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- Herausgeber: John Wiley & Sons
- Kategorie: Ratgeber
- Sprache: Englisch
A powerful narrative self-help guide for women ready to prioritize themselves and create beautiful lives
The Selfish Year is not just a book—it's a radical invitation to finally prioritize yourself and design a life that feels deeply aligned, fulfilling, and free.
The Selfish Year chronicles one woman's journey through a year of putting herself first, offering women empowering strategies to redefine selfishness and create a beautiful life, rich relationships, and radical self-love. In an age of female empowerment and advocacy, this book offers tailored strategies specifically designed for women who are tired of being on the back burner, and are ready to redefine selfishness as self-respect, self-worth, and self-love.
This narrative self-help guide takes readers on a revelatory biographical journey through a year in author Valerie Jones' life. Through bold insights and transformational strategies, The Selfish Year empowers you to:
- Break free from codependency and toxic relationship patterns
- Release guilt around prioritizing yourself and set boundaries without apology
- Step into your personal power and create a life that reflects your desires, not just your obligations
- Cultivate unshakable confidence, self-trust, and emotional resilience
This book doesn't just tell a story—it gives you a roadmap for reclaiming your power. With practical exercises, mindset shifts, and real-life lessons, it will help you step into the most unapologetic, empowered version of yourself.
It's time to stop waiting for permission and start living life on your own terms. The Selfish Year is your guide to becoming the woman you were always meant to be.
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Seitenzahl: 314
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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Table of Contents
Cover
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
self•ish/′selfiSH/
Prologue
Introduction
Chapter 1: The Sofa of Truth
Selfish Strategies
Chapter 2: Rock Bottom
Selfish Strategies
Chapter 3: Running Back to Myself
Selfish Strategies
Chapter 4: Doorways
Selfish Strategies
Chapter 5: Wandering
Selfish Strategies
Chapter 6: The Cave
Selfish Strategies
Chapter 7: Haunted by the Past
Selfish Strategies
Chapter 8: No Risk, No Magic
Selfish Strategies
Fulfillment Is a Radical Act
Chapter 9: Bird Set Free
Selfish Strategies
Epilogue
Resources
Acknowledgments
About the Author
End User License Agreement
Guide
Cover
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
self•ish/′selfiSH/
Prologue
Introduction
Begin Reading
Epilogue
Resources
Acknowledgments
About the Author
End user License Agreement
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The Selfish Year
The Power of Putting Yourself First
Valerie Jones
Copyright © 2025 by Valerie Jones. All rights reserved.
Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey.
Published simultaneously in Canada.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per‐copy fee to the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc., 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, (978) 750‐8400, fax (978) 750‐4470, or on the web at www.copyright.com. Requests to the Publisher for permission should be addressed to the Permissions Department, John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ 07030, (201) 748‐6011, fax (201) 748‐6008, or online at http://www.wiley.com/go/permission.
The manufacturer’s authorized representative according to the EU General Product Safety Regulation is Wiley‐VCH GmbH, Boschstr. 12, 69469 Weinheim, Germany, e‐mail: [email protected].
Trademarks: Wiley and the Wiley logo are trademarks or registered trademarks of John Wiley & Sons, Inc. and/or its affiliates in the United States and other countries and may not be used without written permission. All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners. John Wiley & Sons, Inc. is not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book.
Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the publisher and author have used their best efforts in preparing this book, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. No warranty may be created or extended by sales representatives or written sales materials. The advice and strategies contained herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a professional where appropriate. Further, readers should be aware that websites listed in this work may have changed or disappeared between when this work was written and when it is read. Neither the publisher nor authors shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages.
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Library of Congress Cataloging‐in‐Publication Data:
ISBN 9781394342716 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781394342723 (ePub)
ISBN 9781394342730 (ePDF)
Cover Design: Wiley
Cover Images: © Yanka/stock.adobe.com, © cagkansayin/Getty Images
Author Photo: © Monika Sosnowska
For every woman who dares to dream for more.
self•ish/′selfiSH/
adjective
The radical act of honoring your truth, needs, and desires without guilt or apology.
Choosing self‐trust over people‐pleasing, even when it's uncomfortable.
A sacred rebellion against martyrdom, self‐abandonment, and invisibility.
The foundation for generous, joyful, sustainable giving – born from overflow, not obligation.
Example: She stopped explaining, pleasing, and shrinking. Some called it coming home.
Prologue
I have a story to tell you.
It's a story that goes as far back as the roots of my family tree. Women have been telling it for generations, and it might be yours, too.
