warrior me who prompted me to write this blog in the first place. Perhaps it’s her first act to remove the power of fear from my life.

Now that I know she’s there, now that I’m setting her free to battle fear, who knows what will happen? Maybe the next time you’re at the Brewery Follies you’ll see me eagerly awaiting the start of the show from the very front row.

-Sara

I’m an introvert.

Most people don’t believe me when I say it; they’ve only known me as a go-getter. A professional leader. Someone who can talk with any client, lead any meeting. A public speaker. The fact that people think I’m an extrovert speaks to just how well I’ve been conditioned to go against my nature.

The world celebrates extroverts. Somewhere along the way, having a bubbly personality, a group work spirit, endless energy and optimism, and the ability to be the life of the party became our society’s ideal. Those of us who are exhausted just by reading that list have felt ignored, or worse, reshaped to fit the world’s mold.

From the time I entered kindergarten, people have tried to mold me into something I’m not. My academic career was filled with cooperative school projects where in the name of learning to work together I was assigned to a task with a group of my peers.

I hated it.

I was paralyzed by the discomfort I felt working with other people. I couldn’t think well. The noise of the group crowded out the thoughts I was reaching for to complete the assignment. The only way I could function was to let the group talk amongst themselves while I quietly did the project for everyone. Instead of learning the power of collaboration, I learned I was different and awkward. I learned I was easy to take advantage of.

Throughout my formative years, magazines, tv shows, movies, all of pop culture celebrated extroverts and gave me tips on how to be well liked, to overcome my shyness, to be the center of attention. I was bombarded with messages that how I was naturally wired wasn’t right, but how if I worked hard, I could learn the skills I needed to be accepted.

So I did.

I learned to speak up with strangers, fill awkward pauses in conversation, make eye contact. I learned how to function in a room full of strangers. I learned to work cooperatively with others even if I get ten times as much done when I work alone in a quiet room. I learned to smile when I didn’t feel like it. I learned to drink alcohol so I would have energy to converse long into the night.

I learned to fake it. Really well.

It wasn’t until the last couple of years that the world started talking about introversion and what we are losing as a society by trying to mold introverts into something else (thank you Susan Cain for your book Quiet). Reading that my tendencies are not the effect of mis-wiring, but rather classic traits of introverts, was the first inkling I had that maybe there wasn’t something wrong with me, that instead I might actually have a valuable life perspective.

It was freeing.

Since then I have tried to embrace and honor my introverted tendencies. I celebrate that I seek stillness in a world of noise. I rejoice when I happen to catch a bird doing something fascinating knowing most of the world doesn’t even notice them. I give myself permission to retreat and recharge knowing time alone in a quiet place is the only way I regain energy. I dig in to heart issues with people, knowing meaningful conversation is the only kind that fills me up. I carve out time to write, knowing that my reflective nature is able to put words to things others struggle to describe.

But even still, it can be hard. The world doesn’t understand why I need certain things. And since I can’t always explain why, the feelings of those I love can get hurt easily.

It’s far easier to keep faking it, to keep everyone’s needs met and their happiness levels high.

But it doesn’t feel braver.

And I want to be brave.

Being brave means honoring my introverted nature even when it’s hard. Being brave means protecting those I love from who I become when my energy tank is zero by carving out time to recharge. Being brave is having the courage to be who I was made to be even if the world never understands me. Being brave is standing up for my younger bullied self by being now who she wanted to be then.

Being brave is giving myself permission to just. be. me.

So if you need to reach me, I’ll be home alone quietly writing in my journal while occasionally stopping to watch the birds out my window. And if you wouldn’t mind emailing me instead of calling, that would be appreciated.

A request my introverted friends will understand perfectly.

-Sara

Taking the first step

For years I have collected artwork from all over the world. Finding local artists with styles I love in each country I visit is one of my favorite parts of travel. As a result, my home is covered in paintings from the farthest corners of the world. Every day they remind me of my experiences traveling, the people I met, the lessons I learned while I was there. Together they build a strangely beautiful timeline of my life seasons.

Collecting beautiful artwork is much easier than creating it, yet I’ve had a secret desire to learn to paint for years. When I was a little girl, I loved to paint, to color, to draw. I spent much of my time expressing myself through these mediums for they suited my reflective and quiet nature.

That changed when I was in sixth grade.

