I Loved Writing This. So I Did.
It’s a weird thing to get competitive with a 17-year-old. But that’s exactly where I’m at in my middle-aged life.
Yesterday my daughter turned 12. She is a beautiful, beautiful human, becoming more adult-like every day. Our framily helped us celebrate.
Birthday crepes!
And my friend’s 17-year-old son triggered the ef outta me.
Before I share why, let’s back up.
As many of you know, I preach a lot about living mindfully. The last few weeks of my life have been real fun. Possibly too fun. Unbalanced, if you will.
Let me be real about yesterday. The only mindfulness activity I practiced was watching myself navigate various stages of a self-ignited dumpster fire.
More realness: I’m one of those 99 percenters who have to work. I get paid to be a copywriter. I write for great clients. This fact alone keeps me motivated. But the work itself isn’t my version of Oh, Hell Yeah. It used to be. In my 20s and 30s I was obsessed with the writing work I get paid to do right now.
I trust I’m good at it. But now that I’m in my middle-ages, I no longer feel that Rah Rah YES! feeling when I sit down to write copy.
And as a result, I’m rebelling. I’m pushing deadlines. I’m procrastinating. I’m having to rely on fun and strange and maybe unhealthy coping mechanisms to help me focus. I’m very much in a season of career confusion. It’s bringing up a lot of fear.
Yesterday I realized it’s time for some honest self-reflection. My tell?
The sweetest kid on the planet triggered the fuck out of me.
Yesterday I tried to be both super-mom and super-freelancer. And at 5 p.m. on Friday, I realized I shit the bed on a deadline with a new client, just as I was last-minute impulse shopping my way through King Soopers to pull together a meal for my only child’s framily birthday party.
I screwed up. I admitted my mistake, while throwing a (selfish) pint of Phish Food in my cart. I aplogized to my client as I fulfilled my child’s slumber party grocery list. They were gracious.
I recognized that a past version of me would have felt panicked. Yet a higher version of myself pulled me into a hug and told me I’m worthy of love even when I make mistakes.
I let it go. Which allowed me be present with and enjoy my daughter’s 12th birthday party.
Until the dang sweet son of my very good friend opened up to me about something he truly loves.
Before I tell you how he did this, A Truth:
The greatest gift of my mindfulness practice is the ability to be present with the love that’s available to me at all times.
But. Lately.
I’ve been struggling.
Questioning my life’s decisions. Feeling strangled by a lack of creativity. Overly-focused on forcing my creativity to pay my rent. Overly-reliant on good times outside of work to distract me from my real-world problem of struggling to complete even basic work-related tasks.
And yet. I took some deep breaths. I took time with my bare feet on the ground. And I welcomed my guests, able to:
Watch my daughter clean up the house without being asked.
Watch two people with a bittersweet past consciously co-parent like champs.
Watch three friends from elementary school, separated by middle school, reunited with the tenderness and edge those middle school-aged years are known for.
Watch the sweetest 17-year-old kid on the planet, giddy to show off pics of his next adventure: his dream school in his dream location to enter his dream program, exactly 1,013 miles from home.
Watch a favorite middle-aged mom moving through big things perhaps best described by my favorite poem: Watching My Friend Pretend Her Heart Isn't Breaking by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer.
Most of all, I watched myself. I watched myself be mesmerized by and absorbed in the great love of ALL of it. Feeling immense gratitude for living through ALL of it. Buoyed by the complicated notions of deep love and deep roots. The tangling. The untangling.
My heart was so full.
Until.
Until.
That sweet, sweet kid.
God bless him.
The sweetest kid on the planet … 3 weeks from his official adulthood. An accomplished performer. A humble leader. An empathetic and empathic human sharing so much light and love on this planet.
Well.
This sweet kid had the nerve to tell me he’s also a writer.
A WRITER.
A writer. Like you, he says with his sweet smile. I love to write.
And he was going home to write a short story.
Not because he had a deadline.
Not because he had anything to prove.
Not because he needs his writing to pay his rent.
He writes because he loves to write.
And he sweetly and humbly asked me if I would read his work.
Which, YES! Of course. I cannot wait and said as much.
But after he and his family left, I paced the house.
Because in a day filled with triggers of my own design, the conversation with him is the only thing that really bothered me. He triggered my competitiveness. My self-judgment. My fear of my writing never being enough. The fear of being middle-aged and never quite living up to my potential.
Sweet kid, he had no idea. But energetically, he opened up a far bigger question than “will you read my writing?” He triggered me into asking myself:
Carie, what is it that you love?
Dear E.H.,
I’m so excited to see the amazing things you’ll do in this world! Keep shining your light wherever you go. And thank you, thank you, thank you, for reminding me to stay focused on the love. ❤️
Carie
