About a year ago a psychic gave me a palm reading and told me I was afraid to take chances. “Just remember that you control your destiny,” she told me.
Her words cut like a knife. What did she know about my life anyway? I did cool things all the time! I was fun and adventurous! I had a great job and a boyfriend at the time. I was truly living my best life!
The only reason I was sitting at this woman’s kitchen table getting a ridiculous hand massage in the first place was because her and her husband were friends with the boyfriend mentioned above. I was politely letting her judge my life, trying to form some sort of connection with her to make that guy happy. But the worst part about that uncomfortable evening was the fact that she was absolutely right. I was lying to myself about being happy with how my life was going. Income and a boyfriend were not reasons to be happy. Like a palm reading, life is much deeper than the surface level. She also told me that my relationship with that boy wouldn’t work out, which she was also absolutely right about. He broke up with me a few days before my birthday. I had been thinking about whether or not he was right for me for awhile before he broke up with me. I was getting increasingly annoyed by his obliviously selfish behavior. I would practice my breakup speech in the shower and in traffic. But I was never brave enough to pull the trigger. I was choosing being unhappy and annoyed.
I often make decisions based on what I think others want me to do. I’m a people pleaser. I want everyone to like me. And I wait way too long to get myself out of situations because I’m afraid to take chances. What if I rush into a decision and then I can’t go back in case I change my mind?
The psychic had me pegged so accurately that I could no longer ignore the already burning desire I had to make a change in my life.
When I thought about a recent, truly happy moment in my life I pictured myself wrapped in a blanket sitting on the couch in my parents’ basement in Minnesota, my heart pounding as I watched the Minnesota Vikings about to lose yet again to the New Orleans Saints on a cold January day. My brother was tearing up as he paced back and forth and my dad sat in his recliner, head in his hands, as he kept muttering, “how could they do this to us again?” And then Diggsy ran the ball into the end zone. My dad was crying. My mom was screaming. My brother and our dog were running in circles. I just pulled my blanket up over my head so they couldn’t see me crying. I was beyond excited about the Vikings win, but I was also overcome with emotions that I was going to have to drive back to Iowa after the game and leave my family behind. I missed them so much it felt like I couldn’t breath. Continue reading