I had signed up for art class. I was excited. I wanted to learn more, to become a better painter, to find new ways and techniques to express how I was feeling through art. I chose a seat in class in the back corner. I didn’t want to be in a place where others could watch what I was doing. I wanted to be a fly on the wall soaking up the lessons and quietly applying them to my own canvass. I was shy, quiet, and awkward; a reflective introvert in a world of extroverts. Under no circumstances did I want any attention on me. The back corner suited me perfectly.

Each day, the teacher would highlight a technique then turn on the radio while we worked, encouraging each of us to get lost in the artistic moment. I loved it. I got to learn, quietly apply the lesson, sinking into the quiet and the music as I painted my soul onto the blank canvass.

That year, the band Starship released a new song. A song titled Sara. I loved the song. I loved that they spelled Sara the same way I spelled my name. I loved that the melody was quietly passionate, like me. It quickly became a favorite, I loved everything about it.

Until it came on the radio during art class.

Suddenly what could have been a perfect moment merging two things I loved turned into my worst nightmare.

Looking back, I doubt my classmates meant any harm. But for a quiet kid who just wanted to go unnoticed, having their attention turned to me while I was painting something personal changed me. Suddenly everyone was singing along to the chorus, directing their song in my direction. Someone asked why I wasn’t singing along when the song was about me. They came a bit closer, singing at me and invading my personal space. My face turned red with embarrassment.

YouTube tells me the song is under five minutes long. It felt like an eternity. In that moment, something I loved, an expression of who I was, became woven together with pain and embarrassment. It became unsafe.

I never picked up a paintbrush again.

Until this weekend.

This weekend to celebrate my birthday, Kris’ family suggested we go to a local gallery and sip wine while we learn to paint. I hesitated.

Yet underneath the surface fear, so faint I could barely hear it, that little girl who once loved to paint whispered, “Please. Can we?”

So we did. My painting was far from perfect. But no one laughed or judged. And while there was music and singing, none of it was directed at me. There was no Starship on the playlist this time.

Instead, there was joy. There was laughter. There was the building of memories. There was peace. There was freedom. There was a remembrance of an activity once loved and plans made for future painting sessions.

Most importantly, there was redemption for the younger me in every brushstroke. She is finally getting her voice, her validation, and her freedom back.

That makes this painting extra beautiful.

The alarm went off at full volume and I cracked an eyelid open. It was dark outside the windows and cold outside the blankets. With a sigh of resignation I reluctantly pushed the covers back and dropped my feet to the floor. Beside me my dog didn’t even lift his head. It was too early even for him.

Today was the day.

Kris and I had decided to try something new. As with everything lately, my immediate response when he first suggested it was a resounding no followed by excuses to try and soften the force of my answer. “It’s too early. I’m not flexible enough. The last time I tried it I found it so boring. What if I pass out from the heat?”

He had proposed we try hot yoga. There was a new studio in town that was offering a fantastic Groupon deal and Kris had heard good things about it from his co-workers.

My excuses were met with a quiet eyebrow raise. That’s all it takes these days to remind me I’m trying to be brave, not perfect. It gives me an uncomfortable extra second to stop and notice that behind the excuses is my fear of not doing something well.  Fear of imperfection, my constant companion.

So we bought a 20 session pass. This was our first day. It was 5:00 in the morning.

That morning began my obsession and love for yoga. Much to my surprise, returning to yoga in my 40’s has been beautiful. My mind has become quieter and more reflective as I’ve aged. Learning techniques that build on that while challenging me physically stretches me in new ways. I have an appreciation for it I didn’t have when I was younger and focused on speeding through each day endlessly trying to prove myself until I collapsed in exhaustion. I find I crave it now, looking forward to each hour where I’m focused only on my breath and how my body feels, connecting with my physical self in a way I never have before.

I am not the best student. Far from it. I am certainly nowhere near perfect. But I am seeing progress. Slow but steady progress and that’s encouraging.

But it is hot. So hot.

Sumits Yoga is done in a room heated to 105 degrees. Half the challenge is staying upright and balanced on one leg as my area becomes slick with sweat. The other half is trying to focus so I can balance as sweat pours into my eyes blurring my vision. It took only ten minutes of the first class to understand why everyone in class was barely dressed.

I have been the exception.

While I made peace with my inflexibility early on since I was working hard to even bend into a forward fold as others did so with ease resting their foreheads on the floor, long held body insecurities have kept me fully covered and extra hot.

Like most women I struggle with body image. Even when I was a size 2 and in great shape I obsessed about the small amount of extra flab I simply couldn’t shed around my midsection. During my divorce I kissed size 2 goodbye and actually learned to love my body a bit more, embracing it for what it could do rather than beating it up for my perceived imperfections.

