Sometime in my late 20s, I lamented to my boss that I was having a mid-life crisis. I think this had something to do with the Olympic games that were being held that year. I loved watching gymnastics and couldn’t help but think that it should be me on television in a leotard flipping and flopping and flying on behalf of my country. Never mind that I had yet to take a single gymnastics lesson in my life. My heart ached to do something with so much passion that it would literally propel me skyward — while also managing to land me firmly on my feet. Plus, I liked the sequins.
At the time, I was married with no kids. With a career in fundraising for a children’s hospital, the work I did was inherently meaningful – and we have already established that I had a kind boss tolerant of premature mid-life crises. I had a house, some cats, a dog, a good husband, and a job. And yet, I had this nagging feeling that if not an Olympic gold medalist, wasn’t I meant for more?
The question of purpose arises intermittently like a bad stomach virus that leaves me longing for the merciful reprieve of a saltine cracker. Life’s epic search for meaning seems like it should take a straight path hurdling over obstacles, dismounting into some profound contribution to humanity, and landing with the specter of triumph (and yes, maybe even a gold medal around one’s neck.) Instead, it throws me off-balance like a gymnast teetering on the brink of a disastrous fall. My trajectory towards something meaningful can feel like an angsty wobble of futility leaving me more frustrated than fulfilled. The great mercy in having been through this multiple times is that I now realize our contributions to the world aren’t always noticeable — even to ourselves. That’s the humility of it.
The sin of racism has a long history of division. A history filled with a kind of hatred I have not known and I cannot understand. More than anything, a history so sinister and sly that if you aren’t paying attention you easily forget that it’s not history at all. It’s here in the present haunting and hunting and hurting others in subtle and systematic ways that perpetuate cycles of poverty, violence, and oppression.
Way back when kids actually went to school, I won the award for perfect attendance for not missing any school days in a year. My mom always told me I was her healthiest kid. I think she appreciated that I didn’t get sick on road trips or require multiple trips to the ER to be sewn back together from running into walls. Discounting late-night runs to the border for Taco Bell’s Nacho Bell Grande and a fog of other questionable college choices, I have mostly lived a healthy lifestyle.
We all have a story and often we are afraid to tell it. It’s the part of us that doesn’t come up in our social media feeds or in casual conversation. I get that. I don’t tell all of mine. All any of us can do is share what we are comfortable with and hope whoever we trust doesn’t use it to cause pain. Most of us have already experienced enough of that.