Struggling to See the Value Added
Right as I was typing out the title, I knew the corrective point—it is not my place to add value, rather simply by being here, a unique created being, I am the added value. I look at own kids and view them as value added to my own life, not because they do things but because they are. So why do I struggle to apply that to myself? Maybe this isn’t exactly where I struggle. I know that life has value. I know that I am loved. I know that I’m shaping two boys into young men and that what I do for them and my husband is both tangible and intangible.
It’s like walking down the street and hearing a steady drumbeat from a song—you can’t help but adjust your steps to match the rhythm. This actually infuriates me, especially if the music is coming from someone else’s playlist I didn’t choose. Their musical choice and their chosen volume level is invading me in a way that is changing my own stride. Sometimes I’ll try to rebel and walk counter to the sound, and my steps eventually betray my own will.
In a world where human lives are summed up in two lines of life accomplishments and job titles on social media profiles, the steady message subconsciously sent is “But who are you and how are you important to the world.” Or maybe, “Prove how you have earned a place in this conversation and why we should listen.” It’s the unspoken exchange—credentials for conversation, accolades for acceptance. This is the steady drumbeat. No matter what the internal beliefs about value added are, this is the sound that pummels our souls and changes our strides. Its the steady messaging that breaks down beliefs until the boulders that once bounded our mental flow are reduced to pebbles washed over by the currents of outside voices.
The fourth decade of life has securely tucked me into the bed I’ve made for myself, and I can barely bring myself to look over at LinkedIn or read job descriptions. They all sound so important. People my age are running things, entering second or third careers, doling out wise bits of drivel on what they wish they had known in their twenties. “You ought to be a highly motivated individual, influence others, change the world, but humility is key.” I shrink away to ponder how I was placed at the starting line with all the right sponsors and equipment, heard the starting gun for the race, but froze looking at the mountains in the peripheral horizons as the crowd surged forward down the paved lanes throwing elbows, edging their way forward. Their pounding shoes on the pavement make me aware of my own stillness. Rather than trying to keep stride with their drumbeat, I refuse to engage. I give it the middle finger with my own bylines of “I dig deep thoughts and appropriately sized holes” and “I wash a lot of pants and water a lot of plants.” Last night I added, “I’m probably not as cranky as you are.”
My incessant navel-gazing drives me nuts. I know if my husband hadn’t laced up and gotten ahead, I couldn’t sit here typing these thoughts. And that makes me feel extra shitty and grateful and greedy and a whole mix of conflicted emotions. The only way I know how to respond is be thankful, bake the bread, love the kids, be emotionally present and remind them that they are the value added by believing it for myself.
