book

 

I’ve lived in my house for ten years.

When I moved in, it was supposed to be my “for a while” house, one that was small and affordable and in a nice but not fancy suburb in a town I knew.

Ten years later, there are still boxes in the crawl space, unfinished paint in the den, an a non-committal array of impersonal-ish books and knick knacks on shelves as if they’re waiting to be packed up again or transplanted to some other nondescript suburban living room.

—-

I’ve been a marketer for twenty years.

When I started in marketing, I wasn’t a marketer. At least not an intentional one. I landed there, I happened to have a knack for communication…and so it went.

I always thought I’d figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up somewhere along the way.

Twenty years later, I’m still marketing stuff. And still sometimes wondering what I should be when I grow up.

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Sometimes, I feel like I’ve spent my life waiting for something – something not me – to complete my story for me.

To fill in the missing pieces that I’d left open just in case what I had, what I was doing, where I was going wasn’t enough.

As is typical, I’ve reflected this week on the things I’m grateful for. It’s been a tumultuous year or two, but I have so much gratitude.

I looked around me, counting my blessings…and I started to cry.

All at once it hit me that I’ve been leaving blank spaces in my life – unfinished places, unpacked boxes, unadorned walls – because I think I was waiting for something.

For as much as I have that I’m thankful for, that I have created around me and find beautiful and fulfilling, I had convinced myself somewhere along the way that it wasn’t enough. That I wasn’t enough.

I couldn’t finish my spaces, because I wouldn’t be here long anyway. I would move, somewhere bigger into a better zip code, and find that elusive level of Achievement that I had been holding out for.

I couldn’t hang photos on the walls, because until I had love in my life, the story wasn’t complete enough to celebrate and enjoy.

I couldn’t celebrate a successful career and accomplishments because I wasn’t really a marketer, I was just someone pretending to be one until they figured out that I wasn’t qualified to be doing this at all.

So while I roasted the sweet potatoes for tomorrow’s dinner, I went into the garage and got the half-full can of paint and some brushes.

I finished the wall in the den that has been bare for two years.

I hung the photos that have been sitting in a drawer. I made myself a mug of tea. I dusted off the keys and played my piano.

Sat on my couch. In my house. With my dogs. Folded my laundry.

Because after all this, it’s time that I realize that my story only needs me to complete it. I don’t need to wait for my story to be written. I’m writing it, here every day, all on my own.

I am enough. This is enough. It’s more than enough.

And it’s beautiful.

Happy Thanksgiving.