I took the afternoon off work yesterday to go swimming with my kids.
It’s the kind of thing that I can get away with, because I work for myself. As much as self-employment can be extremely challenging and stressful, it’s this kind of flexibility that makes it all worthwhile.
We’re deep into school holidays, and the balancing act of working whilst looking after the children has meant I’ve had to take time off, my husband has had to use what limited annual leave he can sporadically spare, and we’ve had to ask for a lot of help from the grandparents. Yesterday was one of my husband’s childcare days, and he booked spaces to take the children to a water park not far from us. I love a water park. But more than that, I love how excited my kids get by water parks. So I sulked for a few hours until my husband said, “Why don’t you just come too?!” And then I realised that this was, in fact, an option, and I booked a space for myself.
It’s such a small thing, taking the children to a glorified swimming pool for a few hours. I definitely could have used that time to get a lot of important work-type things done. But no one on their death bed has ever wished they’d got more important work-type things done. The things I will remember are the shrieks of joy from my kids as they were splashed by water fountains and pulled around by rapids. How my two-year-old shouted “again, AGAIN!” every time he got to the bottom of the curly slide. The sun on our faces as we jumped into the outdoor pool. The sense of calm, lying in the water, like I could finally let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
It’s the little things
I often hear people say, “It’s the little things in life,” which always makes me assume they must already have all the big things. You can be blasé about wealth and power and those things in life only if you don’t lack them. And yet, the older I get, the more I wonder if the big things are all they’re cracked up to be.
We’re taught, from a young age, that we should aspire to be extraordinary. We need to set ourselves apart from the other kids in our class, or the other children on the sports field. We need to be prettier, funnier, faster, stronger… we need to be, somehow, special. The hero of every story we read or watch is in some way different to everyone else, and that difference is what will lead them to victory, success and glory. The glory is important - we need to want the glory.
Of course, it’s a bit of a capitalist trap. You can’t ever really obtain true glory. Some people can, but not you. Sorry. The spaces for billionaires and major celebrities are already taken. They’re the people who know people. They’re the children of people. The likes of us are not those people.
But they need us to believe that we could be those people. If we just work hard enough. If we just give enough of ourselves to the corporations that, coincidentally, happen to be owned by those people. If we just buy enough of the right products and books and courses produced by the companies owned by, oh, would you look at that, also owned by those people. If we give them enough, they suggest, then they might just let us be like them. They won’t really, they want to keep it all for themselves. But they continue to feed us that story because it serves them well.
We internalise the message - to be valuable, to be loved, to matter, you must be extraordinary.
Does extraordinariness buy you happiness?
There’s no doubt that some success goes a long way. My grandmother, who was a very wise woman, was fond of saying, “Money can’t buy you happiness, but it sure as hell takes the sting out of being miserable.” If you’re going to be unhappy, you might as well do it in comfort. And honestly, you’ll probably be a bit less miserable if you’re not worried about whether there’ll still be a roof over your head tomorrow and not chewing on cardboard to trick your stomach into thinking you’ve eaten because you can’t afford dinner. Of course you need money. It may be a trap, but we live in a capitalist society and we have to play by its rules. (For now - I live in hope!) You need a degree of security and comfort. You need your basic needs met.
But what do you need beyond that?
It’s a perfectly adequate life
My favourite Christmas movie (and yes, I know we’re a long way out just yet), is It’s a Wonderful Life. I watch it every year, and I cry every time. I’ve always loved it, but I think it took me until a few years ago (after about 25 years of watching it annually) to fully understand why. Maybe even to appreciate what it’s really about.
If you haven’t seen it, firstly, I insist you watch it this December. Secondly, without spoiling the plot too much, George Bailey dreamt of an extraordinary life of adventure and esteem from childhood, but the universe conspired to keep him stuck in a fairly run-of-the-mill existence in his hometown. He’s frustrated by his missed opportunities, but trying to make do. It takes a near disaster, and some help from the least likely guardian angel you can imagine, to make him realise that his life, in all its supposed mediocrity, has actually been deeply meaningful and worthwhile.
When I was young, I, much like George Bailey, thought that I needed to see the world and do all the things. I wanted to be a writer, and I equated success with fame and fortune. As I hurtled towards 40, I began to panic that I was neither famous nor rich, and that, although I’ve been lucky enough to do some exciting travelling, I haven’t ticked off all that much of the map. But does any of that matter?
What do I want fame and riches for, really? I want to write, and the version of success that I had been fed told me that for my writing to count it had to be read by millions of people. Yet I’ve had articles in national newspapers, with huge circulation, which often get very little feedback, except for the ubiquitous trolls who send me messages to remind me that they would like to see me die horribly. (Coming off Twitter has done wonders for my enjoyment of having my work published!) However, when I publish my pieces on Substack to my small but perfectly formed readership, I receive loads of supportive, insightful and interesting comments and get to engage in discussions about topics that matter to me. I’m coming to realise that it’s not the number of people reading my words that is most valuable, it’s the type of people that read them - people who resonate with my work and care about it and connect to it. Knowing that you’ve touched someone or inspired someone or even helped someone is much more fulfilling than just knowing you’ve been in front of a lot of eyeballs.
As for fortune, my dear old Nan wasn’t wrong about it, but I’ve also learned that we tend to live to our means. If I tripled my income, I would triple my outgoings to keep pace. It’s just the world we live in. There will always be more. They will always tell you that you need more. But I’m starting to appreciate focusing on a bit less. My house was becoming too cluttered, and it was overwhelming me. I had a massive clear out, and immediately felt lighter and more relaxed. The planet is on fire, and as a society we waste way too much, so consuming less, buying more second-hand, fixing and recycling things where I can not only makes me feel less anxious about my impact on the planet, but it feels quite therapeutic as an action in itself. I enjoy sitting down and sewing on buttons, I get hours of pleasure from foraging berries and making jam. Rummaging through charity shop clothes racks is a meditative activity (and I know that the clothes are being reused instead of wasted, plus the charity gets some money while I save money - everyone’s a winner). So yes, I need to make money, but I don’t really need that much. I want enough to be comfortable, and I want to be happy with that.
The thing that’s really hard to let go of, though, is the need to stand out. To be special. To be someone significant. I haven’t completely unlearnt that story yet. But, in the same way that my writing means more to me when I know I’ve truly touched one person rather than simply reached thousands, I’m coming to realise that life can be more valuable in the few truly close connections that we can nurture than in being simply known by a crowd. In chasing distinction, we separate ourselves from others. That’s the point, after all - to be separate, to be distinct. That inevitably comes with distance from everyone else. Connection and community are so vital to our sense of happiness - loneliness can literally kill. We are so busy chasing the stories we’ve been told that we’re running away from the things we truly need. I could focus on having millions of people know my name, or I could focus on having a meaningful impact on the lives of my family and friends, and the people in my community.
Maybe I can have both, to a degree. Maybe one day I’ll write a novel that will touch thousands, maybe millions of people. And I’ll do it while still giving deeply and generously to my real relationships. But I know I have to focus on the latter first, because that’s where the wonder is truly to be found. When my friend messages me to say that my support meant a lot to her when she was struggling. When my husband tells me that I brighten up his days. When my daughter tells me she loves me all around the world and back. (She also tells me she loves me to Essex, where her grandparents live, and back, which she seems to think is further.) These are the moments that really matter.
These are the moments that make life truly extraordinary.
This was such a thought-provoking read! As you say, perhaps being distinct is actually not what we should aspire to be. I am learning this more and more as I get older and as I mother. The toxicity of competition and not enoughness is much less prominent as I realise that it is what brings us together rather than what separates us that is important...