I was going through some old writings recently and rediscovered these words I wrote roughly 15 years ago. They struck me as a particularly important reminder for the season of life I’m in today.
I’m undertaking things that require me to frequently remind myself that improbable is not equal to impossible. Just because something might not work out doesn’t mean it won’t. And it certainly doesn’t mean it can’t.
Food blogging, social media, comedy, and inspirational writing all require a certain amount of main character energy. It’s a mindset I’ve visited from time to time, but I’ve never quite taken up residence there.
I can be remarkably pessimistic about myself and my potential. Imposter syndrome, anyone? Who do I think I am? Why would anybody care? What makes me think I can actually do any of this?
Well, I’m beginning to think those might be the wrong questions. Because I care. And increasingly, I care about the example I’m setting for my daughter. I want her to grow up believing she’s capable of pursuing the things that excite her, even when success isn’t guaranteed. I want her to have the confidence to try things that seem unlikely, unreasonable, or just plain improbable and to enjoy the whole journey, because what really is the measure of success if not enjoying her life?
And I’m beginning to understand that I can’t very well teach her to believe in herself while continually demonstrating how little I believe in myself.
So, for November, the month of Thanksgiving, I’m centering my thoughts on gratitude, new beginnings, and the hope of possibilities that lie ahead, probable or not.
If I try, I risk failure. But if I never try, I guarantee it.
I wrote the words that follow more than a decade ago. I was a different layer of myself then, but underneath were many of the same dreams I didn’t quite believe I had permission to pursue. It’s been a recurring theme in my life. I develop ambitions, I fight them with doubts, and eventually, I talk myself out of them.
I don’t think I’m alone in that.
Women, in particular, can be remarkable champions of other people’s success. We see potential in others, sometimes even when they can’t see it themselves. We encourage, celebrate, and believe in them with an enthusiasm we rarely extend to ourselves. We can be absolutely convinced that someone else is capable of extraordinary things while simultaneously compiling an exhaustive list of reasons we couldn’t possibly do the same.
I have realized that giving up on myself before I’ve even tried is a more regrettable failure than trying and falling short.
So here I am. Writing things. Cooking things. Making videos. Telling stories. Occasionally making a complete fool of myself on the internet.
And trying.
If no one reads my words, tries my recipes, laughs at my videos, or finds a little comfort in navigating the pain of grief through humor alongside me, I can at least be proud of myself for finally giving these dreams a chance.
(And frankly, I’m giving myself an A for effort.)
I do hope there are a few people along the way who find a bit of inspiration, laughter, or joy here with me. But I’m learning to enjoy the experience regardless of the outcome.
Maybe that’s the point.
Maybe success isn’t always about becoming the person we imagined we’d be. Sometimes it’s about finally allowing ourselves to become the person we’ve been all along. And liking that person and the journey along the way.
The writing below is something I shared years ago while reflecting on my grandmother, our family’s matriarch, and the remarkable influence she had on my life.
She was tenacious and accomplished, analytical and creative. In many ways, she was ahead of her time. She was a nurse, a mother, a woodcarver, a craftswoman, a quilter, a cook, and a Christian.
Looking back, I realize how much I learned simply by watching her. Not because she sat me down and explained what a capable woman looked like, but because she showed me.
And now, all these years later, I find myself thinking about my daughter watching me.
I hope I can teach her something worth learning.
Jenna, November 2026
The Things We Learn by Watching
Jenna, 2013
I had coffee tonight for the first time in months. Naturally, I soon thereafter rearranged the photography studio/music room/sewing room/guest bedroom/scrapbooking room/art studio to make it a bit more feng shui.
While moving furniture, I came across a box of old paints and paintbrushes I inherited from my grandmother after she passed away in 2009. I still had furniture to move, but something about finding that box made me stop.
I decided it was finally time to use the gift my family had given me.
So I painted.
I sat at my desk in silence, with no particular intention for the outcome, and thought about all the things my grandmother had created with those same tools.
I wondered which brushes she liked best. Which ones she reached for most often. What she had made with them, and whether she had any idea how much those simple things would mean to someone someday.
It’s amazing how much you can continue learning from people even after they’re gone.
Since I’m thinking about my family tonight, I thought I’d share something I wrote for my grandmother’s funeral. I still think of her whenever I see hand-painted stenciling, quilts, or braided rugs. Those little melting beads kids make crafts out of. The smell of holiday meals drifting through a house.
Even Wheel of Fortune makes me think of her. I’m not sure whether she watched it regularly, but my cousins and I used to play the board game in the basement of my grandparents’ house during the holidays. For the record, that’s the version I prefer.
The Legacy of Darlene (for my grandmother’s funeral)
When I was a child, I did a lot of observing, as most children do. I would observe the world around me and make mental notes about the first things I should do when I become an adult. After everything I’d observed by kindergarten, I was pretty sure I had it all figured out. I either wanted to grow up to be my Grandma or Pippi Longstocking. But since I didn’t have red hair, I figured I’d probably just stick with becoming Grandma.
She introduced me to the incredible world of crafts. I remember the first time she took me to a craft store. As she ushered me through the doors, I stood amazed.
I immediately added an entry to my mental list:
Note to self: Grow up, get a job, and spend ALL your money right here.
It was the most incredible place I’d ever seen! I would never need to buy anything when I grew up. I could make it all myself! (For the record, you don’t even want to know how much yarn I’ve purchased.)
My grandmother’s house always smelled fantastic. My grandparents lived in a few different houses while I was growing up, but somehow I remember them all smelling the same. The best description I can give that wonderful, inviting scent is dinner.
I thought Grandma must cook perpetually to make her house smell so good. And anything she made tasted amazing on her cream-colored Corelle dishes. Oh, how I loved Grandma’s Corelle dishes with the decorative trim. I was convinced they held some mysterious power to make absolutely anything taste good.
Note to self: Grow up and buy these dishes. They are clearly the secret to good cooking.
As luck would have it, my husband already owned those dishes. So I married him. Unfortunately, it turns out either I was wrong about the dishes or my particular set is broken, because they don’t always work quite as well as Grandma’s did.
My grandma was also a dealmaker. She would barter with me at dinner. “If you finish your vegetables, we’ll have ice cream for dessert.”
SOLD!
Naturally, I spent the rest of dinner wondering what flavor we would have. But when dessert finally arrived, I was confused. Where was the bubblegum? Where were the gummy bears? They had Raspberry and Black Cherry. Maybe Grandma didn’t know they made ice cream that tasted like Smurfs.
Note to self: Grow up and talk to Grandma and Grandpa about ice cream flavors.
Someone had to. She really needed to know about Cookies and Cream.
But somewhere along the way, between the craft stores, the Corelle dishes, the homemade dinners, and the disappointing selection of ice cream flavors, I learned something much more important…
Sometimes the lessons that have the greatest impact on us are the ones we learn from the people we love when they don’t even know they’re teaching us.
And perhaps that’s what brings me back to these words today.
My grandmother probably never knew how much I was learning simply by watching her live her life.
I wonder what my daughter will remember about watching me live mine. I hope she remembers a mother who was willing to try.
Even when the odds weren’t particularly good. Even when she was afraid.
Even when the dreams seemed improbable.
Because improbable, as it turns out, is not the same thing as impossible.
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