How did I get here? An unlikely journey to the Interwebs

Over the past several weeks, many people have asked how this whole blogging adventure began and what made me want to do it.

Want is a strong word. I never wanted this. Blogging was never a dream of mine. In fact, it was more like my nightmare. I was dead set against it when friends made the suggestion years ago, so it seems particularly ironic it’s finally happened.

How It Began

About three years ago, I was at my brother’s house, as I often am, having dinner and hanging out with his family. I’m lucky to live close to my niece and nephew, so I find myself over there visiting all the time.

After dinner, my (at the time) 7-year-old niece and I were in the living room by ourselves, and she told me she needed to talk to me about something.

It sounded serious, and I couldn’t imagine what it was about.

Upstairs, my sister-in-law called out, “Lilah, come on. It’s time to get ready for bed.”

“Wait a minute!” she yelled. “I gotta talk to Aunt Chan,” she said.

Karla was probably just as confused—and curious—as I was, so she acquiesced. “OK, but make it quick,” she cautioned. “It’s getting late.”

I sat down on the couch next to my niece and braced myself for whatever was about to come. What could a 7-year-old possibly have to tell me that was so important?

“You know, Aunt Chan,” she began, “they have these things where you put in your address, and you say some things you like, and then there are these people who find other people who, like, live in the same place and like the same things.”

Good God, was a 7-year-old telling me I should online date? I played dumb—not a hard sell in the moment.

“Oh,” I said, “I feel like I’ve heard of that before.”

There was a long pause.

“Do you think it’s something I should do?” I asked.

“Well…” she said slowly, tilting her head in a manner that made it feel as though she was eyeballing me over imaginary horn-rimmed glasses, “couldn’t hurt.”

Not being in the room to hear the inflection, you might read that as a pep talk. Kind of like, Sure, Aunt Chan! Why not? Nothing to lose!

That’s not how she said it.

There was judgment in her tone. The delivery was more like, Girl…it couldn’t possibly be worse than what you’re doing now. Amirite?

And so, on the advice of a 7-year-old life coach, I joined an online dating site.

And I struggled through it. I mean, it was an awkward, uphill climb. You’ll read about it eventually if you stick around long enough. It wasn’t all bad, but it was mostly bad.

When my friends caught wind I was doing it, they couldn’t wait to hear the stories, but it was too much to tell each tale over and over, so I began writing recaps—just a few tidbits of what (if anything) had happened that week (and how I survived it).

Although the experience was painful, writing about it was cathartic. And in the composition process, weird situations became humorous—enjoyable, almost. OK, that’s a lie. Bearable. They became bearable because of how funny the writing part was. Had I simply online dated, I honestly would have only lasted a week. But there was something about the stories born from the experience that kept me in it.

After a few weeks of email updates, my friends reached a general consensus: “Chandy, you have to start a blog. You’ve got to put these stories out there for other people to read them.”

“Nope!” I responded immediately. “That’s never gonna happen,” I said. “I’m not a blog person. I’m not a put-things-out-there-in-real-time kind of writer. I’d rather write a book. I already know how to publish it, so I can just write what I want, show it to you guys, and publish it eventually on my own terms when I’m ready.”

I don’t know why a book seemed so much less daunting than a blog. Maybe because a blog felt too techy (requiring skills I don’t possess) and immediate; once your stuff is out there, it’s out there—no take-backs. It just seemed like far more pressure and potential for disaster than a book.

I was adamant: no blog. I’d continue writing, I’d continue sharing (on a small scale, in a tiny circle), and eventually I’d turn it into a book, which meant I’d only have to put it out there for the public when (and if) I finished it and was happy with the final product.

Fast Forward Two Years

I had amassed 16 chapters (roughly 120 pages of material), but I hadn’t done anything with it other than share it with close friends. Meanwhile, at work, our company was building a new website. Although I wrote a decent amount of content, I still was clueless about the technical side of development.

One day, a colleague mentioned wanting to get some practice with WordPress before our site was up and running. It seemed pretty random when he said, “So, if you have any website ideas you’d like to try for fun, we could do that.”

“I don’t need a website,” I told him without hesitation. “What the hell do I need a website for?”

“I don’t know,” he said, not realizing he stepped on a hornets’ nest. “I just thought if you had any ideas—if you have a URL in mind, we could experiment a little. Just think about it,” he added.

“I don’t have a URL in mind. Why would I have a URL in mind? I don’t have any use for a website, so there’s probably no point in thinking about it,” I told him.

Well, OK then.

