We don’t need a purpose!
The board room pitch that caused a mutiny in my organization.
“We don’t owe you anything!”
My insides are pushing back hard against this tradition. It’s an unexpected battle in the boardroom meeting of my thoughts. Me versus change.
But this is what we do! It’s our birthday so it’s resolution time and we need goals, especially now.
“No. We don’t. You don’t have to do this.”
Whoa. I don’t have to do this.
My blinking doubles, as if I can absorb this thought through my eyeballs. I’ve never considered not doing. A December birthday means I make personal-year resolutions instead of calendar year; it’s a tidier check-in for my life and I like tidy. I also do a comedy birthday in August for my career-specific goals, meaning two lists of goals, every year, for two decades — this is the program.
Until this year.
In 2022, my insides mutinied: they’ve forced my goal-setting chunks of brain into sabbatical, “You’ve had your time, chunks! We don’t have to have a purpose.”
I’m sitting here, blinking, favorite pen poised with an empty piece of card stock (my fellow paper-savers will recognize as an insert from fancy cards), but I cannot unclick my pen.
I didn’t realize I’m so connected to my resolutions list until this mutiny.
Setting goals, meeting goals, assessing the ones I’ve missed and recalibrating for next time, while simultaneously creating a record of the things I’ve accomplished: this is the program! I’ve worked this since I followed my heart to San Francisco, and now New York.
This program shields me from the negative self-talk of “I am nothing / I’ve done nothing” by creating a receipt of my actions. I don’t care if resisting resolutions makes sense in the context of the past few years — it isn’t my program! This scrap-paper list is proof of me.
I am these goals.
I need to exist again!
Photo by Kelly Sikkema
Here comes the *Pep-talk interlude*
Creatives: you’re not an imposter if you’re doing the dang thing, regardless of the ubiquitous screen-only understanding of success from strangers. Imposters don’t have receipts! (Thanks for listening, back to the program.)
Covid removed every self-identifying avenue for me in a single day, both the comedy stage and bartending. Oh, hello existential crisis, will you complete this list of goals even though every avenue is now closed? Pivoting into online streaming is not my wheelhouse. I thrive on stages — lunging and high-kicking when I’m excited, absorbing your energy, and releasing mine. During Covid shutdown, I spent barrels of emotional strength trying to replace the fuel of strangers, releasing my goals, processing my identity crisis, and trying to pivot into something both soul-sustaining and hopefully income-generating. It was just as hard as many of you know.
But now, I’m sitting here holding this fancy paper, ready to press Reset on this entire mess, and facing a mutiny!
“Stop pushing us. We don’t have to earn existence.”
I’m as confused as when I was gifted the Gingerbread Airstream Kit at 38, from Mom. (Yeah, I was making that face too. Our family never did gingerbread and I don’t craft so: confusing.) I can’t trash this idea like those cookies because it’s cracked something inside of me that feels tectonic.
I unclick my pen and look out the window but my focus is on this internal uncoiling.
“We don’t have to perform for anyone.”
How do I call myself a creator without receipts? It’s my only counter-argument against this startling shift.
I’m starting to panic — tensing my shoulders, diaphragm, and opinion, so I decide to shut-down (every good computer needs a reboot). The sun is sharp but my bed is soft and my body is relaxing into it. Knowing my timer is set for eleven minutes, means I can grab a solid nine winks before it rings (assuming this is how winks-as-sleep works). Yeah, eleven minutes is my program because my sphincter is tight — there’s no wasting time!
“You’re not a machine.”
Shhhhhh brain, I’m winding down. And it’s just a saying, like the winks.
Having a timer jar me awake is not as harsh as awakening to the realization that I am treating myself like a machine. Seems like my board meeting found some consensus during my winks: I’ve only been valuing what I do. Of course, I’m fixating on a resolutions list — it’s my gateway to value and I’m trying to claw my way back into existence! But I am valuable before I create anything of value, even if the creation is purely for my own delight (and I know it’s for more).
I am worth my own delight.
I am enough.
I’ve seen this sentence plenty on social media but it’s finally clear now. If I make zero goals this year, who can shame me in a way that lands — unless I allow it? I’ve been allowing it. Why?
I stay here on my covers, listening for the trickling stream that explains me.
Photo by Jordan Whitt
Minutes pass without the timer.
I didn’t ask for this life. Hello, unexpected thought! I don’t need to prove myself worthy of being-born.
This sets me to blinking again, before I settle into staring at the middle distance. I can see what that tectonic shift has moved to the surface: my goals list is coming from a place of earning love.
Oh, crap. Sure, yes, I theoretically love myself but I do not actually love myself — I disdain her. (Is self-loathing a trigger warning?) Don’t worry, this disdain is not a daily, conscious feeling but rather an uncovering of my deeper layers. We’re all still safe here, comfy on my bed in the bright light of day, so let’s just breathe and listen. My disdain was written in an early script, born from feelings of rejection and abandonment then fortified as unworthiness in the evangelical church.
My script needs editing and I can do that!
This mutiny in the boardroom isn’t giving my goal-chunks the pink slip, it’s creating time for me to transition into full ownership. My life is my own, to rewrite as I see fit. (I feel a high-kick coming!)
As a performer, and a woman who spackles my apartment with words of affirmation, I’ve made a simple rewrite and vow to say it every day this birthday year. It’s my 365 Days of Love! (Don’t gag, “365 Days of Self-love” sounds too masturbatey, and I don’t need a resolution for it. “365 Purposeless Days,” is good but untrue. “365 Days to Edit?” Fine, I’m stopping.) Yes, I’ve gone full circle and returned to resolutions but, love is a practice that can’t technically be proven by outside measures, consequently, it’s not a receipt!
As my alarm scratches me awake every day, but before I decide to leave the bed, I forgive myself. I love myself. I embrace myself.
Then, I get out of bed to finish reading the full script:
I am worthy of good things.
I am valuable.
I deserve softness, kindness, and understanding.
This year, I’m forgetting resolutions and joining a mutiny of power.