I Am Excited To Wake Up Each Morning

Living in my purpose and using my strengths has allowed me to go to bed at night knowing that I have made a difference. But at the end of the day, I can love myself regardless of his choices and keep cheering him on until the end. So now, after healing my heart, I believe that I can be successful without using the definition that the world defines as success. I have learned that true success is internal. I am excited to wake up each morning as I wake to the realization that it is another opportunity to share my gifts with the world. Wendy has the unique gift of helping find personal and professional roadblocks and reconnecting people to themselves, and their Higher Power, and as a result, her clients see a dramatic increase in personal happiness and income level. She has several successful businesses including a thriving real estate career and network marketing background, as well as her busy mentoring and speaking career. Her diverse background and life experience help her to understand the unique needs of each of her clients. Even with all of her busy endeavors, her family is foremost in her life and includes six children and eight grandchildren. Find out first hand how powerful gratitude can be in your life, just as it was for Wendy. Please feel free to download this gift by visiting successthroughfailing.com/downloads. I’ve struggled most of my life to see my own value, my own contribution, and my own courage.

Hang On To Yourself

Let me tell you what I’ve discovered. I discovered that no person is too broken for a new beginning. No error occurs without a healing solution, and no lost sheep is ever so lost that it loses value. If I can spend most of my life failing, and then discover wholeness and joy, so can you! Fortunately, I trust that my value in the eyes of those who matter most to me is not based on my perfection. My definition of success is a willingness to accept one’s failures with grace and gratitude. You may chuckle a bit along the way, and hopefully see some part of yourself in my failings and vulnerability. We thought we were being creative. But then, I was only 11 years old. Downstairs at my grandparent’s home, the bare, dreary walls appeared to our eyes so stale, so boring. We were simply assisting, making it look nice for Grandma and Grandpa. After all, there was plenty of paint. My sister, almost two years my junior, followed eagerly behind me, as I led the redecorating campaign.

Ties That Bind

There was so much paint, we were confident there would be plenty of margin to write simply the names of cute neighborhood boys on the walls. Surely the names would be hidden by the time our redecorating efforts were complete. Click, click, click, went the steel bearing inside the spray can. Shake the can some more. Picking up another can . We had hit the bottom of our paint reservoir. Empty spray cans littered the cement floor. I love Joey and Frankie is a babe! screamed from the walls. We could not cover this. There was no hiding what we had done. What had begun as a truly inspired venture of love and creativity had turned into an evil magician’s trick. Have you ever found yourself in torment about what began with positive intentions, grew tentacles, and then turned on you? Maybe this has happened to you in a personal relationship or in a business, with a misinterpreted statement, or a poorly written contract? A gloomy cloud of buyer’s remorse and disillusionment sets in.

Torn And Frayed

How do you resolve a mess like that? We had no money to buy more paint. We had no way to even get ourselves to a paint store. Horrified at the Frankenstein we had brought to life, we sat, or should I say, slumped, on the cold cement. Never had I done something that would look so awful in the sight on my grandparents. What would my grandfather do when he discovered our childish damage? Would he never allow us to come and visit? Worse, would he never again sing to us the songs of his travels? I feared his anger and his judgment. Being the oldest and the instigator of the graffiti, I knew I would take the brunt of the punishment. We sat upstairs, my sister and I, in front of the television. We sat there as statues, hardly breathing, listening to the footsteps of my grandfather as he made sandwiches in the kitchen, whistling. Anytime his footsteps seemed to fade into the back of the house, our ears perked, waiting for the guillotine to drop. Two hellish hours must have passed and the smell of fresh pain wafting up the stairs must have prompted my grandfather to investigate. Here it comes, I thought to myself, panicking. I tightened my jaw, readying myself to be struck by a large hand. I had never seen my grandfather lose his temper before, and I shuddered as I pictured what was about to happen. His big black shoes came closer. He was standing right behind us. We held our stomachs, certain wrath was headed our direction. He simply spoke to us, and asked us what had happened downstairs. He was upset, and yet I could tell just from the way he responded to our immature, misguided effort to help, that he still would sing to us. My grandfather passed away a couple of years ago. I traveled to his side just days before he died, and I was able to kiss him on the scruffy cheek and say Goodbye. Maybe he never thought about the graffiti in the basement. We never talked about it again. And that’s when I learned something amazing about my grandfather, and something redeeming about failure. Sometimes there’s not enough paint. Sometimes there is not enough paint to hide your mistakes, not enough paint to cover your tracks, not enough paint to correct your misguided attempts.