Stagnation.

I work in a world with incredible, inspiring people. I watch them grow and feel challenged by them every day. My friends and I are not just pretending to be excited to learn more about our field and become early adopters—we are high energy, passionate people with ceaseless motivation.

But I think it's time we take a look in the mirror and get really, really honest with ourselves.

There are a lot of people who work in this space who contribute nothing.

We're not entirely sure what they do, but they're skilled self-promotors and talented at doing the bare minimum to get by.

We celebrate them because they were here when it all began.

It doesn't seem to matter that they're no longer contributing, no longer growing... and that nobody can really remember what they brought to the table in the first place.

We don't need more tutorials on how to use Twitter.

We don't need more workshops on how to start a blog.

We certainly don't need to waste hundreds of thousands of donor dollars flying the same group of irrelevant activists around the country to have happy hours and talk about what innovative conservative activists they are.

It's not entirely the fault of the pretenders. While the work horses are busy promoting their causes and principles, the fakers are busy promoting themselves. We don't work with the intention of gaining recognition—when we speak publicly it's to share our expertise, not elevate ourselves.

But let's not dwell on the negative.

We're faced with an incredible opportunity to learn from November and shape the future of our party. We have the resources and an introspective mindset.

Now what are we going to do about it?

You Might Be Happy, But Are You Baby In A Kitchen Sink Happy?

I sat down last night to think about what I wanted to give up for Lent.

Before anyone accuses me of bragging, I should clarify that I find making my selections public helps my friends hold me accountable and isn't my way of saying look how totally awesome and self-righteous I am.

This year instead of simply abstaining, I want to add new challenges and goals to my daily life.

I've never had a problem giving things up—sweets, alcohol, coffee—because once I draw a hard line, I don't cross it. I'm like a Lent robot.

But how meaningful is that?

I'm the kind of person who eats kale and drinks Dr. Braggs because I could care less how bad things taste if I know it'll make me healthier. Being uncomfortable has never really bothered me, so I have a problem reflecting during Lent and connecting abstinence with any greater sense of purpose or intention. I know how blessed I am—I don't need to sleep without a pillow or stop drinking lattes to get that.

And let's be honest, ladies, Lent conveniently occurs just before bikini season. We know why you're giving up carbs and chocolate. The jig is up.

So this year I'm not going to do the traditional caricature of Lent. This year I'm going to be a better steward of my resources, a better listener, more kind and generous to my friends (and strangers).

This means I can't just buy everything I want (so many pretty things!), I won't roll my eyes at people who wait until they're standing in the turnstile to pull out their smarttrips to leave metro, and I won't look at my phone or scroll through emails while I'm spending time with friends.

How are you recognizing Lent?

Être blonde n'aide pas.

I received a lot of feedback on my post last week about confronting fears.

While a lot of people found it inspiring, others were confused by the idea that fears hold people back.

To those friends, the logical response to fear of failure is to try harder not to fail.

I wish my fears worked that way.

Instead of my fear of failure thrusting me forward and motivating me to achieve, it locked me deeper into my comfort zone. I didn't want to speak up for fear of saying anything stupid. I didn't want to take risks because, at the end of the day my life was okay.

When I moved to DC I was finally surrounded by people who were as driven and ambitious as I was. And it was okay that I was the new girl in town and didn't quite know how everything worked—I asked a lot of questions and tried to learn as quickly as possible.

But now, after a few years of living here and working in the political space, I've found myself confronting something new: fear of not being worthy.

I know I can't be alone on this.

I fight insecurities about not being good enough, a creeping feeling in meetings that maybe I don't understand my craft as well as everyone else.

And my initial, counter-intuitive response to those fears was not to research harder, read more about my field, and ask more questions—my response was to shut down.

At first it was easy enough to ignore and appease—then one afternoon I walked out of a briefing at which I was expected to make remarks about social media because I was absolutely terrified that my voice would shake and I would say something idiotic. As I walked out of the building and into the metro I realized that something had to change. This was not just stifling my growth—it was impacting my ability to do my job well.

Recently a friend and I talked about how women in political communications don't like to talk about their careers. We're less likely than men to sit on panels and talk not just about our field of expertise but about why we're passionate about what we do.

We're humble, we're not natural self-promoters—our energy is typically devoted to promoting other people and causes.

And even though I'm a communicator, public speaking terrifies me. It absolutely terrifies me.

Last year when I sat on a panel to talk about Pinterest in politics I was moments from having a full blown panic attack from the time the panel began until it ended. I was confronted with the realization that everyone on the panel was smarter than me, they deserved to be there, and they all knew their craft better than I did. I just worked in social media and thought Pinterest was really neat. Why was I asked to be there and would it be alright if I just walked out of the room?

Eventually after stumbling through a few awkward questions, I realized I had plenty to contribute to the conversation. I had meaningful points to add and understood the value and interrelatedness of this space... and it was a really exciting topic about something I loved. Why was my first instinct to tell myself that I wasn't good enough?

That's how fear works.

It mocks the meat upon which it feeds. If you tell yourself that you're not good enough, eventually you're going to start believing it.

So what am I doing differently now?

Well, first off, I'm not hiding from opportunities to speak publicly anymore. I practice with friends and have told them that I need their advice and encouragement. I'm not concealing my fear and letting it grow silently in my soul—I've brought it out, I'm talking about it, and I'm going to get over it.

Does my voice still shake when I have to speak in a crowded room? Sometimes.

But I'd rather sound nervous while saying something of value than stay silent about a space I'm so passionate about.