But that didn’t mean I was anxious to strip down to a sports bra in a room of strangers.

Recently though, my inability to do so when I am beyond overheating has annoyed me. The purpose of yoga is to focus on myself, my strength, my balance, my practice, my flexibility, my breath. Looking at or judging others goes against all the practice stands for. Given I was surrounded by yoga enthusiasts, what was I afraid of? In theory, there wasn’t a group of people less likely to notice or judge my jiggly areas.

So the other day I did it.

Halfway through the session, bathed in sweat and wishing for a touch of relief, I shed my shirt.

And nothing happened.

No one giggled or pointed. No one did a double take. No one even looked my way.

No one cared.

In fact, the only thing that happened was I felt freer, and braver, and one smidgeon of a bit cooler. While every smidgeon of coolness counts in hot yoga, that isn’t why I will continue to shed my shirt.

I will do so to fight back against the voice in my head that tells me my body isn’t perfect enough, pretty enough, or strong enough to be shown to the world.

I will do so because I’m learning the feeling that comes with being brave is far more powerful than that voice, and is best tool I have to silence it once and for all.

I have been inching my way to this point of my life for the last five years, after my carefully constructed life came crashing down around me.

Like many women my age, I bought into the idea that I could be it all, have it all. My entire life I had heard that message.

Not only that I could, but that I should.

As a progressive woman with equal rights, I should be able to choose any profession I want and become the best in my field. Simultaneously, I should marry Prince Charming and create a perfect, beautiful little family. I should be able to balance home and work life with ease, looking skinny and beautiful in the process.

In fact, with the 24 hours allotted to me each day I should be able to juggle 8-10 hours in the corporate world working my way to the top, keeping my cell phone with me at all times to make sure no client needs slipped through the cracks; create the perfect crumb-free and happy home for my family; attend to everyone’s needs on a moment’s notice throughout the day happily setting my own aside; make it to the gym 5-6 days a week to be sure I maintained a thin figure; financially support those I loved while preparing for my own future; squeeze in hair, skin, and nail care to ensure I always looked young no matter my age; and somehow make sure my spirit remained filled and centered.

And I did. I balanced it all, though it was a tenuous balance. I spent my days racing from one need to the next trying to keep up, maintain control, and feed the illusion I had it all.

I was a successful modern day woman.

Until that moment five years ago when things came crashing down, I found myself in the midst of death, a divorce, a major career change, and the terminal illness of a close family member. Suddenly despite all the time and energy I had spent crafting this “perfect” life, it was all stripped away with no warning. With the crystal clarity that accompanies tragedy, I realized my ability to balance and control things had really all been an illusion, and in focusing on that, I had contributed to the loss of all I treasured. It was both the hardest and the best thing that ever happened to me.

Losing everything I valued started me on a path of self-discovery. For the last five years, I have been slowly and painfully uncovering what beliefs actually come from me and which are the creation of people who influenced my life, or worse, the product of believing the lies the world told me. It has taken years to strip away the layers of thoughts, feelings, illusions, and emotions to get to the point where I can rebuild from scratch with a solid, authentic foundation. As the months go on, I have carefully added layers back, sorting through what things in my life need to stay, and which need to go.

The process has been painful. It’s been filled with grief and goodbyes, hard conversations, difficult truths, and course corrections.

By far the hardest part has been making wise choices and learning to let my heart love again post-divorce.

Everyone feels heartache at one point or another. I am not the exception. I am not the first or the last to experience betrayal and the loss of a dream for what I thought married life would be.

Knowing that, however, didn’t make it any less painful.

I was determined to come through my divorce a better version of myself rather than a bitter one. But that took additional healing time. It would have been so much easier to build a bitter wall around my heart, to keep it closed off, never letting anyone in. But life behind a wall while safe, was lonely.

Soon after returning from the beach two years ago when I made the decision to try to live life brave instead of perfect, I met someone. A friend of a friend. He asked me out.

My instinct was to say no. I didn’t fully know yet who I was. I was highly aware I was a broken, less than perfect, battered version of myself. I was uncertain of my self-worth, unsure where I was headed in life, scarred, and scared. And yet I had just made a pact with myself to live life braver. To say yes more often. To not let fear rule each day. This was my chance to give more than lip service to the idea.

So I said yes. And in that one brave moment, my life forever changed.

