I turned 37 over the weekend and shuffling my Tom’s loafers toward 40 really has me thinking about all the years that have passed, the way we evolve as we age and the boxes I’d really love to tick before the next birthday, or the birthday after that, or the milestone birthday after that.
I’ve never operated under the illusion that perfection is attainable, but I do subscribe to the idea that I am working to build a life that’s perfect for me. That being said, in the spirit of full transparency, more often than not it feels like I’m surrounded by mountains of bricks and shingles and panes of fragile glass, but a devastating shortage of daylight hours to get any significant construction done. But it’s not all bad news and insurmountable aspirations. I’ve managed to form some stable structure in my life over the past several decades. These are some of the truths I’m currently carrying with me through the peaks and valleys and along every long stretch of desert in between.
Don’t be so convinced you can’t.
Right after the holidays, at the start of the new year, I started working on a training plan to run a 20-mile trail race. I’d never gone farther than 13.1 miles, and I’d only done one very short trail race a few months before that. It seemed ambitious but manageable under the right expectations, and those were: I wouldn’t be fast and it wouldn’t always feel good. But I truly believed, if I just kept showing up, I could get down the path to the finish line. And I did. And all of my predictions were spot on. I was slower than shit and it hurt like hell, but, by checking each training run off box by box – and with the company of a really stellar running companion – I met my goal and fell in love with the trail running culture.
The thing about hanging out with trail runners though, is that they’re obsessed with mileage. How far they’ve gone, how far you’ve gone and how far you’re all going to go the next go-round. And they are disgustingly supportive. I mean it’s just gross how nice these people are. I volunteered at a 100-mile race in early October, and everyone I talked to tried to convince me to sign up for the 40-mile version of the race I did back in April. And they were so certain I could do it. And the thing is, I cringe at the thought of it, but they’re probably right.
Because I’ve learned that if you create a plan, set realistic expectations and keep doing the most important thing, which is just showing up, you can accomplish most things. The problem is, we sell ourselves short over and over again because that’s so much easier. And because the moment you commit, if you do it right, is the moment the hard work begins. And let’s face it, hard work really sucks most of the time. But it’s also the most reliable track to personal satisfaction and strength and all the sweet, sweet things that trickle in and warm you up after you reach a really big goal. Tell yourself you can, and you just might. Or come find me, and I’ll tell you you can.
Sifting is survival.
Years ago, I got to see Glennon Doyle (then-Melton) speak about mental health and motherhood. During her chat, she talked about the sifting that happens in life. How, when something bad happens, or we experience the suffocating, relentless overload of everyday life, or we experience any number of scenarios that brings the emotional equivalent of a big heap of sand being dumped into our bucket, we have to pick up the strainer, raise our arms and let most of that sand fall through the holes so we can find the big, important things that should never fall through the cracks. Translated to simpler terms: We have to learn to let all the bullshit go and focus on what really matters to us.
The hardest part here is identifying the big things for you and building firm boundaries. Growing up as an aspiring writer, I was conditioned to fear the lurking famine of the starving artist. Creative jobs don’t always provide a steady paycheck, and you’re taught to take the money as it comes. This means that a lot of creatives end up taking on freelance gigs, or side hustles as the kids say these days. It’s hard to justify saying no to anyone who’s willing to slip you some cash for a few hours of copywriting or editing.
But the monetary reward of those few hours starts to dull when it gets tacked on to the end of a 9-hour workday, or it’s nestled in between cooking dinner and putting kids down for bed, or it means less of your already pathetic 6.5 hours of sleep. On an average week night, I get approximately 3 hours with my girls before they’re supposed to turn out the lights. That’s is nothing. That’s like watching Titanic one time! When you really start to do the math, it really makes you reconsider your recreational budget.
When I’m thinking about spin class, or dinner and drinks with girlfriends, or making cookies from scratch instead of buying them at Costco or the latest pyramid-scheme-come-smell-or-sip-this-crap party, I have learned to subtract the sacrifice and carry the one. I used to fear disappointing people, but the older I get, the more I realize that my time is not an abundant resource. It’s dwindling and precious, and so are conversations around the dinner table with my crew. We all have to embrace the sift and let the shit that doesn’t matter, including the guilt, just fall right through those little holes.
