Manifestation

I’ve been trying to figure out what my dream life actually looks like.

Which seems like it should be fun.

Dream bigger! What do you want? What would you do if money didn’t matter? Imagine your perfect life!

Except apparently I can turn even fantasizing about my own dream life into an existential crisis.

Because one of the questions I’ve been sitting with lately is whether I would still choose the job I’ve worked at for almost 20 years if I didn’t need it anymore.

And the answer is…

I don’t know.

Which is inconvenient.

I feel like I’m supposed to know.

If I’m trying to create this life where my blog grows, I write books, I keep coming up with ideas I’m excited about, and eventually I make really good money doing it… shouldn’t I be able to picture the grand finale?

I quit my job.

I walk away.

I’m free.

Except when I really ask myself if that’s what I want, I don’t actually know.

Maybe I’d leave.

Maybe I wouldn’t.

I’ve been there for almost 20 years. It’s hard to separate what I would choose from something that has simply been part of my life for that long.

And maybe that’s where I’ve been getting hung up. I’ve been trying to figure out the circumstances when what I actually care about is how I want my life to feel.

I’ve said for a while now that what I really want is freedom and relief.

Not necessarily a certain number in a bank account.

Not a particular weight on the scale.

Not even necessarily quitting my job.

I want the feeling I think all of those things will give me.

So I started thinking about Neville Goddard’s idea of imagining a tiny scene from the wish fulfilled. Something short. Maybe 20 seconds. A little clip I could play in my head over and over again.

Basically: This is my life now.

But what the hell was I supposed to put in the clip if I didn’t even know whether Future Me still had the same job?

So I stopped trying to answer that question.

I took work out of it completely.

Instead, I imagined an ordinary Tuesday morning.

Not a yacht.

Not first class to Europe.

Not me opening my banking app and discovering I had become a millionaire while I slept.

Just Tuesday.

It’s fall.

The air outside is cool enough that I need a light jacket. I have a glass of salt water with me and my laptop open.

And originally, I imagined myself sitting on a balcony.

There was just one problem.

I don’t have a balcony.

And if I’m supposedly imagining my future life, why am I randomly giving myself a balcony?

But then I thought… who cares?

It’s my imaginary future.

Apparently, I have a balcony now.

So I went with it.

I’m sitting outside. It’s quiet. My laptop is open and I have my glass of salt water.

The house behind me. My family still inside.

And me sitting there for a minute before the day really starts.

Nothing particularly exciting is happening.

That’s the weird thing.

The dream wasn’t exciting.

It was quiet.

There was room for all of us here.

I imagined looking around and thinking:

I love our life.

And something in me settled.

I said, “I love that scene, that makes me feel safe.”

Safe.

Not successful.

Not free, even.

Safe.

That word surprised me.

Because I thought I was chasing freedom.

And relief.

And money.

And a body I feel good in.

And work that feels creative and meaningful.

And a bigger house.

Maybe I am.

And now I wonder how many things I’ve spent my life chasing because somewhere underneath all of it, I thought once I got there I could finally unclench.

I could finally stop worrying about what might happen.

I could stop wondering if there would be enough.

I could stop trying to solve the next problem before it even existed.

I could just sit outside on a cool Tuesday morning with my stupid salt water and my laptop and look out from my apparently imaginary balcony.

And feel safe.

Maybe that’s why the ordinary scene does more for me than imagining some enormous achievement ever could.

Nobody is impressed.

Nobody even knows I’m out there.

My life is just happening behind me.

I still don’t know whether Future Me has the same job.

I don’t know exactly how much money she makes from writing.

I don’t know exactly what the house looks like.

Apparently, I don’t even know where the balcony came from.

But maybe I don’t need to know every detail.

Because I think I’m starting to understand what I’ve actually been trying to get to.

A Tuesday morning where nothing is wrong.

Nothing needs to be figured out yet.

My family is inside.

My laptop is open.

And for once, I’m not trying to get somewhere else.