The story goes like this.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl. Let's call her First Girl. She loved to play, skip, and sing. She knew she was special, and she loved staring in the mirror at those eyes looking back at her. She didn't even consider that there was anything wrong with her. She might be eight, or four, or even younger, but she was happy, free, and full of love and light. She knew what she wanted and asked for it with certainty that it was hers for the taking. She greeted those around her with a wide smile and shining eyes. She played with abandon and imagination. She loved with a big open heart, laughed with her belly, and lived with trust and openness.
Then something happened that changed her. It didn't happen in an instant, but rather a string of moments that, over time, transformed that happy, free little girl into someone very different. Let's call her Hurt Girl.
Hurt Girl didn't like looking in the mirror anymore. She became quiet and withdrawn. Instead of greeting everyone with a smile, she began hiding behind her mother's legs and looking down. Instead of asking for what she wanted and needed, she grew silent. She started looking at her body and finding things wrong with it. She began to escape into books, music, sports, or academics to find approval instead of simply because she loved it. She dressed for others instead of for herself. She began comparing herself to her friends and to other girls she saw at school or in magazines and online. She began to disconnect from the part of her that was love and began listening to a growing voice inside that told her to be afraid. The more she listened to that voice, the more she believed it when it told her she wasn't enough. She started believing that everyone else's happiness mattered more than her own.
Hurt Girl learned that abandoning herself was how to get love and approval, so she became really good at it. She shape‐shifted to be who others needed her to be: quiet, good, polite, modest, smart, pretty, athletic, funny, helpful. Fitting in felt safe, and Hurt Girl was all about staying safe. She learned how to play by the rules, keep out of trouble, and survive. First Girl didn't fit in this new world. Her loud laugh, silly ways, and loud opinions weren't welcome. It wasn't safe for First Girl anymore, so Hurt Girl stepped up. She knew what needed to be done. Eventually, it felt normal to play these roles, and First Girl, locked away and silenced, disappeared.
Now that little girl has grown up into a Woman, at least on the outside. On the inside, Hurt Girl still lives there and keeps making sure that the Woman does all the right things so she will be safe. First Girl is still locked away, shoved in a closet, with duct tape over her mouth. This agreement has been going on for decades now, and it's a slick operation. It's second nature. It's normal.
The only problem is, the Woman doesn't want to do it anymore. The Woman has become tired of playing the roles. She sees the problems it creates in her life, and she feels dead inside from constantly living in self‐protection. The Woman wonders what happened to her along the way; when did she lose herself? How did she get here? She feels stuck on autopilot, going through the motions of life with little joy or happiness. She lives in a state of burnout, overwhelm, and exhaustion, doing everything for everyone except herself. She feels resentful, bitter, and angry. She looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize herself.
The Woman longs to feel free, happy, and alive, but she can't remember how. She's tired of abandoning herself over and over, putting everyone else first, feeling afraid all the time and beating herself up for every little mistake. She's tired of feeling shame and guilt. She's tired of hating her body. She feels trapped in her life but has no idea how to escape. If she gets still and quiet, she can hear a tiny distant voice that sounds vaguely familiar, like a foghorn sounding in the distance, but she can't make it out. It's too far away.
So now it's a war between the Woman and Hurt Girl. The Woman wants to be free, but Hurt Girl keeps messing things up, playing the roles, keeping the peace, not rocking the boat.
Who's going to win?
Will the Woman find a way back to First Girl, unlearn all the fear and abandonment, and remember who she really is?
Or will Hurt Girl win, and the Woman stays afraid and disconnected, putting others first and living the rest of her life in sadness, hurt, and anger?
Every Woman has a Hurt Girl inside who did what was needed to survive. We all have our own version of this story, and yet we all have the same battle going on inside. As young girls, we are vulnerable to the messages we get from our parents, teachers, friends, school, religion, and society about what it means to be female. These messages tell us who we need to be in order to be loved and accepted. We take in these messages, and then we adapt to fit in. If the message is “Get good grades,” you become a great student. If it's “Good girls are seen and not heard,” you become quiet. If the message is “Take care of your brothers and sisters,” you become the responsible one.
If you had traumatic experiences when you were a child, then your Hurt Girl is even stronger and louder, keeping you safe in so many different ways. It might look like anger, fierce independence, disconnection from your emotions, defensiveness, combative communication, or you may be totally shut down.