You’re the mirror, so make it count.
I am an Olympic-level competitor when it comes to self-deprecation. I have openly complained about my cellulite, my thighs, my upper arms, the empty baby apartment that is my midsection, my dry lips, my voice, my bad toenail … There isn’t a whole lot that God gave me that I haven’t picked apart to whomever was standing within earshot. Then my girls started talking.
Nothing sobers up a sharp tongue quite like three tiny sponges following you around all day. The first time I heard Spike say, “I feel so fat!” after eating a walking taco, I started reprogramming my outer dialogue. That meant working on my inner dialogue, a daunting wall I work my way up and over each and every day. When I eat five fun-size pouches of peanut M&Ms, instead of softly verbalizing my disgust over my choices morsel by morsel, I now acknowledge it wasn’t the best move and try to hit reset. Again, this is an ongoing effort.
I’ve noticed that my little parrots impersonate the positive as much as the negative. When I fit a workout in, sometimes they join me, and sometimes they just take note of it, and I happily embrace either. They talk about being strong and being healthy, and they work so hard to move their hips like the backup girls in the Fitness Marshall videos.
They are always, always watching, listening, imprinting. I will never make perfect choices. But what I’ve learned is that the thing I decide to do right after I make the bad choice, matters. It matters just as much as making a good choice from the jump matters. I’m working on inserting a thoughtful pause before I speak, before I eat, before I glare. And the better I get at it, the more I realize it’s as beneficial for me as it is for the little humans watching me.
Someone needs to see your mess (and to show you theirs).
To be clear, I am referring both to your literal mess and your metaphorical mess here. I am so tired of making myself so tired. The dust and toys in my house have to be procreating; reproducing at an alarming, puzzling rate. Because kids come with an unbelievable amount of crap. And they are carriers of crap. They take great joy in picking up crap in one room and, for no logical reason, moving said crap to another area of the house to mingle with other crap.
I cannot tell you how many times I have mopped my kitchen floor and come in an hour later to find paw prints or playdough or sticky red punch splattered across the tiles. No one ever knows where the offensive substance came from and therefore, no one can be held accountable for cleaning it up. This is my life – a series of mysterious, anonymous crimes, the likes of which I’m on the hook to erase.
My mother-in-law stopped by once unannounced and I was mortified at the dumpster pile of book bags, art projects and coats on the floor where she walked in. When I started to apologize, she waved her hand and said, “Oh gosh! It means kids live here and they’re off having fun,” and I thought, hey, I kind of like that. I’m still going to scream my head off at them the second you leave, but I really like that. When people come over or I go to their house, instead of assuming we’re all sizing up the untidy situation, it’s so much better to think of the misplaced stuff of life as evidence of new hobbies and imagination and play. If my girls want to build a fort for the fifteen thousandth time in the front room, and take every cushion off every couch and strip every blanket off of every sofa, wonderful! I ask you to reserve judgement about my landfill of a living room, and I in turn, pledge to wait an entire two hours before completely losing my mind about how awful it all looks.
We can all relate to the Indy 500 pit crew cleanup that happens when someone calls to say they might … might stop by in a little bit. Our voice says we’re all calm and excited, but the minute we hang up we start assessing the messes in our home, on a scale from most offensive (Did anyone leave a treasure in the potty?) to least offensive (A dog hair dust bunny barreling across the entryway). We frantically spray and sweep and stuff toys into places not designed to hold toys, and when we open the door to welcome our friend, sweat dripping down our brow, we play it off like the house looked that way the whole time. It’s a lie. An exhausting, stupid lie. Here’s the thing, I’m not ready to completely let my filth flag fly, but if I know you and you’re coming over, I’ve started leaning into the idea of it is what it is. And it would make me feel a whole lot better if you did, too. Maybe just like a ring in your toilet or something, if it’s not too much to ask. My kid’s just going to go plug it up with a whole roll of toilet paper anyway.
