The Less Life

My life has a clean dividing line. Life before January 30, 2013, and life after.

In Life Before, as the mother of two little ones, not to mention my full-time lawyer gig, I spent the majority of my time rushing. Rushing out the door, rushing in the door, rushing to make a school program or a work deadline. Rush.Rush.Rush. Like most of those in my social circle, busyness was a badge of honor, and I was the queen of multi-tasking. I had a lot of balls in the air and prided myself on rarely dropping one. I was trying to be it all, do it all and perfect it all. I had unrelentingly high expectations for myself and spent most days trying to hit those high marks. Not all of it was self-imposed. My full time job wasn’t a choice; it was financially necessary. Not all of it was for accolades. I love my two boys more than I thought humanly possible, and I wanted to do, give and be for them in every way possible.

This busy life came to a screeching halt on January 30, 2013 when my otherwise healthy 35 year-old husband was diagnosed with recurrent Hodgkin’s lymphoma (his first diagnosis and remission had come 18 years earlier). Having gone to the doctor for an annoying cough, he was quickly admitted to ICU with a softball-sized tumor next to his heart. The next year would include months of intense chemotherapy, many hospitalizations, septic shock, and finally, a bone marrow transplant. It was a year of incredible shock, unbelievable pain and suffering (for my husband and for our small family), and laser focus. Instead of a variety of things competing for my time and energy, I had one priority and one priority only…my family. I stepped back at work; I no longer volunteered; I gave up on getting just a little bit skinnier; I had no time for lunch with the girls.  It wasn’t necessarily a choice. It just happened. My husband and our two precious boys needed me in a way that left no room for anything else. The trauma that 2013 brought was awful, and there were days when we weren’t sure how the story would end. We hoped and prayed and fought and clawed and refused to give up. And now, we are on the other side. My husband is in remission, and we are learning to live life again. But, our lives look different. They feel different. Last year opened my eyes and broke my heart. I think and feel and love and live differently. In this Life After, I am ever-so aware that the moments…everyday moments…matter, and I refuse to let those moments slip through my fingers unnoticed.

I no longer want to be busy. I no longer want to rush. I no longer want to worry about forehead wrinkles or whether my four year old is in the right play group. I don’t want to stress about having a perfect house or a perfect body or a perfect anything. My Life After has no room for these things (none of which are inherently bad to worry about). This isn’t a judgment on others. It is just too much for me. I want less…less worry, less comparison, less stress, less stuff, less perfect. I want a less life.  

This less life means giving things up. Hard things. It means stepping back—from commitments, from the rat race, from the social scene. It means slowing down—no more rushing through, no more glossing over, no more “in a minute.” It means letting go—of self-imposed expectations, of what-might-have-been, of what others think. It is doing all of these things to make space for what matters most. More presence, more moments, more gratefulness, more laughter, more peace, more time. I am convinced that in the end, a less life ends up with more.

This blog is a journal of my life of less. A place to help hold me accountable, a place to wrestle with hard things, a place to write and think and cherish this life as I know it.