Every unique, extra-ordinary, exceptional, outstandingly special woman needs a manifesto. At least, that’s what my girl and fellow rebelpreneur, Gina Bell, tells me.

So here’s mine. For you. For us. AKA here’s what bonds us industrial-strength-adhesive tight.

1. Be remarkable

Do it differently. Veer off the beaten path and find a new way. Stand out from the pack. YOU are unprecedented. Embrace that.

2. Break the rules intelligently

Learn them, THEN bend them. Re-write them in a way that resonates with your gut.

3. Lift others up

Share your expertise. Inspire by doing. Make gentle suggestions for improvement, then proactively refer people who can help – even if that’s you.

4. Do exceptional work

Pursue excellence. Achieve more than most. (Do this consistently.)

5. Lead with authenticity

Stay true to YOU. Root yourself in truth.

6. Know where you want to show up in the world

Get focused. What does your eulogy sound like? Backtrack from there.

7. Build your empire with confidence

Be courageous. Know you have what it takes. Don’t waiver.

8. Actively make mistakes

Take risks. Don’t let failure bring you down. Learn. Move on.

9. Collaborate with the best of the best

Connect with those who will help you climb. Extraordinary things come to those who ask.

10. Let your light shine mega-watt bright

Don’t be afraid to radiate shimmering brilliance. Step out of the shadows. Be all that you can be.

***

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Thanks, sweets.

Want to know what transatlantic relationships look like?

I’ll tell ya.

They’re all Skype calls, webcam dialogues, instant chats. And SOCIAL MEDIA, darlink: new-born baby news over twitter DM, engagements announced via Facebook status updates, even confessional blog posts.

Family arrive in my inbox as electronic attachments, newborns as jpegs.

Squeezed out in record time on Monday, my hours-old niece wears a white-and-yellow onesie. She is exquisite, mesmerizing, beyond belief. I save her as my wallpaper, text her to friends, post her to Facebook.

A strawberry-blonde halo of hair warms her face and two snow-white mittens encase her tiny hands. She glows. I melt. First time aunt-/niece-dom suits us.

Technology trumps geography.

Except, not really. I can’t feel that baby warmth, can’t touch those soft cheeks, can’t cradle her in my forearm against my chest as I kiss her silky head.

I reassure myself: where there is a will, there is a BA plane, there is a six-hour flight, there is a set of baby fingers scrunched around my adult one.

“What matters is how quickly you do what your soul directs.”

-Rumi

I had planned on waiting to go home. I told myself I was giving everybody breathing space, time to adjust.

Not any more. Now I’m itching to get home so I can meet her.

Think about it: Sometimes you have to visualize the end result so that you know the journey will be worth it.

… (Deliberate pause)

You see, I KNOW you’ll find your airline, your plane ticket, your site designer, your coach, your partner, whatever you need to help you on your way to achieving what you’ve set out to. And I know that because I know you want it badly enough.

You know what success looks like.

Lawrd knows that’s what sets us apart from the rest.

“No matter how great the ultimate benefit of a change, going from “what was” to “what will be” can be very unsettling… The reality is, being in this awkward state of transition is an extremely creative and ripe period.”

- Pamela Slim

Create. Ripen.

Do what your soul directs. Do it today.

I’m excited. I’m pumped. I’m ready and willing. I can’t wait to see you on the other side of twenty twelve.

Meet me there?

I have some big thangs planned for the coming year: thirst-quenching, online infusions that’ll make you do a pajama dance around your living room; freebies and downloads and educational chutzpah that’ll help your biz’ sing a song o’ plenty.

This year, anything seems possible. Less seems probable. But I have my sights set high. (Which is why I’ve enlisted the dahling Andrea Olson to keep me on track.)

Despite all this, lil’ Mr. Cynicism won’t budge. Are you finding this, too?
After all, what’s in a new year save a two-digit change up?

Cynicism tells me that I won’t achieve my goal of having washboard abs come the summertime (pipe down at the back). It tells me I won’t make a profit from my side hustle (word crafting AKA writing for your professional betterment). It tells me I’ll be just as self-effacing as ever before. It tells me I won’t learn the art of meditation or become an ultra-bendy yoga junkie. It tells me I’ll fall headfirst into a bucketful of failure and not achieve anything I set out to accomplish.

“What kind of fuckery is this?” – Amy Winehouse

If life is an uphill struggle, does that mean we should stop fighting for what we want or who we want to be?

No! Of course not.

FIGHT. Do the work. Breath life into your ambition.

Feel the fear and push on regardless.