I think we can all agree that a messy house is entirely forgivable and a universal bedsore. So, too, I would say is the impeccable image we’re all tossing out on social media. The relatively recent phenomenon is sucking the souls out of parents everywhere, and it needs to be squashed, yesterday. I have three kids, a decrepit dog and a camera-shy husband, so I’m not buying for a second that your family just happened to stumble into the pumpkin patch at sunset and your 3- and 5-year-old spontaneously gave each other a smooch. Not to say I don’t want to see it if you pulled it off, I’m just saying, toss in a little reality here and there to spice it up. If you’re a #fitfamily or #blessed or require #nofilter, no one is happier for you than I am. But I’d be just as happy to see all the gut-busting, frustrating, embarrassing moments you happened to capture on the fly, too, because it all adds up to who you and your people are, and I love those people! I know so many mamas who opt not to be in pictures with their kiddos because they don’t have makeup on, or they have three chins or a zit. I say, pop the pimple and stick your mug in there!
A few months back, we were on a camping trip and Sloppy Joan was swinging in a hammock. The sun was streaming through the trees and her hair was blowing in the gentle breeze and she had a cherry popsicle in her hand and a grin as big as Texas on her face. I put down my beer, picked up my phone and tried to capture the blissful scene. “Whee!” she said, before, in a total freak series of events, the hammock twisted, spinning her in the air and eventually dumping her out onto the ground with a thud. The whole thing transpired in the blink of an eye. She was fine. No injuries. And if you know anything about me, you know that people falling down is one of my favorite things. So, naturally, once we confirmed that all her collar bones and baby teeth were intact, I posted the video of the tumble.
The reception was varied. People either found it hysterical or horrific, and there wasn’t much in between. I felt profoundly unapologetic. Had she gotten hurt, the footage never would have seen the light of day, but I captioned it with the disclaimer, “The only thing hurt in the making of this video was the popsicle,” which was true. I’m a firm believer in giving equal weight to showcasing the bumps and bloopers as well as the awards and triumphs. It’s all happening. We’re winning and losing, posing and pouting. C’mon … I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. I might be alone in this, but I actually prefer the messy stuff. If it makes you feel better, you can still put a filter on it.
Don’t assume people know how much you love them.
People need to feel loved, period. Love is the most valuable expression of appreciation and acceptance and it says, hey, if you disappeared from this planet tomorrow, somebody would be horribly, miserably sad about it. I love a lot of people. I have a killer family all around, from the trunk and out through all the branches, fantastic friends and a lot of little mortal gems I’ve picked up and put in my pocket throughout my personal and professional journeys. I’m a firm believer that, when the world puts a good human in your path, you should always ask them to walk with you for a bit, or forever.
But it’s true what they say about the toilet paper roll. The more time passes, the faster it goes. The bigger my kids get, the more the days and years and milestones blur together. It’s all a big trick – this life’s so good you should savor every second, if, that is, you can keep up! A few months back, my family had a very unexpected loss and, as is often the case in those situations, we were all pretty shaken up. We assume there will always be another opportunity to affirm our feelings for someone we care about, until that one time when there isn’t.
Hank and I joke a lot about how we don’t see or speak to each other all week long. We’re zone coverage on meals and baths and homework, and masters at the whole “ships in the night” routine. One Friday evening, he made some drinks, we put on NPR Tiny Desk Concerts and we hung out for a few hours. No agenda. Just great conversation and little bit of a buzz. We had so much fun, we did the same thing the next Friday night, and then a few Fridays after that. Sitting on the couch and just making room for each other meant a lot. It was a gesture neither of us knew we needed until someone made it. It’s so easy to ignore that void that gets carved out organically between people by the obligations of adulthood. But we have to remember that even the best love can get lost in a void like that. You have to push the cushions together and make the space.
The same is true for parents and children and girlfriends and neighbors and co-workers. The current of life is stubborn and strong, and it’s so easy to let time and expressions of admiration or appreciation pass by. Again, we’re not talking about a renewable resource here. Time is so sweet and sometimes giving some of it to someone you care about is the boldest demonstration of devotion. If I love ya – and if you’re reading this, chances are I do – watch out, man, because I’m going to smother you in it. Like a ballpark frank in mustard. We rob ourselves of so many beautiful connections when we don’t say the things we’re feeling to the people we’re feeling them about. When it comes to love, I don’t think we should make assumptions, we should make sure. Make sure they feel it, make sure we show it and make sure we’re handing enough of it out. Because everyone could use some.