One of the most common criticisms I receive is that somehow I must lead this perfectly charming, easy little life without worry and that if, in fact, I had ever suffered even the slightest, I would be more patient and understanding to those who like to live in a pitiful, complaining and negative world full-time. I would write less “good” stories because in the real world where there’s real problems, it’s not so easy to be kind.

Some people still haven’t realised that pain for everyone is inevitable; suffering, however, is always optional. It’s not a hard concept, in fact, I know an eleven year old girl who understands.

As a lunch buddy last year, I would once a week go to a local middle school and spend a lunch hour with an awkward 11 year old girl. She was Mexican, spoke with an accent and came from a poor family who didn’t have extra money for the latest, coolest gear or hair cuts at a salon. She was a sweet, bright, caring girl but kids wouldn’t see that when they looked at her; they’d just see a target.

On one visit she came running to me, crying. I put my arms around her and held her until the sobbing subsided. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me I couldn’t understand. When I asked her why not and she told me, “Because you’re pretty and everything is easy for you. You don’t know what’s it’s like to be made fun of.”

I just let her cry it all out for the rest of the hour.

However, the next week I brought her a photograph. When I showed it to her, she laughed at it; she made fun of the girl with the short, choppy boy hairdo, the fang teeth, and the funky clothes.

“That was me when I was exactly your age,” I told her. She looked at me in disbelief.

“When I was your age, I had just had my second surgery which caused my hair to break off and fall out. People called me ugly boy all the time. I was born with extra teeth which stood out like fangs in my mouth which was a horrible thing especially since I liked to laugh and smile so much. I limped because I was learning how to walk again and couldn’t play sports for awhile like all the cool kids in my class. And my clothes? Well, my idea of style was much different from my peers and they let me know it every single day.

But you know what? Thats just what happens sometimes. Sometimes you’re going to be awkward. Sometimes people are going to be mean and hurtful, sometimes on purpose, sometimes not. Sometimes you’re going to be uncool and not fit in, even if you try. Sometimes you’re going to feel like things will never get better and never be different. But here is the thing that is so important to remember: those times aren’t forever – they’re just moments.

Hard moments, sad moments, painful moments, but moments just the same. And you know, moments don’t last forever. In fact, you get to chose which moments are going to mean something, which moments are going to define you. That’s the beautiful thing about being smart like you are. You can remember all the good moments you have and let those be what matter. The bad ones will shape you certainly, but they don’t have to define you. Ever.”

A couple of weeks later, we walked down the hallway to the lunchroom and a snippy little girl made one of the usual comments to her. She looked at the little girl but didn’t cry, instead she continued to walk with me to lunch. We sat outside, ate our lunch as we talked about all the places we’d go when we grew up and the rides that scared us the most at Disneyland. When I walked her back to her classroom she said to me, “Those moments when we were laughing? That’s what I’m going to remember about today.”

I knew right then, that this girl was going to be just fine.

The clouds were so low and thick today that on my walk along the lake I could barely see it. I knew a tour boat was out on the water because I heard its horn blow. I wondered if the tourists onboard were sitting cosy with a hot chocolate in their hand, and talking to one another about the travels they were on or if they were complaining because they couldn’t see the lake due to the heavy rain setting in. And, I wondered, if it were the latter, if they realised that there is more than one way to experience something – it just depends on your attitude.

I was taught this lesson in my early twenties when, working for a tour company in the Canadian Rockies, a woman called to book a sightseeing tour. I explained in great detail the different day trips available to her and together we picked one out for her to take. She then asked me a question that took me off guard, “Do you offer discounts to the blind?”

At first, I questioned if this woman was serious. A blind person on a sightseeing tour? Who ever heard of such a thing? Who had ever heard of a discount on top? Also I couldn’t comprehend the purpose of taking a sightseeing tour if you couldn’t see, especially in the Canadian Rockies where the sight of the bright green lakes or the ragged peaks of the mountains were something that needed to be seen to be experienced. How bored, I thought, this woman would be, sitting on a 3 hour bus tour without being able to see anything.

So I said to her, “We don’t offer discounts, but I should like to ask why you would want to take a sightseeing tour if you can’t see.”

With a smile in her voice she said, “My dear, there are so many other fabulous ways to see the world. Attitude, darling, attitude!”

She went on to tell me that she had heard our drivers told the best stories and described every detail. This was true. I was once on an eight hour tour where the driver, so passionate about geology, described every nook and cranny in every mountain for the duration of the trip. Near the end when my eyes had failed me from being tired, I closed them and still saw the mountains as he described them over the speaker.

She told me other reasons why she wanted to go on the trip (she liked the hum of people talking on a bus, she liked being out in the cold with the wind hitting her and then retreating inside to the bus or a cafe to warm up and be so thankful, and she liked to hear the rumble of the glaciers falling apart into the lakes) and why, even though she couldn’t see it, she could experience it.

This reminded me of the Mary Engelbreit quote which said, “If you don’t like something change it; if you can’t change it, change the way you think about it.” She can’t change being blind, but she could change the way she thought about seeing.