• If I have to switch out washboard abs for losing an inch or ten pounds, so be it.
• If I have to forego making massive amounts of profit, but have managed to help others succeed, then that’s karma, baby - and that’s the truth. (Although please note: I won’t ever sell myself short.)
• Insecurity may continue to rear its ugly head, but one day I’ll vanquish it once and for all. Believe.
• If I don’t reach yogini status, I’ll quench my spirit by attending as many classes as my schedule allows.

This isn’t what failure feels like.

This is striving to be the best of the best and acknowledging you will sometimes fall short.

If what you’re reaching for is beyond you, then take a step closer. And another.
Success takes time.

And, if you’re still struggling with making resolutions that feel sticky, choose an overarching adjective or word (all the cool kids are doing it.)

In previous years, I chose to be a champion for Honesty and Humility. I made them my soul sisters, my guiding lights. Today, I feel the need for new anchors to hold me fast. New words to hang my coat on and call home.

While I’d still fight a crusade for integrity, it’s time to shake things up. Re-brand. Check-in with my bad self and start living mo’ authentically.

It’s decided. It’s legit’. It’s righteous.

In twenty twelve, I’m gonna’ be:

DISCIPLINED + COURAGEOUS

And you?

“Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.”

-George Bernard Shaw

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.@NikkiGroom recommends we re-brand ourselves in 2012: http://bit.ly/zAGHpL

Redefine yourself and your work in 2012: http://bit.ly/zAGHpL

What adjectives do you want to describe you in the year ahead? >> @NikkiGroom’s latest: http://bit.ly/zAGHpL

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This story was written for and originally published on the Newport Patch website. You can read the full article there by clicking here.

Gabe was like a local celebrity in Newport: His crumpled fedoras recognizable the town over. Almost everyone who frequented the bars along Thames Street had enjoyed his special charisma at one time or another. He was in his fifties or sixties (it was hard to tell), with a silver head of hair and a silver tongue.

Despite his age, his company was irresistible to us – in our late twenties and early thirties. He was fond of cracking jokes and venturing nonsensical sayings in his lilting accent that would make you spit out your drink laughing. I adored him not only for this, but also because he was my link with home, his isle so close to mine. I once asked him how he came to be awarded American citizenship and he told me he’d befriended an Indian tribe on the West coast and paid them to adopt him. True or not, this story has Gabe written all over it.

Gabe was both charming and a charmer – and a generous one at that. After drinks one night, he invited my friend and me back to his single story house off Thames Street for midnight shepherd’s pie and sweet tea with milk (a comfort concoction enjoyed as much by the English as the Irish). Saying it was delicious wouldn’t do the former justice. I practically melted into that pie. He explained he’d owned a successful bar and seafood restaurant in Southern Ireland where he’d honed his culinary skills. Another time, after a heavy night out, he offered us a to-die-for fry-up - complete with smoked bacon, bangers, buttered fried veg’, eggs, and hot crusty bread, with thick salted butter and large mugs of Barry’s.

I’d guess it was in his bar on the other side of the Atlantic – or perhaps in countless numbers of others he’d frequented closer to home – that he learned to be extra cautious. It made him nervous to have empties hanging around. At the Pelham, he’d put them on the bar for staff to clear away. Once, a brief brawl did break out while we were there with him. He was proven right, then.

My friend would make him cross. She’d use too much salt and pepper in her cooking or voice an opinion contrary to his on some topic or another. They’d squabble and I’d play peacemaker. He could be a stubborn man. He would dub her Shiatsus “little shets,” but was evidently fond of them. He even played an active role in Newport’s first puppy wedding and joked it should have made front-page news.

There would be times when Gabe would disappear for what felt like weeks on end – ostensibly to visit friends and family in Ireland. In the weeks he was gone, Newport never seemed quite the same.

I hadn’t spent any real amount of time in Newport in over a year when I heard of his passing via Facebook. I felt a kick of regret that I hadn’t made more of an effort to stay in touch. My friend said that it was typical he’d picked her birthday on which to leave this life and it was true. We began reminiscing back and forth about the time we’d spent with him. Every memory seemed to involve something that would make us laugh. It soon became apparent that there were many others out there who felt the same way.

His Facebook page began filling up with tributes. Someone had an idea to create a Facebook group in which we could all express our memories and condolences, and post photographs.

When another group member posted a link to his website, I realized how private he’d been about himself. I learned that he’d sailed around the world before he’d reached the age of eighteen and had lived in Ireland, England, New Zealand, Australia, and South Africa before moving Stateside. He’d created New York exhibition-worthy art from throw-away materials and was a published poet. The artist’s statement on his website states that his works are “Made of bits and pieces of memory – and materials – of days long gone.”

There is a quote that Gabe posted to his Facebook wall just a month before he passed that I think sums up his attitude to life and death particularly eloquently:

“When I die, I want the last words to be, “I left a million dollars under the…”