I’ve always been someone who juggles a lot of balls.
Always.
There were a few brief periods where I lived what most people would probably consider a normal life. I only worked one job. I was only managing two residences. Which, looking back, still sounds ridiculous, but compared to now, it felt downright relaxing. Back then, I had time.
I could sit on my deck with a cup of coffee and listen to the birds and the stream running alongside of my house. I actually had time to read my Food & Wine, which for me was the equivalent of a good book! I wrote. I painted. Sometimes I’d wake up and ask myself a question that feels almost foreign now…..
“Hmmmm. What do I feel like doing today?” I have rarely asked myself that question in at least ten years.
The moment I put my dream home on the market in 2016, everything changed.
The plan seemed simple enough. Sell the house. Move into a temporary rental. Find a new place where my kids could settle in. Then eventually make my way back to the beach. (The real one on the other side of the country!)
Simple.
Instead, that one temporary move turned into three.
Then two jobs.
Then six more moves.
Then chaos.
I was recently reunited with photo albums I hadn’t seen since 2017 when they were packed. When I opened them, I cried. Not because of the photos. Because I realized how much life I missed while I was busy managing life. During those years, I worked no less than 65 to 70 hours a week. For several years I flew across the country every Wednesday.
Every.
Single.
Week.
Complete insanity.
The crazy? It was supposed to be temporary. Yet somehow temporary has lasted six more years.
Then came the money pit house.
Now don’t get me wrong, I knew the house needed work. I knew I would need a new roof. I just didn’t expect the roof to leak on the first night.
The first night.
Really, Universe?
The heater malfunctioned.
The AC malfunctioned.
And yes, I had an inspection. I was told I had a few years. Apparently “a few years” translates to “a few days” in home inspector language.
The repairs never stopped. Hmmmm. The previous owners forgot to mention that in heavy rains, the property becomes Gilligan’s Island. And where is Thurston Howell when you need financing?
Owning a house that constantly needs attention is basically a part-time job.
Then add rental properties.
Add tenants who disappear without paying rent.
Add tenants who somehow manage to avoid cleaning an oven for two full years and let the weeds grow into the screens on the 2nd floor!
Add property damage. (How do we poke holes in ceilings?)Â Not a TV mount, or a light fixture. Just a random hole. Why are we kicking brand new stoves?
Add paperwork.
Add phone calls.
Add surprise expenses.
Add all the other adulting nonsense that shows up daily whether you invited it or not.
By 2021, I was convinced things would settle down. (Silly f’n me! A whole new set of fresh hell broke loose!)
I bought art supplies. Good art supplies! I was going to paint again. Those paints are probably dried into colorful little hockey pucks by now.
Every morning, I steal about 45 minutes to an hour to write.
Steal.
That’s how it feels. Like I’m committing some sort of crime against productivity.
The rest of my days are spent working, grocery shopping, in my 2nd home away from home, (HOME DEPOT!) cooking, cleaning, sorting papers, opening junk mail, answering emails, never ending bookkeeping and tax prep, dealing with some fresh new form of unexpected BS, and trying not to lose my mind.
I squeeze in walks. I’m convinced it is the only reason I am still alive and not in prison!
I squeeze in gym time. Â Yesterday I got dressed for the gym at 4:00. At 6:00, I was still sitting at my desk answering emails while simultaneously sorting mail and running back and forth to the kitchen trying to get dinner ready. When I finally got to the gym, the parking lot looked like Taylor Swift was performing inside.
Packed.
And once you get in there, every workout takes twice as long because someone is sitting on the leg press using it as their personal phone booth.
I gave up. Came home. Did squats at the stove.
This is where I am in my life.
So naturally, what did I decide to do?
Launch a newsletter. And a podcast.
Because apparently, I have completely lost my mind.
Never mind the two books sitting unfinished on my hard drive.
The twenty T-shirt designs I created five years ago.
The two stage shows that have been ready for production for eight years.
The eight screenplays and other writing projects.
The painting supplies.
The dreams.
The things I actually want to do. (Like launch a newsletter and a podcast! Build a brand.) The truth is, in my attempt to do everything, I’m accomplishing very little. My plate stays full. But instead of removing things from the plate, I keep looking for a bigger plate.
Maybe that’s the real problem.
I was told a while ago, that it is possible I am afraid of success. Maybe I am, although I have no idea why. Another friend recently told me, “Juggling a thousand things is just who you are.”
No. The F it is not. It’s what I’ve been doing. It’s not who I am. I’ve been juggling for so long that people think it’s my personality. I’m more of a beach bum with a book and a notepad type of girl. I used to be a collector of shoes and now I live to be in a place I don’t need to wear any!
So, I’m juggling. But guess what! My arms are tired. And if I’m honest, it may not be much longer before the balls start hitting the ground.
Maybe some of them should.
Maybe every ball isn’t mine to catch.
Maybe every problem doesn’t require my immediate attention.
Maybe the dust can wait.
Maybe the floor doesn’t need mopping because I spotted one thing on it.
Maybe every email doesn’t deserve an immediate response. (Or any!)
Maybe every opportunity isn’t actually an opportunity.
Maybe every project or idea isn’t meant to become a business.
Maybe some things can simply be enjoyed.
Imagine that.
Reading Food & Wine on the porch. (I miss my deck!)
Writing without guilt.
Painting because I feel like it. Because I’m inspired. Actually using the collage media I’ve been collecting for a few years.
Taking a walk because it’s a beautiful day.
Sitting still long enough to hear birds again.
I think a lot of women struggle with this. We’re taught to carry everything. Fix everything. Manage everything. Remember everything. Do everything.
And then we’re surprised when we’re exhausted. There are only so many hours in a day, and rumor has it they’re not making more.
So, if I want more peace, more creativity, more joy, more of the life I keep postponing until “things settle down,” something has to go.
That’s the hard part.
Not adding.
Eliminating.
Not finding a bigger plate. Taking things off the plate.
Because the life I want isn’t waiting somewhere in the future after I finish everything.
There is no damn finish line. You never finish everything!
The demands will keep growing if I let them. So maybe the question isn’t how I get everything done.
Maybe the question is, what am I willing to leave undone so I can finally live?
I’ve spent so many years reacting to life that I forgot I’m allowed to choose.