It's time to go on a rescue mission to free First Girl from exile. We're going to go find her in the closet, remove the duct tape from her mouth, and bring her into the light. Then we're going to give her a seat at the table. She's going to get a voice again, and you're going to create a safe space for her to speak up. First Girl is going to remind you of your creativity and your playfulness. She'll show you how to have fun again, and how to be silly and excited about life. She is the road map home to yourself. Hurt Girl will be able to relax, put down the sword and shield, and relinquish control. Then, you, the Woman, will be in charge. You'll be able to connect to your power, stand in the awareness of your true identity, keep yourself safe, create healthy relationships, and live as the strong, independent, courageous person you were always meant to be.
Your story matters, and as you go through this book, I will help you use your story to find yourself again, uncover all the magic that got lost when Hurt Girl took over, and write a new story for yourself. Trust the journey; I've got you! Consider me your tour guide through the wilderness back to your True Self.
I'll be sharing about my relationship with Hurt Girl, and how I helped her feel safe enough to let me go back and rescue First Girl and bring her into the light. I'm going to tell you about how I stopped abandoning myself and started putting myself first and how that changed everything about my life in ways I could never have predicted.
I'm also going to share the lessons I've learned along the way and how you, too, can change your story, stop abandoning yourself, heal the scared little girl inside, and find yourself again. You'll see why being selfish is your inner GPS, your guidance system to life, and how putting yourself first will change everything and finally bring you the life you've been longing for. The life you deserve is waiting for you – a life full of happiness, peace, love, and excitement – and together we're going to make it happen.
Each chapter is divided into three sections:
The first section is where I tell the story of my Selfish Year (you may find parts of yourself in there too).
The second section, “Selfish Strategies,” is where you'll find action steps and guidance to take into your life right now.
In the third section, I tell the stories of some of my clients – remarkable, inspiring women who have done this work and experienced truly incredible transformations. There's so much power in knowing you're not alone, that other women have walked this road, and if they can do it, you can too. (Names and details have been changed for anonymity.)
If you feel like you're wandering alone in the desert, wondering how the hell you got here and unsure of the way out, this book is for you. If you look in the mirror and don't recognize the face looking back, you're in the right place. If you're ready to do the work to unlearn the lies that told you that you aren't enough, or you're too much, and you're ready to excavate the old shit you've been carrying around for so long and free yourself from the burden of living a life that you think you “should” be living and start designing the life you're meant to have, this book is for you.
Let's take the journey together, shall we?
Introduction
The shiny hope of a new year full of unknown potential is like a drug. It offers the opportunity to put the old year to bed, tucking in all the successes and failures, the decisions we made that worked out, and the ones that didn't. Every tick of the clock counting down to midnight moves us further away from regret and into possibility. Slate wiped clean, journal put away, photos moved to an album titled The Past. I love the dopamine hit of making vision boards and setting intentions, the opportunity to start fresh and hit the reset button.
It was New Year's Day 2020, and I sat in the back of a taxi on the way home, after a hasty departure the day before and a sleepless night at a hotel. If there was ever a year for a fresh start, this was it.
My husband, Leo, and I had been living in Valencia, Spain, for the past two years. We'd impulsively moved there after traveling around Spain and falling in love with the laid‐back vibe, friendly people, affordable lifestyle, and stunning architecture. One hot afternoon in Seville, we'd sat in a plaza drinking cold beer in the shade of a red awning and talked it through.
“We need to shake things up,” Leo said, as church bells chimed two o'clock. “If we just go back to our regular lives, we'll get complacent. Moving here will get us out of our comfort zones.”
“True,” I said. Our relationship was built on the mutual desire for growth, and that meant we were always looking for the next challenge, the next opportunity.
“Let's try it for a year,” he said. “We have some money saved up, and we can work online.” He turned to me, sweat beading on the bridge of his nose. “Look, if we don't like it, we can just move back to Canada.”
Why not? I thought. What's the worst that could happen?
My three children had recently moved out, and I felt ready for something new. We had just gotten married the year before, and I felt a wild thrill at this new life before me. The only decision left; where? Seville was known for its summer heat, and as much as we loved it, we wanted to live near the ocean. A quick Google search brought up Valencia. Beaches – check. Affordable – check. Beautiful – it's Spain, come on. Check. It didn't take long to find an apartment, sign a one‐year lease, get our visas in order, put all our stuff in storage, and begin a new adventure.
