It’s ten-thirty in the morning, and I’ve been awake and functional for an entire hour. Last night I dreamed that I’d stolen two piano keyboards from a warehouse and stashed them in the back of my car. Then I got stopped by the police, and an old lady kept trying to take my picture. The flash on the camera made my eyes squint. I was worried about being seen with the stolen goods, which had just been found by the cops. They’d opened my back door. The old lady was a distraction. Then I was walking back to the warehouse with the keyboards’ rightful owners, who were intent on proving the keyboards matched their other equipment and, therefore, belonged to them. I remember thinking, I hope I don’t get discovered. And yet I didn’t run away; I continued to walk.

Wow. Today’s blog is #730, which means that as soon as I hit “publish,” I will have completed two full years of daily blogging (365 x 2=730). I can’t tell you what this accomplishment means to me. As I type these words, I have tears in my eyes. Overwhelmed with pride, joy, and even grief, I’m at a loss for how to fully express what I’m feeling. I did it.

Recently I heard Dustin Hoffman say that actors should always be working. Not that they should always be in front of a camera or in a play or movie, but that they should always be working on their craft. “Read a famous play, watch a classic movie,” he said. (I’m paraphrasing.) “Pay attention. Go to the mall and observe people. Find out about the world around you.” I can’t tell you how much I adore this advice. When I started this blog two years ago, I was giving myself a lot of shit for living with my parents and not having a “real” job. Many times I’ve said that I haven’t been working. But the truth is that I have been working. I haven’t always been getting paid for my work, but for the last 730 days I’ve put my butt in a chair and worked on my craft. For thousands of hours. And when I haven’t been at the keyboard, I’ve been reading–learning about writing, psychology, and more. Plus, I’ve been paying attention to other people, my relationships, and how life works. For a writer, this is invaluable.

I’m not saying this to brag. Look! I’ve been using my brain! Rather, I’m saying this as an honest acknowledgment. From blog #1 I’ve said I needed to soften up on myself. That is, I’ve spent the majority of my thirty-eight years on this earth beating myself up and thinking that not only am I not good enough, but also that I don’t know enough, don’t work enough. But I’m tired of this way of thinking. For one thing, it doesn’t feel good. For another, it’s not true. I work my ass off. Just because you can’t always see it–in the form of a paycheck or completed novel, for example–doesn’t mean it’s not there. A tree’s roots are under the ground.

The last time I talked to my therapist about my thought that my life isn’t happening fast enough, she encouraged me to trust the universe’s timing. “I used to think that I needed a better job or more money,” she said, “but looking back I can see that I wouldn’t have been ready for those things at the time. So you have to ask yourself, ‘Am I really ready for something else, or am I still being prepared for it?'” Ugh. Preparation. That’s what I think this period in my life is. Growing roots. Hoffman says one of his favorite experiences in the world of entertainment involved–early on–directing a play in Fargo, North Dakota. Though it wasn’t anything big by the world’s standards, it turned out to be invaluable for what would come later. Again, the work that was important was the work that nobody saw.

Since today is the last blog of Year Two of Me and My Therapist, it feels like both this post and the day itself should be big, something grand. And whereas I imagine parts of it will be, the truth is that this post and the rest of the day will have their hits and misses. Words and moments that I think are fabulous, others will rush right over. Things I’d cut out in a heartbeat–what, this old thing?–others will cling to. After all, we each have our own set of glasses through which we see the world. Even if you wanted to, you can’t exchange your pair for another’s. I do think, however, that you can change your own pair of glasses, that you can begin to see the world, and even yourself, differently. Not in a flash, but over time. Unfortunately, that’s the only reliable way I’ve found to competently do anything–learn to dance, learn to write, or change you perceptions (which really means changing yourself). It’s simply a law of nature–strong roots don’t grow overnight.

Another thing Hoffman said is that even with all his talent, experience, and success, part of him always feels like an imposter. That he spent so many years being rejected, being interrupted mid-audition and told, “Thank you, next!” that he’s sure every film will be his last. Like, They finally figured it out–I’m a fraud. That’s what I think my dream was about last night, my feeling like other people are talented but that I’m not, that somehow I’ve stolen something that rightfully belongs to somebody else. The good news, I think, is that this perception is changing, indicated in the dream by the old woman (my old ideas) taking my picture (the way I see things). Plus, despite my fear in the dream–I hope I don’t get discovered–I continued to walk. In waking life, I continue to write because I DO want to be discovered. I imagine every artist does. But more than wanting or needing outside recognition, I know I must first have my own recognition. Regardless of what anyone else says or thinks, I have to believe in myself and what I’m doing here.

More and more, I do.

Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “The years teach much that the days never know.” Amen. In two years of daily writing, I’ve learned that something magical happens between the words, between the lines, between each time I hit “publish.” This is the part that no one sees. This is where the roots grows. Try as I might, I’ll never be able to describe this experience to anyone else who hasn’t lived it for themselves, how a practice like this can transform you. But when you’ve changed, you know it. Personally, I know what it feels like to be grounded, to grow steady in yourself. I know what it feels like to know–deep down–that you can weather any storm. There’s this inner confidence. You think, I am not a fraud. Strong roots produce strong trees.