There are moments for sure when wallowing, complaining or being pitiful is just downright a perfect thing to do. I am prone to fits of flailing limbs but these moments are generally short lived. It’s not being Pollyanna about everything, it’s just choosing to accept what you can do, instead of what you can’t. Like seeing when you’re blind.

When I was twelve, which was 1986, punk was the rage as was those jelly bracelets, jelly shoes, hell, jelly anything. Big hair, bright blush, suits for women, if you had those, you were hip.

I was not hip.

It was at this age that I went into a rummage shop with my mum and discovered the dress of all dresses. (I should mention that at this time I had a huge obsession with Little House on the Prairie and the stylings of Mary and Laura. I thought those girl’s rocked.) This dress was something you would find on the prairie and, unless it was 1895, you’d most likely want to leave it there.

I, however, wanted it more than anything.

Trying it on it was a perfect fit. I can’t tell you how beautiful I felt in this dress that was mostly a smock type thing that went down just past my knees in a straight, flowy fashion. I rushed over to my mum, begging her to buy it for me.

A fashionable Danish woman, she looked at me with rolled eyes. She knew I was a strange dresser but this beat all. This could cause problems.

“If you wear this,” she told me, “People will make fun of you.”

“I don’t care,” I replied.

“I need you to understand that if you wear it, you’re going to get comments, and laughs and teased. And I don’t want you running home crying if that happens. People are going to see this dress on you a lot differently than you see it on you. Do you understand?”

I did and wore the dress home.

Wearing it out, I did get teased – a lot. Not just from children but from teachers, adults and anyone who knew a good prairie joke, which surprisingly there are a lot of.

When I tell you that none of those comments bothered me one bit, I am telling you the truth. Even as an awkward, strange twelve year old, being made fun of for being different had no effect. In fact, most of the time I never even noticed the teasing because I felt beautiful with that dress on and nothing else mattered.

What should it matter, I used to think, what others thought? Who are they to say I can’t feel beautiful or be happy or change my name to Laura? Who says they are it and get to define who I am. It wasn’t that I thought I was better or more beautiful than they were, on the contrary, it’s just that I was OK with liking what I liked. I knew I was here to live my life and not the imagined one of others. Wearing that strange dress gave me joy more than conforming ever did.

Looking back at a photograph I see how much I stood out amongst my peers and really, how sad I looked in that shabby little thing. But it didn’t matter; all that mattered was that I liked it.

I share this because people are so afraid of what other people will think all the time. What people will think of their careers, their partners, their home, their dresses that there is very little enjoyment to any of these things. Worry of others overtakes us and robes us of the pleasure that we are so entitled to. Even if it’s in a pitiful little dress.

Many years ago during a tramp in New Zealand, I learned the importance of hearing.

High in the mountains it was quiet except for one lone bird who called out loudly and continuously. Its call was the most tragic, saddest sound I had heard. I asked my friend why it kept making the noise that it did and my friend told me that it was waiting to be heard.

After a few minutes, another bird replied with one long loud sound which silenced the tragic sounding bird; it had been heard and didn’t need to call out anymore.

This past weekend, I was visiting with my four year old niece who is always terribly excited when I come around. We don’t see each other often and always have much to catch up on. For this reason, she repeats Auntie over and over again, vying for my attention.

When I saw her and she started with her Auntie, Auntie and desperately trying to get everything out to me while she could, I slowly kneeled down beside her, put her little hands in mine, looked at her and calmly said, “I hear you. I will hear you until you have told me everything you need to say.”

With that, you could literally see her little body relax. There wasn’t the worry that I would only pay half attention or walk away. She could relax and slowly tell me everything that was important to her whether it be how we could cut and paste a card together or what she learned in school.

There are so many things as people that we have to pay attention to and with the internet and television we are used to scanning, flipping, and catching only bits. The art of listening, of hearing the other person fully, is slipping away. We tend to assume we already know what they’ll say, the answer to the question or that it’s not as important as what might come next. Hearing doesn’t seem to be important anymore.

I very seldom offer advice (how can I presume to know what is best for someone else and their situation?) but what I always offer is to hear a person. Sometimes people don’t want a solution, they just want to be heard. Sometimes people don’t want things; they just want to be heard. Sometimes people don’t want to be patronised, they just want to be heard.

Often I wonder if we really stopped to be fully in the moment of someone telling us their woes, their fears, or their excitements, how much that would really change things. Perhaps that sounds too easy but often the answers to the most complicated questions are the simplest words. Words such as, I hear you.

Today on set we were joined by a seven year old girl (who, incidentally, they asked me to stand in for which was amusing to me since i’m pretty sure i’m not turning anywhere near seven when my birthday hits next week) who had wide eyes and questioned everything with them. Although she hit her marks and smiled on queue, in between takes she asked about everything around to anyone who would listen.

Instead of hushing her, the crew indulged her; answering her questions, letting her look through cameras and explaining the process. I thought how lucky she was not because of the attention she received but because of the information. As an adult, if I did what she did, I would be seen as an annoyance and a bad-worker.

