And that’s not something I’m good at realizing.
As far back as I can remember, I’ve defined my success by the amount of time and work I put into the things I do… much more so than money.
Sound crazy? Not quite — because reasonable compensation wasn’t part of the equation until just recently.
I come from a family that has always put work ethic ahead of financial success. After all, the amount of money you make doesn’t always match the value of what you’re doing, or the amount of effort you put in… and effort comes first. Effort is the highest calling.
Yes, there are Fortune 500 CEOs who wake up with BlackBerry buttons imprinted on their cheek after falling asleep at their desks. That’s effort.
But there are also single mothers working two jobs to make sure their kids eat… during the five hours they manage to spend at home in a day (sleep included.) That’s also effort.
The CEO is rewarded with revenue… and the single mother is rewarded with kids who survive to adulthood.
I’d say that’s a heck of a result.
But, my family: my dad is a minister who often works twice the hours he is paid for, because his congregation’s needs have a tendency to exist outside of a 9 – 5 schedule. And my mom is one of those people who is good at everything she does — which means people are after her 24 – 7 to do those good things.
That’s why it’s hard to measure the results of the things my parents did (and continue to do) by any normal standard — at least any standard outside of the satisfaction they engender, or their own satisfaction at a job well done. The hours they’ve put in haven’t made them rich or famous, and neither one retired when the big 5-0 (or 6-0) rolled around.
So when I ended up working more than 120 hours a week at my (nonprofit) job at 26, I figured I was following in the footsteps trod before me. I loved it, too, even though I wasn’t making enough money to cover all my expenses, and my only ROI was the change I saw in the kids I worked with. It felt natural and normal.
Then I decided I wanted something a little different. Something to help me afford the stuff in fashion magazines I’d always treated as pure window shopping. I started working in the world where making your boss happy = making money… or achieving project goals that enable someone else to make money.
And from there, I moved to a world where I scrambled constantly to find more projects and clients so I’d be able to build my reputation as a writer… and make my bills at the end of the month.
Both worlds suited me fine — except when I didn’t make any money, or my influx of jobs slowed down. Then I’d work crazy amounts of overtime to try and make something happen. I “hustled” — the currently popular term for working hard — and sometimes things would work out, and sometimes they wouldn’t.
But along the way, I learned that the more workaholic I became — whether or not anything was actually coming of it — the more seriously people would take me. And the nonprofit freak rose up in delight once more.
If I forgot to sleep, if I forgot to eat, if I ended up in the ER with dehydration (which I did, and what the heck, Meg? They have water in every building you’ve ever worked in), if I had migraines and chest pains and ulcers from all the stress, I became convinced that I was somehow doing more than the “normal” people around me who worked to live, instead of living to work.
They said things like, “Work smarter, not harder.” I said things like, “Please attempt to smart your way through my to-do list.”
They said things like, “What’s the point in making money if you never get to enjoy it?” I said things like, “I’ll need more than this if I’m going to enjoy it.”
Yeah.
These days, I’m employed by someone who values work/life balance and wants me to maintain a healthy schedule, but I still find it easy to obsess about the things I want to get done, and beat myself up if they don’t happen. I’ll check my email in the middle of the night… as though anyone but spammers would be sending them at that hour. And if I don’t achieve the results I want — for whatever reason — I feel I haven’t done enough, and that working even harder might yield different circumstances.
But, unlike most of the previous years I burned the midnight oil, someone actually wants that time left at the end of my day… and wants more than an exhausting hour of listening to me mumble about projects.
Crap.
He is not impressed by the number of emails in my inbox, or my ability to pull an all-nighter, or how many liquid stimulants I can consume during the day, or how many events I went to, or how I never take sick days (even if I’m nursing a sucking chest wound) or how ruined my psyche is by the time I’m done wrangling it all.
He sees my effort, and he loves that I work my ass off — because I do, whether I work 40, 60, 80 or 100 hours — but more than that, he wishes he could just. see. me.
So I’ve had to reconfigure my notion of “effort”, and put a little dent in the level of pride I have about my own frenetic behavior.
I’ve had to stop touting all the impressive workaholic traits I possess, and find a way to let go for a little while for the sake of my relationship.
And the funny thing is, I don’t think I’m getting less done when I apply some boundaries. And the even funnier thing? No one is judging me for not being nuts.
You mean, I could have done this just for myself? Before anyone else cared?
Yep. And it only took me 36 years to figure it out.
No one is asking me why I wasn’t up all night.
No one is scoffing at me for drinking just five shots of espresso, not ten.
No one is asking why I actually heal from colds now, instead of having them turn into sinus infections and pneumonia.
No one is saying, “You missed a heck of an event last night. They were handing out cash.” Because they didn’t.
Not to mention that I actually write better and communicate more effectively when I’m not strung out. I don’t have dumb 3 am mistakes to fix, or panic attacks about emails I wrote when I was not exactly of sound mind. I don’t end up fighting off exhausted, manic tears because I forgot to save the changes on a spreadsheet I’ve been hammering at for days.
I’m in better shape, before I even get to the other people in my life.
And in the midst of that better shape, I’m finally realizing that, for all the hours my parents worked, we still ate dinner together almost every night. If I needed something, they would stop to listen to me — really listen, and then help me. I’m seeing that the hour of TV they sat and watched with me (even if my mom was doing needlepoint to stay awake, and my dad was writing sermon notes in his head) gave me comfort — even if no one said a word.
I’m seeing that the five-day getaways they took to somewhere cheap and cheerful without us, and the effort they made to take days off together, were a big part of what kept and keeps my mom and dad’s marriage intact, even if they’ve never been to a resort or set foot on a cruise ship. They didn’t even exchange Christmas or birthday presents for decades. They indulged in long drives and conversations.
And now that both of them are in their sixties, I’m seeing real evidence of how their worked-at, prioritized relationship provides my parents with a kind of joy that the houses and cars and big-rock jewelry their friends worked for don’t always possess… because they’re sharing it all with someone they barely know, and the memories. If they’re sharing it at all.
You can work hard, but it doesn’t need to be at the expense of everything else you have or are.
You can be really, really busy… AND really, really healthy.
Your career is a reflection of your gifts, but you have gifts that don’t involve your career, too.
The people in your life need you as much as your task list does — and not because they’re trying to add one more thing to your plate or make you feel guilty. Nope… they just love you and miss you.
And most of all?
Your ability to hustle is not more important or more commendable than maintaining your sanity.
Which is why I’m finally working on working my life out, as much as I am at working.
And it feels good.