Our road hasn’t always been smooth. It took a long time for him to knock my wall down completely. The baggage we each carry from life experiences clashes at times. We both have a tendency to become masons, quickly reconstructing our protective walls when conflicts arise.

But we both have a commitment to living authentically.

We have both dug into the mistakes of our past and reconciled them, doing the hard work to get healthy so we can be better partners to one another. In Kris, I have found a partner who not only supports and encourages me to be brave not perfect, but is willing to walk the path with me as my partner in crime. Daily he shows me there is less to fear when we face things together. And he reminds me often that while I am trying to shed my perfectionism, I am already perfect for him.

I’m nervous. I’m an hour away from touching down on the east coast. The next six days stretch before me. I feel a mix of anxiety, hope, excitement, and fear as I write. I’m traveling to Washington DC for Million Girl Army, a non-profit organization I launched a year and a half ago. While starting a new business is always challenging, the size and scope of Million Girl Army frequently overwhelms me. Daily I run up against challenges that make me question whether or not I’m the right person to lead this movement.

Million Girl Army is an idea I have had for eight years. Because the idea is so grand, it took me the first six and a half years to get past my fear and even step out and try it. Its launch corresponded with the aftermath of the twirling incident I wrote about in the blog post The Catalyst. That moment when I put a stake in the ground and decided to be brave not perfect, I decided to take the first step to make MGA a reality. I have been baby stepping my way through the process ever since.

Million Girl Army’s mission is to transform middle school girls into globally compassionate teens who combine their resources to change the world. Essentially it is my dream to recruit one million middle school girls in the developed world and teach them what it would be like to be a girl their age in a developing country. Through monthly video curriculum we explore what they have in common with girls on the other side of the world, and what looks vastly different. We talk about the responsibility that comes with having more and we dive into how to remain fearless as they age so that they truly become the world changers of tomorrow. Simultaneously, their yearly dues go to partner organizations around the world helping young girls get out of harrowing situations. It truly is an organization built on reciprocal relationships, youth helping youth with the hope of creating a brighter tomorrow.

I love the vision of MGA. I love the optimism of the youth I get to work with on a daily basis. I love knowing this organization has the power to truly impact thousands of girls around the world, millions if we reach our goal.

But it is easy to get discouraged by the day-to-day challenges of running a start-up non-profit organization. It is hard to convince people to financially support us when we are an unknown entity. There are so many details to attend to and no money to hire experts to help. I have had to learn video editing, website designing, platform building, social media marketing. I’ve had to dust off my curriculum writing skills, study how to pitch people to receive their financial support, navigate board relations, wade into IRS rules and regulations, and so much more. While I’m learning a lot, my general inability in these areas discourages me regularly. The perfectionist in me wants to be the best at everything, so to spend many hours a week floundering my way through things often takes the wind out of my sails.

After a year and a half, Million Girl Army is finally ready for nationwide growth. We have built, tested, reworked, designed and redesigned all to reach this moment where the platform is ready and able to support the interaction of thousands of girls. We are ready to start a movement.

It’s a pivotal moment and I’m scared to death.

What if MGA doesn’t take off? What if I run out of money before MGA has a real chance to grow? What if the young girls of the world remain unchanged because I couldn’t bring the movement to fruition?

I live in fear every day. Fear of failure. Fear of coming all this way only to watch the dream die. Fear that the journey to this point will all be for nothing. It is a mental battle each day to keep pushing forward, to not give in to the fear.

This week I have a few incredible opportunities. Sean Litton, the president of International Justice Mission, has invited me to shadow him for a day at the IJM offices. It’s a chance to witness a large organization in motion, to ask him the questions that keep me up at night.

And I get to dig in with Melissa Trumbull, the Vice President of MGA’s board of directors, soaking in her knowledge of non-profit board relations. I get to meet her contacts and her middle school daughters’ friends and talk with them about Million Girl Army. I get to launch MGA on the east coast (fingers crossed). I get to meet with Kimberly Gonxhe, founder of Live Foundation and a supporter of MGA. She and I will have a chance to talk about our love for disadvantaged girls around the world and our dreams for how we can help them.

All of it is a huge blessing. These people have agreed to put their skills to work to help me, to help MGA. I am thankful.

At the same time, I feel tremendous anxiety. I’m stepping outside my comfort zone. I have always been intimidated by smart people, smart women in particular. I never feel I measure up. I get nervous, and shy, and even more introverted than I usually am. The awkwardness of my youth reappears, opening old wounds.