The Lead-up

Two months prior to this conversation, I began another journey of sorts. I was feeling stagnant—personally and professionally. I had just returned from Ireland, and I was beyond depressed to be home. Funny how travel does that. Before the trip, I would have labeled myself as happy—content with the safe, comfy little Netflix life I had created for myself.

Ten days. That’s all it took. Ten days without a television, among three-dimensional people, living out of a suitcase with my best friend in a breathtaking country—experiencing gorgeous scenery, fantastic music, fascinating characters, hilarious stories and, hands down, the most incredible accent to exist on this planet. Ten better-than-I-could-have-possibly-imagined days, and it changed me. I expanded. And I didn’t know how I was going to stuff myself back into the tiny box of a life I had created for myself back home when I got there. I didn’t want to, either.

I cried in the bathroom the night before we left…and the whole way home. Because I knew. One taste of this great, big, delicious world so far away, and suddenly the safe little corner I inhabited felt—suffocating. I didn’t know where I was supposed to be, but I knew it wasn’t there, and that was a terrible feeling.

I researched jobs abroad for weeks before realizing Ireland was most likely an impetus, not the answer.

Still not knowing what to do, I opened a drawer and pulled out a little blue booklet. It was from someone very important to me who had passed away several months prior. She had been a teacher and mentor, and this novena was her last gift. She was a Dominican nun, so, of course, prayer was her answer to all life’s issues. She often offered Pop-Tarts and a boatload of empathy, too, but more than anything, she thought this “powerful” novena, as she called it, would help me figure out my life.

When I looked at the booklet, I realized “powerful” meant long AF. Despite taking Latin, and knowing novena is supposed to mean nine, this thing went on for 54 days! Technically, it wasn’t a novena; it was six of them in one: 27 days saying the rosary in petition for something, and 27 days saying the rosary in thanksgiving—whatever the outcome. At the end of that 54 days, something was supposed to happen for your greater good.

I’m no stranger to prayer; it has always been a staple in my life. But despite growing up Catholic, I’m not really a rosary person. I’m more of a straight-to-the-source-with-my-own-words pray-er. That’s probably why I kept the little blue book on the back burner for several months before using it.

But I got to this point of feeling restless and not knowing what to do about it, and because it was literally the last thing this dear friend gave me, I decided to try it.

Fifty-four days later, a colleague asked me to come up with a hypothetical website.

After my initial protest, I went home and replayed the conversation in my head. Why would I want a website? Why would I have a need for a URL?

Hours later, the questions resurfaced: But if I did have a website, what would I call it?

Wait, what?

Another query followed: What would my URL be?

Without thinking, my brain quickly asserted, “Awkward is the new sexy…dot com.” I always thought it could be the name of a book, but maybe it could be a website instead.

Dang. It did sound pretty good. Good enough that someone probably already owned it.

I went online to check. It wasn’t registered, so I bought it.

As soon as I told friends what I had done, each response was almost identical: “Oh my goodness! It’s like ‘Sex and the City’! You’re going to be the next Carrie Bradshaw!”

Yes, yes. Exactly what I envision. Only there probably won’t be any sex…and it will take place largely in the suburbs.

Hopefully that’s not a deal-breaker.

The Conclusion

I know what you’re thinking, because it’s probably the same thing I was thinking: I prayed the rosary 54 days straight, and this was the answer? Do I really think Mary, the mother of God, absorbed my petition, ran it by the Big Guy, and whispered back, “Awkward is the new sexy”?

I don’t know, but I sure hope so. That’s kind of how it felt, and it still makes me laugh to imagine it that way. When God wants to grab my attention, He usually enlists one of two methods: Either He uses humor—or He drops a brick on my head. Those are really the only two ways in which I learn anything. I think this time, mercifully, God chose humor.

It’s funny how the thing you are dead set against can slowly evolve into the thing you most need to do. I probably dragged my feet so long because I know myself. I don’t do change well. I don’t take risks well. I don’t handle my own imperfection well.

This whole process requires me to accept feeling completely out of my depth and to press onward anyway. It rubs my nose in my own limitations and dares me to give up—weekly, if not daily. In certain moments, I want to, if I’m being honest. But you can’t pray for purpose and then say just kidding when it’s handed to you but requires more work than you imagined and doesn’t come as naturally as you hoped. That’s when you have to work a little harder, dig a little deeper and figure it out.

I know I’m where I’m supposed to be now. I can feel that, despite the discomfort. I’m living out of a new container these days—a bigger one. I don’t like how roomy it is in here, but I’ll fill up the space eventually.

I have faith.

And I’m just getting started.

 

*Side note: I said this 54-day novena one more time last November. Well into the petition part, I had a job interview, and a week or so into the thanksgiving portion, the job was mine. I finished the novena on Christmas morning.