One year later, we had just moved into a new (to us) apartment in the historic center of the city, brought home a sweet boxer puppy, Lola, and finalized a two‐year extension of our visas. Outwardly our lives were a storybook romance: Two sad divorcés meet and fall head over heels in love. They elope in Rome on a late October afternoon and move to Spain. Mornings are spent working, afternoons slip away at a little café by the cathedral, or while riding bikes to the beach. They make love under the Spanish moon with the windows flung wide. And they lived happily ever after.
Behind those windows, however, a very different story unfolded, one that led me to that New Year's Day of 2020, heading home after spending the night alone.
New Year's Eve at a hotel alone is pretty depressing. Add in the fact that I'd run away from my life the night before after yet another argument, and you get the idea. Me, sad and angry, nursing a glass of Rioja at the bar, surrounded by families, couples, and friends laughing, wearing sunglasses in the shape of “2020” and popping champagne. A band played in one corner, the music getting louder the closer it got to midnight. I left before the countdown started, ordered room service, and sat on the hotel balcony, eating a steak and watching the fireworks at midnight, each boom vibrating in my body like a wake‐up call for how far my life was from what I'd imagined, and how close I was to falling apart.
I left early the next morning, checking out in the quiet lobby still decorated with balloons and streamers. I flopped into the taxi and willed the driver to slow down so I could enjoy my last moments alone before facing the reality of a life I'd fully participated in creating and now longed to escape.
Orange trees, heavy with fruit, lined the streets; men in suits weaved through traffic on motorized scooters; old women chatted on sidewalks, arms full of purchases from the market. My stomach twisted with anxiety; I wasn't sure what I'd be going back to. This wasn't the first time I'd sat in taxis, or Ubers, or on planes, running away from my life. Tension would build between us, fights would break out, and silences would drag on until I couldn't be there anymore. I'd retreat for a few days, nursing my bruised heart, trying to make sense of how we'd gotten into this mess so quickly. Then I'd return, sheepishly hoping that the break would give us a reset, or at least that my departure would shock us both into jumpstarting our relationship so we could get back what we'd had in the beginning: love, trust, and respect.
However, I realized that although a few days away might help me think more clearly and have space away from conflict, it did nothing to resolve the deep, foundational issues in our marriage. It was a Band‐Aid approach, and I knew I was just biding time, avoiding the tough conversations we needed to have that neither of us wanted.
One thing that became evident during my stay at the hotel was how isolated I had become. I had only made a few friends since moving to Spain two years earlier. Even though I'd been taking Spanish lessons, I was nowhere near fluent enough to connect with the locals, most of whom did not speak English. The people we'd met were great, but considering the tense state of our relationship, spending time with other happy couples wasn't my idea of a fun evening.
I was also in the empty nest phase of parenting, and it was rough. My youngest son had moved out at 18, far younger than I'd imagined. I felt a lot of guilt about it; at the time, I'd been caught up in my new relationship and excited to travel and elope in Italy. My son had volunteered to move in with his sister at her apartment across town, and I'd thought this was a brilliant plan for everyone, but now, looking back, I wasn't so sure. The kids supported my decisions, albeit sad that they wouldn't see me get married, and encouraged me to spread my wings.
They'd come to see us off at the airport with our huge suitcases, mine filled with the gorgeous wedding dress I had spontaneously bought just a couple of weeks prior, and when I broke down in tears, they gathered around me and reassured me that they would be just fine.
As I walked to the security gate and looked back at the three people I'd carried in my body, birthed, raised, and given everything to, I felt a piece of my heart break. I didn't know when I would see them again. Watching them standing there, arms around each other, I hoped they would be okay.
What I didn't anticipate was that I would be the one who wasn't okay.
Walking into our apartment in the late morning sunlight on the first day of 2020 – what I hoped would be a great year (it had to be better than the dumpster fire that was 2019), I dropped my bag on the floor and kicked off my shoes. Leo and Lola were out, most likely on one of their many walks in the neighborhood, looking for the perfect place to do her business. Lola had a favorite spot that we'd dubbed Shit Alley and we spent many an early morning and late night there, willing her to relieve herself so we could go back to bed.
I sank into the sofa, relishing the stillness. It was rare to get the apartment to myself because Leo seldom went out these days and spent most of his time on his phone or staring at the walls.
We had been trying to build a life coaching business together, and most recently our focus had been on coaching couples. The irony of this was evident given the state of our marriage, and I didn't feel right helping others create a healthy relationship when ours was anything but. Neither of us was busy with clients. I didn't have the energy or focus to work on a business, and the more we tried to work together, the wider the disconnection grew between us. I felt trapped inside our home, which made me feel guilty because I was well aware of the privilege that allowed me to have these feelings. But I couldn't shake it, and what made it worse was that he loved being together all the time and couldn't understand why I didn't.
