For as long as I can remember, I’ve made decisions a little differently than most people around me.
I didn’t realize it at the time. I didn’t have a name for it. I just knew that once I made a decision, I usually didn’t look back.
The first time I recognized it was when I joined the military.
The longer I served, the more I realized this wasn’t just a decision I’d made once. It was a philosophy I kept returning to.
Make decisions you can live with.
I don’t think I make big decisions quickly.
I finish them quickly.
Most of the time, I’ve already spent weeks, months, or sometimes years noticing the same pattern repeating itself. I’ve journaled about it. I’ve vented. I’ve thought through it while driving, while walking, while trying to sleep. By the time I actually say the decision out loud, the work has already been done.
The announcement is quick.
The processing wasn’t.
For me, “live with” has never meant making the perfect decision.
It means two things.
Can I accept the consequences?
And years from now, can I still own this decision?
That’s the test.
I don’t spend much time imagining the best-case scenario. My brain automatically goes somewhere else.
What’s the worst thing that could happen?
If that happens, can I carry it?
Can I accept the consequences without spending years wishing I’d chosen differently?
If the answer is yes, I make the decision.
I don’t usually ask others for advice before making major decisions. That doesn’t mean I don’t do the work.
I research.
I write.
I make lists.
I think.
What I don’t do is hand someone else the responsibility of deciding my life.
At some point, the information has to stop, and the decision has to become mine.
If my decision works, great.
If it doesn’t, I still know it was mine.
Starting this journal was one of those decisions.
I knew people might recognize themselves in these stories. I knew some feelings would probably get hurt. I knew people might wonder why I was sharing things I’d kept to myself for years.
I also knew a perfect and polished blog was never going to happen.
Maybe that’s why none of my other attempts ever felt right.
This journal, this public exhale, was the only version that had a chance.
Saying no to family events was another.
Moving to Florida before my husband was ready was another.
None of those decisions came without consequences.
Some of those consequences were exactly what I expected.
Some weren’t.
But I could live with them because I had already accepted that they might come.
There has only been one major decision in my adult life that I still can’t live with.
I don’t know if I’ll ever say those words willingly but what I do know is that I ignored every signal my body was giving me and let other voices become louder than my own.
For the first and only time, I abandoned the process that had guided me for decades.
For a long time, I thought what I was wrestling with was the outcome.
I don’t think that’s true anymore.
I honestly don’t know if making a different decision would’ve changed anything.
Maybe it would’ve.
Maybe it wouldn’t have.
That isn’t what keeps coming back.
What keeps coming back is knowing the decision stopped being mine.
That’s the only decision I’ve ever made that felt like I abandoned myself.
Maybe that’s why I’ve become more vocal about this philosophy over the last few years.
Not because burnout created it.
Burnout just made me stop apologizing for it.
These days, if something no longer serves me, I make a change.
Not because I’m impulsive.
Not because I think my way is the right way.
Because I’ve learned I can survive consequences.
What I can’t live with is abandoning myself in the process.
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This Connects To…
→ I Want To Remember My Own Life