Like a Rushing River
I turned 35 this year and maybe it’s existentialism clawing at my very being, but I’ve started to look at my life and I’m feeling a little torn. Torn over what it is I’ve actually accomplished, where it is I’m going, and if I’m really happy with who I am when I present that who out into the world. (The who that is presented out in the world, in question here, is certainly different than the who at home.)
It’s a lot to reconcile.
It’s a heady emotion to feel. Like a rushing river. And now the dam is full, ready to burst.
For well over a year I have begun to walk down a road that makes me really take a hard look at myself, my life, and what it is I want.
Some will say “Oh! You have a husband, three great kids, an established career …”
That’s all true. And I’m grateful for all of it. Yet none of that is an accomplishment – even though I love my husband and children very very much.
THEY ARE NOT an accomplishment. Their lives will be THEIR accomplishment. I will be very happy for them, and I encourage them, but aside from biology I am not about to begin taking credit for what they will accomplish in their lives.
As for the career?
I just happened to be standing in the right place at the right time to fall into a career that paid well and that I was pretty okay at. Top it all off? They lauded me with praise and I had my father’s approval.
Today? Daddy is gone and the praise feels hollow.
So now, who was it all for? And where do I go from here?
Those questions have fueled this blog on many days where I wondered exactly what I’m doing.
So today I sit here and find myself trying to understand how to find happiness in completely overhauling my life. How to align 15 years of experience in a career with only an Associate’s degree under my belt and a hope in my heart.
And then I remind myself that a hope can help light the path while I find my way. That for any one of us trying to figure out how to take a love for the creative and turn it into an accomplished career all we have to do is take the first step.