Missing the kids became more than just a longing but a full‐blown heartache. Every day, I walked around with a knot in my stomach. I'd been trying to arrange video calls once a week, but the Wi‐Fi hadn't been connected since we'd moved in two months ago. We were waiting for some magical wiring to be done in the building and until then we had minimal data. I resorted to going to the lounge at the hotel across the street and using their Wi‐Fi for my client calls and to talk with the kids. With the time difference, my evening was their morning, and they were usually busy.
I'd always made my primary relationship the center of my life, looking to my partner for all of my needs. Leo was my best friend, so why did I need any others? However, it became evident just how much that factored in when I didn't feel safe going to him with how I felt. I wasn't close with family, or at least close enough to open up about what was happening. So I kept living in isolation, trying to survive on my little island of one.
The problem with isolation is that you're left with your own thoughts, and they are not to be trusted. I felt so confused and overwhelmed that I didn't know which way was up. I'd normalized what was going on between us and minimized the impact. I'd gotten really good at putting on a smile and shifting the focus to everyone else.
My frantic need for time to myself prompted me to rent an office in a coworking space in the city's center. I rationalized it by seeing it as a way to focus on my own business, which I had a secret longing to grow. I fantasized about having a coaching practice of my own, where I could call the shots, make all the decisions, and unleash my creativity. I also needed the Wi‐Fi for client calls because the noisy hotel was not a great option.
Every day I packed my laptop and headed to the office in the late morning. As soon as I turned the corner from our building, I would light a cigarette. I had smoked a little at the end of my first marriage as an act of rebellion, freedom, and – let's face it – stress relief. Now I found myself back in that familiar place, and the cigarettes returned. The act of lighting up, inhaling the smoke, and walking the streets felt liberating. I also felt guilty but ignored that as best I could. It was my one secret pleasure, and I enjoyed the hell out of it. Then I would sit in the tiny windowless office, do my client calls, halfheartedly work on some social media content, and then walk home, chewing gum and spraying myself with perfume in hopes that he wouldn't notice the stale scent of smoke on my clothes.
Two things happened in the next week that would shake me out of my confusion and isolation. The first was a yearly catch‐up call with a small group of girlfriends. We had met and bonded when we attended a leadership retreat through the same company where I'd gotten my coaching certification. It was held at a beautiful ranch in Sonoma, and we'd all met for a week at a time, four times over a year. The act of gathering together for intense personal work and growth over that year had forged strong friendships. The five of us were scattered across the globe, but if nothing else we got on a Zoom call at the beginning of each year to check in and catch up.
One thing we always did on our call was to share our word for the year. This idea started in the backyard of the home I'd raised the kids in (the house where my first marriage had exploded – more on that later). I'd gotten the house in the divorce, and now I was getting married again. These dear friends traveled to be with me for my bachelorette party, just a few months before Leo and I were due to leave on our trip to Italy to get married.
We'd toured wineries, ate in great restaurants, and sat for hours catching up. The last morning, we gathered in my backyard, basking in the warm sun, sipping coffee, and chatting.
“Imagine where we'll all be in a year,” Elizabeth said, her long brown hair shining in the sunlight. “What will we be doing?”
Each of us shared what we imagined for ourselves in the next year. We shared visions, hopes, and intentions, and one word that represented it all. My word for that year was Abundance. Other words floated in the warm summer air: Gratitude. Peace. Creativity. Reverence. I sat in my pajamas, listening to these brave, beautiful women share their hearts, and felt the warmth and safety of this small circle of people I was lucky to call friends.
We agreed to meet in a year and see if our intentions had come true. And when we gathered on a Zoom call a year later, we were surprised and delighted to discover that many, if not most, of our declarations had happened. Not in the way any of us could have imagined, and we delighted and celebrated the wonder of what we had each created in our lives. We declared ourselves the Witchy Women, and agreed to continue the ritual and meet again at the beginning of the next year and every year afterward.
That week of January 2020, we'd arranged a Zoom call to connect and share our word for the year. I'd thought about it for weeks leading up to the call. The future seemed foggy and unknown, and although I tried to muster up some kind of word that felt exciting and real, it was like searching in the dark for a doorway.
What word reflected the future I saw for myself? Happy? Grateful? Free? Every word mocked me and sent me spinning into deeper despair. None of my friends knew about my situation, but they knew me well enough to know when I wasn't being authentic. I couldn't show up and fake it with them.
