finding myself stuck

Somehow I have reached the age of 34 without knowing who I am.

Remember that scene in the movie “Runaway Bride” when Julia Roberts’ character Maggie realizes she doesn’t even know how she likes her eggs? I can relate.

For instance, I spent Memorial Day weekend in New York City with my brother and sister-in-law. I adore New York: the subways, the museums, the food, the parks, the newsstands with beautiful flowers, the ability to buy 14 kinds of olives at 2 a.m. I found myself wondering if perhaps I should have moved there, instead of Nashville, a few years ago.

Then I returned home and spent two lovely days planting my first-ever garden full of heirloom tomatoes, peppers, berries and herbs. I hosted some family and friends for the weekend and enjoyed having a house large enough to play hostess and the fun of introducing them to the Tokens Show, contemplating which carb-laden southern eatery to visit and admiring magnolias and dogwoods at the botanical garden. Maybe Nashville was the right choice after all?

Someone of a more optimistic bent might say I’m simply adaptable, able to be happy in a variety of circumstances. That’s probably true, but it doesn’t answer the identity crisis questions I should have grappled with 15 years ago.


Or take the conversation I had with my brother, who very kindly said, “Your freelancing life looks good on you,” and affirmed my self-discipline in working from home and my ability to accept the uncertainty of a varying monthly income. And I thought, yes……what is that about? I dislike ambiguity in anything. Worry is my life. How am I so worry-free about cash flow?

Or there was the friend who remarked, after I shared some of these thoughts, that I seem like an outgoing, career-oriented person with very clear goals. In reality I am a shy person who would love to work less and whose primary goals are paying the bills on time and staying thin by eating less cheese. I’ve been completely authentic in my friendship with this person; how am I projecting a persona so different from the real me? How much is the real me?


More years ago than seems possible, I graduated college on a Saturday and entered the work force on Monday. I jumped right into a job, a place of my own, a car payment and a 50-hour week. Unlike many of my contemporaries, I took no time between high school and college, or college and life, to travel and experiment and discover………and now I’m feeling it.

Is it too late to backpack through Europe? Can I be an honorary Millennial even if I have a mortgage?


If you think this is the navel-gazing of a spoiled 21st century American, you’re right. Previous generations—those great ones—had wars to fight and countries to build and pennies to pinch. “Finding themselves” meant deciding which company to work at for forty years.

But I’m willing to work hard, too……have been, in fact, for 12 years. I just want to work with greater focus, toward goals of my own. I want purpose, not laziness. I want to want something.

I dream of having a dream, and the time and space to figure it out. In the meantime, I know one thing: I like my eggs scrambled. With cheese.