What Does a Rich Life Look Like?

I’m sitting in the nail salon waiting for a pedicure to begin. I’m writing this newsletter mostly because it’s due today, and I owe it to both you and to myself. I thought I might find it difficult to type the entire thing on my phone, but it’s proving more natural than putting fingers to computer keyboard. Maybe that says something about the era in which I was raised. It probably does.

I have a friend who is thoughtful in what seems like everything she does. Every word she speaks, piece of content she writes, career move she embarks on is done so with the utmost intention and care. I admire her deeply for this.

Yet, as I sit here in the nail salon, typing this newsletter on my phone, I can’t help but feel the weight of the thought that I am everything she is not. She is thoughtful; I am careless. She works ahead; I am a serial procrastinator. She would never say the word “shit” and I can’t get mine together.

I know this is mean. Pitting myself against others’ in the name of self-loathing. But it’s the way I’ve existed in the world for as long as I can remember. Not by choice, but by survival. I’m not sure if you can relate, but my default wellness check is to compare how I’m doing to my perception of where others are on the imaginary scale. This is based in zero scientific proof, and it’s all subjective to my experience, but alas, for some odd reason unclear to me, I put myself through yet another layer of self-inflicted, mental torture.

Sometimes that which I am measuring is productivity like in the example above. Other times, it’s intellect. Most often though, it’s beauty. I think that’s because somewhere in the back of my mind, I always knew it was one thing I could always rely on. I may not be the most educated or come from the most money, but hey, at least some people find me pretty. As one can imagine, over time, this becomes increasingly damaging. I can almost instantly feel the confidence leave my body when another, more beautiful woman enters the room. Why is this so? It’s something I’m trying to unpack in therapy, but what I know for sure is that I can no longer carry on solidifying my self-worth by the perceived “trump card” I may or may not be able to play on others. It simply won’t stand, and not to mention, it’s just fucking mean.

The more I release the unrelenting chains that previously bound me, the more space I create, and inevitably, the more questions spill in. These look a lot like the conversations posed in past newsletters: How do we create more joy? What is it you long to create? Most recently: What does a rich life look like? Surely it isn’t one in which my self-worth hinges on the productivity, intellect, or beauty of another. So what takes place of that belief? What’s the highest expression I can dream up? If I could choose, what would I opt to fill and sustain me?

A few days ago, I was driving to the grocery store to pick up some dairy-free milk. The nearest places to do this is the Turnip Truck, which you can get to by driving just a few blocks from my home in the neighborhood. As I approached stop sign after stop sign I looked around, windows down, admiring the warm summer evening air and the activities you could observe others engaged in because it decided to make an appearance.

One house in particular I always admire is a small cottage perched on the corner of a not-so-busy side street. I’m not fully sure it’s even a proper lot, as it sits closely behind another home near the alleyway. This tiny cottage, however, was renovated a couple years back by an older woman who retired there with her proper brown Doodle named Barley. As I passed her place on my way to purchase the milk like I have so many times in the past, I noticed the olive green shutters to her entire cottage were open, soaking in the last bit of sweetness from the summer. And there she was, placed almost picturesquely on the left-side of her front porch, Barley sitting dutifully at her feet. In the brevity of the exchange, I couldn’t quite tell if she was reading or simply enjoying her evening, but something about the combination of open shutters, fresh air, and the look on her face felt familiar and warm. In that moment, all I could think to myself was, “Now that is a rich life”.

In my fantasy, that woman wasn’t concerned with her beauty or her youth. I had hoped she wasn’t stressed about the unfinished items that may or may not have lingered unchecked at the base of her to-do list. She seemed happy, content. Full on the way she actively chose to spend her time that evening and how she chose to speak to herself.

So as I sit here, pedicure now well underway, I can’t help but be taken by the fact that it is Wednesday at noon. I have the luxury of getting my toenails painted in the middle of the day. I have the privilege of sharing my thoughts freely knowing there are people on the other end that will take something that matters to them away from my words. I have yet to look up and place myself on the imaginary scale of self-worth and today it seems a bit easier not to.

I am no master at the lessons that find us one way or another in this crazy rollercoaster we call life. I often feel insecure. I’m always learning more than I did the day before. But for today, life is indeed rich. I suppose I just needed to open the shutters, let in some fresh air, and sit in the quiet long enough to notice.