That morning as I waited to get on the call, one word kept resonating in my mind. I tried to avoid it, because the word didn't make sense, nor did it even seem appropriate as a word to focus on for the year. But as much as I tried to land on something that felt better, more positive, or acceptable, I couldn't shake it.
Selfish.
I kept hearing it inside my head. It began getting louder and more resonant.
I tried to talk myself out of it.
This must be wrong. Who wants to be selfish?
Even thinking it brought up guilt and shame. I'd been raised to be selfless. The church my mother took me to every Sunday had taught me that being selfless was an honorable thing. The good girl I'd been raised to be had taken pride in her ability to put everyone else first. It was the noble pursuit, the honorable choice. Selfish was a dirty word, something that we called people who were vain, narcissistic, arrogant, and only interested in themselves. Why would I ever aspire to that?
Selfish was reserved for women who discarded others, only spoke about themselves, and didn't care who they hurt in their pursuit of attention. Hurt Girl knew, to the core of her being, that you never acted like that. She knew that in order to survive, you made damn sure everyone else was happy, and that the very idea of putting herself first was a great way to be rejected, ridiculed, and abandoned.
And yet I couldn't let it go. Something inside me kept repeating it, like a heartbeat.
Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.
I began to get curious. What if this is my word for the year? What if everything I did, every choice I made, I did because it felt right for me, and for no other reason? What if I put myself first, listened to my intuition, trusted it, and acted on it, for an entire year?
Something inside of me stirred. I felt a deep resonating thrum and a shiver of excitement radiated through my body. I didn't know what it meant, but I felt like I needed to trust it. It scared the shit out of me, which told me there was probably something here, and I felt more connected to myself in that moment than I had in a very long time.
Dialing into the Zoom call, I felt my heart pounding in my chest. Was I really going to declare this? What would my friends think? Shouldn't I pick a better‐sounding word? A more spiritual one?
With shaking hands and shallow breath, I looked my friends in their faces on the screen of my laptop, and said the words.
“My word for 2020 is Selfish. For one whole year, I will only make choices that are right for me, that feel good for me, that my intuition guides me to. I don't know what that will look like, or how I will do it, but that's my word.” I paused, feeling like an idiot for saying it out loud, wishing I could take it all back.
“I love it,” Elizabeth said.
“Me too,” Zee chimed in. “Can't wait to watch what happens!”
“Sounds pretty powerful,” Tyi said. “Keep us posted!”
I looked at their faces on the screen, each one smiling back at me, and I felt the collective energy filling me up. Their support, their unconditional love, radiated into my heart, giving me a tiny bit of courage and hope that I might be onto something. I hung up the call feeling like something had changed. I didn't know what, but I felt a shift inside, like I'd moved some things around and made a bit of room for something different, like those puzzles where you have to slide pieces around to make room for the right piece to fit in the right spot. It felt like I'd moved something aside, and something had opened up.
Little did I know, this one word would change everything.
The second thing that happened that week was a conversation with my best friend, Samantha. I'd been holding back from sharing with her about what had been going on because I didn't want to burden her with my problems, and did my best to keep things light and happy on our calls. This had created distance between us because the effort it took to pretend everything was okay was enormous, and I wasn't being fully myself with her. Our relationship was more surface than I wanted it to be.
I called her that week and opened up. I told her what I'd been going through, and let my emotions surface. As uncomfortable as it felt to let her see my pain, I briefly caught her up to my situation. I could see her face change as I got honest with her. As much as I didn't want to “complain,” I had nobody else to talk to.
“Val, I'm worried about you,” Sam said, her forehead crinkled as she peered into her phone. Even from all the way back in Canada, I could tell she was taking this seriously. “I think you should get out of there for a bit. Why don't you come back to Canada for a while? Hang out with your kids? Some space might do you good.”
“I don't know, Sam. We just got Lola, and she's a lot of work, and I haven't even unpacked from moving into the apartment.… I don't know if now is a good time.” I could hear myself making excuses.
Hadn't I just declared this my Selfish Year?
Sam frowned. “Please just think about it, okay?”
I promised I would. Sitting in my office after the call, I checked in with the place inside me where the word Selfish had come from. If I really meant what I'd said to my friends, and I was going to make every decision for the entire year based on what felt right for me, it had to start now.
I peeked deep inside and asked, Do I stay, or do I go?
The answer came immediately.
Go.
