The Stories We Tell Ourselves

About four years ago I opened the long curtains in the front room of our house with the same thoughtless motion that I had used every morning before I left. Normally the car in the driveway would have muted the morning sun streaming through the window, however that morning, the sun glared into the house.

After the initial shock that the car was not where I had left it I realized it had been repossessed. This was the first in-my-face sign that life was spiraling out of my control. I had not wanted to accept that change was necessary. Yet here was evidence to the contrary. We could have sold the car before someone abducted it, but when you cling to your material life, that is what happens. You lose things against your will.

Fast forward a few years and I’m sitting in the corner of a white examining room.  This is my first doctor’s visit about me and not related to a baby growing in my belly. The doctor has inquired about my stress level and I’m telling him that it has skyrocketed because I lost everything. As I hear myself speak these words, I realize, not only am I guilty of hyperbole, but I am lying to myself and the doctor.

I had lost stuff. But my life was so much more… I still had the most important people in the world with me and we all had great health. I realized I had the ability to make my life better for me and everyone else. All I had to do was identify what was important to me and be grateful. So simple yet so powerful… I guess I had a hard time seeing through all that stuff before.

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