Recently someone who sort of knew me a long time ago asked me the secret to my success. Naturally, this made me laugh nervously, look around my messy, suburban life and think, "What success?"
My reaction got me thinking. In my stunted grad school attempt, I had to record myself answering interview questions. Daniel was my interviewer. He asked me what “success” meant to me.
I have always known to say that success is not achievable by income or status, and it turns out I still believe those things are true. But we have debt, for a multitude of reasons we don’t own a home anymore, and this past year we’ve been learning to live on one income. I have chosen to forgo what was turning out to be a lucrative career to be home with my babies while I still can.
When I became a working mother, I sometimes thought immediate success would be having a choice to make about whether to stay home. Other times I thought success meant being there for every milestone. Now that I’m home, I see it’s more complicated. I wonder if my decision—while the right one for us at this time—means I will not ever know career success.
And then there’s the issue of passion. I envy teachers, doctors, fire fighters, even politicians; I envy people who have always known what they wanted to be. Who have the kind of jobs little kids say they want when they grow up. For many of them, making a living is an extension of their passion. How very convenient, I think. I remember, in the aforementioned grad school attempt, sitting beside people who worked at National Geographic or the Smithsonian, people who found fulfillment in their work. And while I have always tried to make the most of whatever situation I’m in, I have not yet found creative fulfillment in a job I’ve had. Since I was a second grader, I said I wanted to be a writer. So now I write here, for you, for me, for anonymous passersby, but it’s without the expectation that it will ever line my pockets.
So, then what success? I wrote this in a few moments of blissful silence while my beautiful blonde spitfires slept upstairs. That day I made breakfast and lunch, put two children in timeout a combined total of five times, bought groceries, and did laundry. Later we headed to the library, too close to dinner, and Daniel met us out to eat. Every day doesn’t look like this day. And, on the surface, to me, it doesn’t look “successful.”
But, at least for today, my children and family are healthy. I’m married to a man I still adore and who really is my best friend. We have the things we really need. I have creative outlets, albeit not income generating ones, and friends that love me, albeit not ones I can hug very frequently.
My reaction got me thinking. In my stunted grad school attempt, I had to record myself answering interview questions. Daniel was my interviewer. He asked me what “success” meant to me.
I have always known to say that success is not achievable by income or status, and it turns out I still believe those things are true. But we have debt, for a multitude of reasons we don’t own a home anymore, and this past year we’ve been learning to live on one income. I have chosen to forgo what was turning out to be a lucrative career to be home with my babies while I still can.
When I became a working mother, I sometimes thought immediate success would be having a choice to make about whether to stay home. Other times I thought success meant being there for every milestone. Now that I’m home, I see it’s more complicated. I wonder if my decision—while the right one for us at this time—means I will not ever know career success.
And then there’s the issue of passion. I envy teachers, doctors, fire fighters, even politicians; I envy people who have always known what they wanted to be. Who have the kind of jobs little kids say they want when they grow up. For many of them, making a living is an extension of their passion. How very convenient, I think. I remember, in the aforementioned grad school attempt, sitting beside people who worked at National Geographic or the Smithsonian, people who found fulfillment in their work. And while I have always tried to make the most of whatever situation I’m in, I have not yet found creative fulfillment in a job I’ve had. Since I was a second grader, I said I wanted to be a writer. So now I write here, for you, for me, for anonymous passersby, but it’s without the expectation that it will ever line my pockets.
So, then what success? I wrote this in a few moments of blissful silence while my beautiful blonde spitfires slept upstairs. That day I made breakfast and lunch, put two children in timeout a combined total of five times, bought groceries, and did laundry. Later we headed to the library, too close to dinner, and Daniel met us out to eat. Every day doesn’t look like this day. And, on the surface, to me, it doesn’t look “successful.”
But, at least for today, my children and family are healthy. I’m married to a man I still adore and who really is my best friend. We have the things we really need. I have creative outlets, albeit not income generating ones, and friends that love me, albeit not ones I can hug very frequently.
In my interview I remember saying something about not worrying. I thought being successful would mean attaining peace. I can’t say I’ve realized my 24-year-old self’s idea of success. I still worry—about money, that something may happen to me, to my kids, to my traveling husband.
I still actively seek peace. I have dreams I’m not sure I’ll ever realize.
But I don’t take enough time to be thankful for all that I already have.
I still actively seek peace. I have dreams I’m not sure I’ll ever realize.
But I don’t take enough time to be thankful for all that I already have.
I think Facebook and Pinterest are partly to blame. Most of us are guilty of posting only our red letter moments online—the highlights—for all to see. I don’t take pictures of myself on days without mascara or when I’m wearing those wretched faded black yoga pants Daniel is liable to throw away at any moment. Even when I share slip ups, I don’t really let you in. It’s all done in a self-deprecating way so that you’ll think I’m charming and relatable, but I don’t share the darkest days. I don’t want to acknowledge or immortalize them, so why would I share? And I know that’s what most people do. Their Pinterest boards reflect the homes, wardrobes, and hobbies they’d like to have, not necessarily the ones they actually do. They’re not trying to mislead anyone, and neither am I.
The problem is that I forget, and I think many of us do. I compare the galleries of nights out, smiling children and best meals with my dark room of unfolded laundry, temper tantrums, and not yet developed potential. It doesn’t mean I’m going to stop posting highlights—they are what make all the rest of life worth it—but I’m going to try to remember that that’s what everyone else is doing too.
Why not step away from the social media and comparisons with me. What does success really look like? And are you certain you haven’t found it yet?
We really ought to get out of our own way.
The problem is that I forget, and I think many of us do. I compare the galleries of nights out, smiling children and best meals with my dark room of unfolded laundry, temper tantrums, and not yet developed potential. It doesn’t mean I’m going to stop posting highlights—they are what make all the rest of life worth it—but I’m going to try to remember that that’s what everyone else is doing too.
Why not step away from the social media and comparisons with me. What does success really look like? And are you certain you haven’t found it yet?
We really ought to get out of our own way.
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