I have been lucky enough to have done some extraordinary things in my life.
Become a writer.
Publish my lifelong dream book.
Donate a kidney.
I happily (painfully, enthusiastically, worriedly, nervously, animatedly, obsessively) wrote about all of the above. They were events, situations, circumstances that aren't run of the mill and it helped, when going through things I'd never imagined, that stretched and challenged me in ways I wouldn't have thought possible, to write through it all.
Writing helped me.
And sometimes my words helped others. Patients hoping for health. Creative souls who wanted to believe they could write but didn't have enough confidence to try. People struggling in one way or another with the messiness of life. Reading about my experiences put words to feelings and situations so many others grapple with.
I stopped writing. It didn't feel like what I've been doing warranted time and attention.
But maybe I was wrong.
Maybe small things can resonate as powerfully as the monumental.
Maybe instead of feeling lost and incomplete because I'm not accomplishing epic things, I can appreciate that every day, every single day, there are incredible, soul-nourishing moments.
And maybe that's what life is all about—not just the monumental accomplishments but everything there is.
Like seeing my mom looking better this Thanksgiving than she has in years.
Playing catch, as the sun set, in the pool with Jon, Iz, and Jack.
Having puppies head butt me with excitement when seeing me when I walked through the door.
Melting back into being home after being away.
Sitting with how much I love and appreciate my family.
I am grateful for the extraordinary. And learning to be even more so for the everyday.