And yet I am on this plane now because of the journey I’m writing about on this blog. Because I am determined to bravely seize this opportunity. Because I won’t let fear keep me from helping the next generation of girls change the world. Because I can’t preach bravery and fearlessness to them and be bound by fear and perfectionism myself.

So I’m here. Less than an hour from touchdown. My heart is beating a bit too fast already. My seatmates probably wish I would quit fidgeting. And yet, I’m keenly aware that each fidget, each rapid heartbeat is a reminder that I’m outside the boundary of perfect and in the territory of bravery.

Just where I want to be.

To learn more about Million Girl Army visit: www.milliongirlarmy.org

I hate Halloween. I was never opposed to collecting candy from strangers, in fact that part of the holiday suited my sweet tooth quite well. I also wasn’t worried about the holiday’s connection with the darker things of the world. No, my anxiety about Halloween kicked in around October 1^st each year because of one thing – costumes.

As the annual school costume parade came closer and closer with each passing day, my anxiety increased. There is so much on the line with Halloween when you’re young, especially for introverted perfectionists. The introvert in me hated (heck, still hates) the attention costumes bring, the perfectionist feared I would pick the wrong costume, one that would send me forever to the outskirts of my peer group. I was shy and awkward throughout school but somehow managed to not be the most picked on member of the class and I wanted to keep it that way. The wrong costume could change everything.

On top of that, every year I fantasized I would pick the right beautiful and clever costume that would catapult me to popularity and acceptance. No small fete when you come from a solidly middle class family with no extra resources for store bought costumes. The pressure was high.

I am convinced I was born in the wrong decade. Today, homemade costumes are highly praised, bright spots in a sea of mass made Elsa costumes. In the 80’s? Not so much. Each year I would sit with my mom and think through costumes we could make with resources from home, dreaming all the while of the store bought costume aisles.

I became a witch. A clown. A Raggedy Ann nurse. Mary Poppins. A librarian. A gum-ball machine (picture a clear plastic bag filled with balloons that needed much explanation and was impossible to sit in). Charlie Brown.

To my mom’s credit, she came up with clever ideas and stretched limited resources to cover all three of us every year. But I never was a beautiful store bought princess or a popular character everyone knew from the most recent Disney movie. I spent my Halloweens explaining my costume again and again. Never quite receiving the affirmation I was looking for from the world. Always feeling like I didn’t quite measure up.

When I reached high school, I stopped participating. I came up with reasons every year for why I couldn’t dress up, why I couldn’t attend costume parties. If I did go, I always had an excuse ready for why I wasn’t in costume.

I did the same for 30 years, unaware of exactly what was making me hesitate when an occasion called for a costume. I just always had a strong visceral physical response and since I was an adult, I chose not to participate.

When I began this journey to be brave not perfect, an opportunity quickly presented itself for me to dress in costume, a funkalicious 70’s night to support a friend. My negative reaction caught my attention. I started digging deeper. I had never stopped to think why I hated Halloween and costumes. I’d never looked beneath the surface feelings to uncover the root cause. And when I did? There was my nemesis perfectionism waiting to greet me.

Every child wants to fit in. We are wired for acceptance. Our school years are filled with navigating the perils that come with fickle female friendships where you are in the clique one day and out the next for no apparent reason. Academic life is structured for comparison. I was a good student, perfect grades every year. But I was not perfectly accepted for just being who I was, and at times I was actively teased. Halloween seemed to highlight my awkwardness and lack of resources, pushing me farther from acceptance.

As my need to achieve society’s idea of perfection grew with each passing year, I began to avoid anything that made me feel awkward or on the outskirts. Costumes were the first to go.

So it seemed appropriate they be one of the first things tackled as I began this journey.

Recently, as 70’s funkalicious night loomed closer, the same anxiety crept in. Returning to the site again and again, I scoured Amazon for the perfect outfit until I realized I was approaching the experience with the same feelings and behaviors. Correcting that, I settled on one that was good enough, determined to embrace the costume and the experience flaws and all.

The night arrived, I donned my costume, and the world did not fall down around me. In fact, while the wig was itchy and I was technically more 60’s than 70’s, the night was great. We danced. We sang. We took silly pictures. And 30 minutes in, I took a few minutes to remember the little girl who stood behind her Charlie Brown mask hoping no one would look at her, the little girl who explained her costume shyly again and again to an underwhelming response, and I told her she was brave.

She was brave then and she is brave now. And in that, she is perfect.