I wonder when we cross the line from rewarding curiosity to punishing it and I wonder how I can cross back.

I was just past eleven and it had been over a year since my first surgery. Not only was I able to walk again, I was also able to finally ice-skate.

The temperatures had become cold enough to freeze a small pond nearby and my mum had agreed to take me there. I was excited not only because it would be my first time ice-skating outside, but also because I would be able to show off my skills to my mother. However, when we arrived, I headed straight outside to the pond but my mother did not. She remained in the car, reading.

At first I didn’t think much of her actions as I was sure she would come out later to watch my routine. She didn’t. Even though I skated haphazardly over the ripples on the pond and lost my footing more than once, I thought I was a better skater than any Olympic champion. I was disappointed that my mum never looked up to watch a dance I was sure that I would one day be famous for.

Ten years had passed and the memory of my mum sitting in the car, engrossed in her magazine and never once watching me, still stung – until I realised something.

My mother hated to drive – especially in ice and snow. My mother hated the cold – sitting in the car without heat made her freeze. My mother also didn’t like to read very much due to her lack of English reading skills, yet for over an hour she sat in the cold car, reading to keep busy, and never once complained.

Seeing a different side of that day changed the way I now tell that story. Instead of feeling like some neglected girl whose cruel mother never looked at her, I now feel so special that my mum did something that was uncomfortable for her, so that I would have the memory of skating outside.

Imagine how many other past life events could be changed if only we thought about them from a view outside ourselves.

It’s only been one week since everything started. One week. It feels like an eternity. I have flipped my world upside-down. I have given up security, sanity and life as I know it. And right now, I’m not too sure what to make of it all.

The weekend of the 7/8th Chris & I had taken a train trip to Vancouver and stayed overnight for a little get away. That’s when I had come to the decision to quit my job and become a writer. I had given my notice on Monday to my boss, the President, and he told me to keep it quiet. He said to me, “I’m not sure what to tell people is the reason why you’re leaving.” I said, “You can tell them it’s because I’m going to write.” He said, “No, that doesn’t make sense.”

All week long I wanted to take my resignation back. I thought, what the hell am I doing? I make a lot of money. I can buy anything, go anywhere, do anything. I contribute to my savings. I have a place to go to everyday, I know what I’m doing. I’m really good at my job. I actually like a lot of people there. Why am I walking away from all this when I have no idea what I’m walking to?

I asked myself all that over and over because I was filled with such self doubt – it was almost unbearable. Any euphoria I had felt over releasing that I need to live my passion was short lived. All I could think of was that I was making the biggest mistake of my life.

So I decided on Friday the 13th to take a trip up to Vancouver by myself to go and stay with my friend, just so I could be alone and clear my head and get centred. She’s 57, very creative, extremely interesting and completely compassionate. She listened to me talk about my uncertainty and over a mocha and popcorn she said, “You must give it a try. If one does not succeed, that does not mean failure. No… look at all the wonderful singers and artists that are out there, some made it big others did not and that does not mean that they failed. They lived truly, and that is never failure. Being an unhappy executive is, no matter how much money you make. I applaud you for wanting to write. One has to be happy in what one does. I really believe that, more so now, that I am more grown up. There is so much to do and see and WRITE. Go for it, if you do not, you will grow old and say I should have.” I hugged her and told her Thank you, that’s what I needed.

Then today, word got out to the Senior Managers that I had resigned last week. The President had told them to keep it quiet for now, despite the fact that this Friday is my last day. My boss felt if word got out that I was leaving, moral would get even lower and confidence in the company would vanish. When he said that, it reminded me of how good I am at my current job, and how central I am to the company. I thought about my employees that I supervise and manage and how they think I’m the best boss ever. I thought about all the people I support and projects and tradeshows I do and manage. And now I have to tell people, “Sorry, you’re on your own.” I started to feel guilty.

When the Senior Managers would approach me today they’d ask me why I was leaving. “Are you getting more money somewhere else?” was always the first thing. “No,” I’d say, “I’m going to write.” “Write what?” “I’m not sure right now.” “What? You mean you don’t have a job to go to?”

It was so strange getting their reactions. Actually most of them were really supportive and said “good for you” and I got the sense that they wish they could go chase their dream. But still, it was awkward. There is a lot of people I haven’t told yet because I haven’t been allowed to, and I know their reactions will be negative. Some people have a hard time dealing with others success, ambition, or happiness. Jealousy can be a real bitch.

So, for the past week I’ve just been dealing with finishing up work, reactions (both mine and others) and just basically trying to get through each day. It’s hard. Living your dream is really hard work, which is why, I suspect, most people do not ever live theirs.

I’m not, however, most people. I’m going to chase mine, hard. Even if nothing big ever comes of it, I have to try. I have to know. I’ve asked myself all the what if questions this past week like “What if I don’t make money,” “what if I get lazy” “what if I end up like (some girl whose name I’ll blank out for her privacy) who has talent but sits on her ass all day afraid of the world” “what if I really don’t have talent” but I figured the only what if question that really mattered was “what if I don’t try this.”

What if.