Hearing about a friend’s swanky apartment, perfect furniture, excess belongings, and high-end job wasn’t the highlight of my day.
It’s something I usually don’t fixate on, but when I went home to my barely-furnished apartment it felt like she wasn’t good enough anymore. It felt like my belongings were childish compared to what others had, that – by 23 (!) – I should be living in some lavish world like theirs, too. How wonderful it must be, to have a job designed for security and to have the option of keeping that security for the rest of your life. Never worrying, just secure.
It’s easy to fall into this rabbit hole, to forget how hard you had to work in order to be where you are. I remembered the fact that I had lived in my apartment – one that I hunted and hoped for – for about a week or two. Of course I was short on any big, lavish furniture. I remembered the fact that I had a job that allowed me to be comfortable, to be happy, which is more than what most people my age could say for themselves. I remembered that I had the opportunity to live in the city of my dreams, not a place I was forced into or was anyone’s decision but my own.
And most importantly, I remembered how I grew tearful once, thinking about all the work it took for me to get here, and all the work from my parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, great-great-grandparents who put the steps in place that allowed me to be living comfortably at all.
Thankful for the roof over my head, thankful for the sheets that keep me warm, thankful for those little belongings I’ve held onto from place to place, year after year. Thankful for perspective.
I hope you can look around and be thankful for your perspective, too.