What Matters

It's hard to escape the feeling that my voice doesn't matter; that everything in my head has been said better and more completely by someone else; that no one will ever see this or care.

And I don't have a magic solution to that problem.

I am a work in progress.

What I can say, is that once I start to write - even about nothing at all - my mind starts to quiet itself. I've heard people speak about similar experiences, so I don't think I'm alone in this.

I am in the middle of some of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make. There are even rougher seas ahead of me. And yet - I feel calm. I can't explain it except to say that this is the path I chose. Over the last few months I have analyzed and agonized and, frankly, avoided making these decisions because it all just seemed too hard. I have chosen this course for my life, where previously I had made the best of the opportunities that landed in my lap. I was very good at that, I made a pretty little life for myself, I thought I had everything I wanted.

I met my husband in college; we've been together for almost 10 years now. We've had all the stereotypical ups and downs. It's cliche that the happiest I've ever been in my life was the day I said "I do". In a way, I suspect that's true for so many people because it's manufactured to be so. Months, or even years, of planning go into making sure that day is joyful for the two of you above all else (hopefully). A lot of work goes into planning a wedding - I like to think it's indicative of the work that has been put into the relationship you're celebrating in the first place, to bring you to such a magical place.

Our first year of marriage was a breeze. We had been living together since we left college so we had had plenty of time already to argue about how the dishes should be placed in the dishwasher, or whether the framed picture of Jean-Luc Picard needed to be in the dining room, or what exactly constituted "my side" of the bed - all heated debates, I assure you.

And then one day I was talking to a friend about something that was bothering me and he said the simplest thing:

"You know, what you want matters, too."

In that moment, something changed. I had never been taught that the things I wanted meant anything. I had always thought that wanting anything made me selfish. I had decided that the only way to have a thriving marriage was to give myself over entirely to making sure my husband was as happy as he could be. With those seven words, I realized that listening to the quiet voice inside me may make me "selfish", but that as hard as I tried (and boy, did I try) I could never "make" anyone else happy unless I was happy in myself. My wants mattered.

This triggered a series of events where over the next couple of years I started to put work into becoming the person I wanted to be. I started working out, started choosing what I ate more carefully, listened to podcasts, stopped feeling guilty for hanging out with my friends and made efforts to reconnect. I watched documentaries, learned to cook for myself, changed my career, and decided that taking a long drive to visit a friend in a big scary city all by myself actually sounded WONDERFUL and not scary at all.

In the mean time, things with my husband deteriorated. I had changed in big ways that he was unprepared (and at times unwilling) to deal with. He has battled depression for most of his life and it had started to rear its ugly head again. I realized that I just couldn't make him be happy; it wasn't within my control. I couldn't make enough little things better, couldn't make enough of the minute irritations of life go away, couldn't orchestrate enough decisions around his (sometimes irrational) demands in the thrall of a depressive episode.

I couldn't make enough excuses to friends for his behavior. I couldn't take enough of the pain away.

I have had many difficult conversations with him over the years, but none of them prepared me for the night I finally steeled myself to ask for space, for some time alone, for the chance to be who I am on my own. It was sudden, and gruelling, and heartbreaking, and I did such a poor job of explaining why I was doing it that I had to do it all over again less than a week later. I hadn't had any experience in asking him for something I needed. He hadn't had any experience in setting aside his grief to give that to me. I stood my ground, and I did my best to be gracious, and finally I made it to the other side.

I have found, in this brief window of independence, the most fulfilling calm inside myself.

I don't know yet what that means or why it is this way or where this road is going to take me, but I do know this:

What you want matters, too.