Commitment Equals Freedom

Why I'm shedding my indecisive, afraid-of-commitment ways and finding a new way to be confident and free.

I heard this quote last week by a long-dead explorer that really stuck with me. I’ve been thinking and thinking about it. But of course now that I want to make this post official, I can’t remember his name. Or exactly what he said verbatim. Or even what he was exploring.

So bear with me as I take some creative license.

The gist of what he said was that before we commit to something, we are unhappy, unsure, and insecure. And then once we make the commitment, we have the freedom to confidently walk forward, embracing the outcome—whatever that may be.

I loved that. I mean, how true is that?

When I’m waffling and indecisive and unsure of what I want to do or who I am or just plain what I want . . . then I’m totally miserable. Tied up in anxiety and indecision. I obsess over the potential outcome and possibilities and what ifs. And I go nowhere.

I stay stagnant.

Or even worse, I move backwards.

But when I step into the decision, into the choice, into whatever it is, confidence naturally builds.

I’m not talking about small decisions like what’s for supper or what show to binge on Netflix. (Although if you’ve ever had a three-hour conversation with your husband about where you guys should go out to eat, you might have some idea of what it’s like to waffle in agonizing indecision until someone finally makes the call.)

But what I’m really talking about is the big stuff. The life-changing stuff. The stuff that requires confidence and choice-security.

Like writing. I feel like half my career has been wasted on weighted questions like, “Am I even a real author?” Or “Should I even be writing? Like, is this really what I’m supposed to do with my life?”

I’m annoyed even writing those questions. So just imagine living in my brain as I work and rework those mysteries and all the implications that tag along to those impossible, ambiguous unknowns on a daily basis.

But. When I’m able to fully embrace my dreams and step into them with some miniscule notion of confidence, my entire outlook and perspective shifts. Instead of “Should I be writing,” I think, “I am a writer.”

Maybe the tone doesn’t translate via text . . . but man, my entire body just came alive as I wrote those words. I felt them to my core. To the invisible, eternal, defining pieces of me. And what’s more, I did not shiver with insecurity or regret. I only felt pride and purpose.

Or instead of, “Should I be writing,” I think, “I was made to write. God gifted me with the ability to write. And I want to spend my days writing as many words as I can, giving this incredible gift back to the world.”

I hope you read the difference there too. I go from waffling, pathetic, desperate to grasp something out of reach, to a woman brimming over with tenacity. Bubbling over with perseverance and persistence.

It even takes away the need to be successful at it. Which is surprising. Deciding I should be a writer should imply I should be good at it—or at least successful at it. But, in reality, the desperation of indecision is what demands success. Not knowing if I should write implies I must be commercially successful before I can acknowledge that I am, in fact, a writer. It prolongs the space between dream hoped for and dream reached. It keeps the carrot dangling overhead but never lets it get within biting distance.

But by just deciding that I am a writer, it takes my hoped-for dream and drops it in my lap. Gives me ownership of it. I don’t have to wait for success, I can spend my time working towards success while not worrying if I’m doing the right thing or making the right moves. I don’t have to only be successful. I can make imperfect progress and rest in the baby-steps approach because all the while I’m struggling and striving to be successful, I still get to be a writer.

It also takes the pressure off being a “good” writer. Which is too ambiguous to even be considered a real goal. What does it mean to be good? The goal post will forever move out of reach if I’m struggling to just be “good.”

Of course I want to be good. I want to be good at what I do. I want to make good books and write good stories and have my readers enjoy reading them. BUT who decides that? Is it me? Or is it the readers? Is it the book ranking? Or the paycheck? Is it a mixture of all those things?

Sure it is. There are tangible markers of progress and improvement. But there are also a lot of reasons that aren’t tangible markers of progress and improvement. And the biggest roadblock to knowing when or if I’m good is me. Will anything I do be good enough? No, no it won’t. More likely this good standard will simply remain an unreachable trophy I’m forever pushing out of reach.

I’m a freak. And a lifelong perfectionist even at my best. I can’t help it. (Although I’m forever working on it.)

Anyway, the point is, making the commitment to be a writer, takes away the overwhelming stress of being good at it. I *am* a writer. I’ll figure out the logistics later. I can always get better. And I can spend my life actively working to get better. But first, I have to make those efforts worth it. I have to be a writer before I can be a good writer.

There are plenty of other examples in my life that could go in a similar direction. Marriage for instance. I made the commitment to my husband on our wedding day to be his wife. Instead of waffling and pulling away and making Zach miserable by keeping my options open, I’ve fully embraced my role as his wife, I’ve kept the vows I made, and I’ve leaned into that identity—even in the hard times. Those choices, along with his parallel choice to be my husband, and a huge portion of God’s kindness and grace, has given us a beautifully rich, wonderfully sweet 17 years together. And it’s also given us freedom. Freedom to make mistakes and struggle and strive and succeed. The commitment defines the decision. And so we can argue or face tragedy or whatever else there is, and we never have to doubt our marriage identity. 

That’s maybe an obvious example. But a more practical scenario is one we made with our school. For almost a decade, my kids went to private school—the same school Zach and I graduated from. We agonized for years over their education and whether or not we’d made the right decision in choosing private over public. But we were also unwilling to move them to a new school.

They had established friendships and were comfortable there, plus we strongly believed in the education system. And there were plenty of teachers we just loved. But the biggest reason we didn’t leave sooner was because it was what we knew.

But we also had extremely bad things happen to us. Things that are not normative for the school or most people’s school experience, but also so traumatic and difficult that we knew we couldn’t stay there. And yet, we didn’t know how to leave. When we finally made the decision to pull our kids out and start over in public school, the decision about killed me. I wept. I grieved. I struggled through massive panic attacks. And the worst part was that I had waited so long that even the transition was traumatizing—for me and the kids. I genuinely didn’t know how we would ever recover.

Yet, in that decision to finally cut ties and stop weighing the pros and cons, delaying the decision, getting advice from others, and excusing all the hurt and bad behavior, we found peace. We found freedom. We found a school we absolutely love. We’ve watched all five of our kids flourish. Not just survive school but genuinely blossom. The indecision truly wounded us. Freedom to embrace our circumstances, fully commit to our new school, and give the kids the room they needed to grow and mature came when we finally decided what to do.

Sometimes we hold off on decisions because we’re afraid of the boundaries they build. But it’s those boundaries that bring confidence and purpose to act and give us the tools we need to be the people we’ve decided to be. And I bet if you look back at your life, experience and hindsight will agree with me.

So let’s move forward like this. With decisiveness and confidence. With the hope in the freedom to come. And the cushion of grace to fall back on whenever needed.