At some point during every major project I take on, I have a nervous breakdown. It comes shortly after I’ve committed, laid my reputation on the line, and pulled on my hip-waders.
Take pregnancy, for example. Around the seven month mark is probably a little too late to panic about what kind of Mommy Dearest you may turn out to be, amiright?
Last Spring as I prepped for my Ignite Seattle talk, I spent a few dark hours yelling at my husband about what an idiot I was for getting myself into this mess. NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR ABOUT MY STUPID BORING LIFE, I yelled in desperation.
I was a ratty looking squirrel trapped in the bottom of a well, clawing away at the dirt walls of insecurity.
Bryan managed to talk me down off the ledge within a couple hours, bumps and bruises notwithstanding, and I went on to give a killer presentation.
Well wouldn’t you know it, but my first client as a freelance whatever-I-am purchased the fully loaded Cadillac option from my list of services, launching me headlong into the deep end of the
pool ocean galaxy.
Around 10:15 tonight, after forty-five minutes of research fueled by the absolute certainty I have no fucking idea what I’m doing, I started yelling.
I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M EVEN LOOKING FOR! Is one example of what I started yelling. There were many other things yelled, but as is the case with most panic moments, not much is remembered. I do know that Bryan yelled back at me, and we spent a few moments trying to out-panic each other (he has his own deadlines), but in the end he sent me a magic link that made everything better.
And now I am fine. I will likely go on to produce the best work I’ve ever done in my whole life for this client, but for some reason I must pass through this creative rite of passage.
Poor Bryan. Poor, poor, Bryan. You can pray for him – he married a crazy lady.