Surprises in a Gone Girl Story

Hey You,

I am writing to you in real time on this Sunday night. It is my 23rd wedding anniversary. I was 20 years old when my husband and I started dating. Our firstborn is now 20 years old. Time is wild.

I am currently sitting in a makeshift DIY hospital bed on the living room floor with my dog Rocky, who came home from the ER today with a diagnosis of a slipped disc in his back, a few strong meds, and strict orders for no jumping, no walking, and no stair climbing. 

My husband is picking up a borrowed baby gate for the stairway as I type. I will carry Rocky up to bed with me for the next few weeks, because good or bad, he is indeed a sleep-in-the-bed-with-me and sit-on-the-furniture kind of dog. So while he heals, I am indeed a sit-on-the-floor-with-my-dog kind of owner.

This fact surprises me as much as you. I didn't grow up with dogs. I was never a dog person. They scared me. I was scared of baby Rocky too. He was a harmless, sweet, fluffy, tiny puppy who I didn't know yet. And he absolutely terrified me. 

I planned for him to be a downstairs-only dog who would never step foot on the carpet or go up the stairs. He was going to be more cute accessory than actual family member.

As soon as he could leap and bound his little puppy body up the stairs, though, he did. Our bond grew so quickly, and soon I wanted to be as close to him as he did to me. Which is to say at all times. We became (and remain) almost immediately inseparable. Like many pet owner stories, it's a who-rescued-who situation over here.

As someone who never had a dog and didn't like the idea of a live animal in the house, the smell of kibble, poop in the yard, slobber, fur balls in the corners, nasty chew toys, a constant need for lint rollers, or whatever else dogs bring, this love still shocks me. Rocky and I have been Velcro-d together for a decade now.

So it was fitting, I guess, to spend my anniversary on the floor of the animal ER with my beloved husband of 23 years and the surprise love of my life, a 10-year-old black and white cocker spaniel. 

In preparation for our anniversary, I looked through some throwback pictures from when we were young. A few things stood out to me. First of all, my choices in hairstyles in the 90's were horrible, but then again, weren't everyone's? 

The other thing that I could see so clearly is that I was always chasing and never achieving the outcome I wanted. It was evident in every picture, and it brought me back. I remember wanting more. Always. I was addicted to many things: the party scene, my friends, chasing boys, alcohol, attention, good times, and cigarettes. 

So, so, so many cigarettes. Smoking was almost my whole personality. More than alcohol even. We even smoked in our dorm room (gross). 

My inner commentary looking through the albums was, 

"There's the party we hosted, but the right people didn't come."

"There's the boy I liked that never liked me back." 

"That was the night everyone looked cute, and I hated my outfit."

"That was the spring break that was supposed to be epic and actually sucked."

"Ugh, she made me so mad; how could she have done that to me?" 

These photos go way back to a time when everything was captured from a disposable or digital camera. All the photos were printed. Most of them were outtakes. Nothing was curated like it is today. 

Looking back, I often had this look of disgust on my face. This same look was captured over and over again. I don't remember how it feels to make that face. I tried to mimic it, and honestly, it's not even in my face anymore. My body doesn't remember this one. I am no longer disgusted. With myself. With life. With dogs. 

I am not there anymore. After all the time I have spent reprocessing my past, remembering, forgiving, and trying to make sense of everything, it's just not me anymore.

I am at peace with who I am today. Yesterday is gone. The girl who I was in the 90s is gone too. Gone girl. She no longer exists. That is not me. That is only who I used to be. It feels so free. So light to let her go. To detach (never a strong suit of mine). I have shed that skin in this year of the snake.

If we're lucky, we get to experience a million deaths of our former selves in our lifetime. This is what it is to change, grow, and heal.

Five stars—recommend laying all your former selves to rest.

I had many epiphanies while on vacation that I wanted to tell you about, but that already seems so long ago, and now with an injured dog, it's not my top priority, but I do want to tell you the overarching theme, and that was satisfaction. 

At the beginning of the year I was recognizing my constant quest. My nonstop desire for optimization. The never-ending project improvement plan. For everyone and everything.

I was begging, praying, and wishing to stop it and just be satisfied for once. "It" being the void that we all drink at. The hungry ghost, if you will. I no longer drink at it, but I do shop at it. I post and scroll at it. I eat it at times. Sometimes I accidentally try to gossip it away. I try to find comfort in other ways. I am sober, but the hole is still not always filled. Sometimes it still aches with the pain of hunger. 

It is annoying because my sober life is such a turnaround from my drinking life. The process of getting and staying sober is a practice in self-soothing and acceptance. I have succeeded at this. Why can't I be satisfied? I think I have done enough.

I have been recognized and won the awards for meaningful work that I love. My relationships are mostly either healed and beautiful or nothing at all. My grief has a new and familiar soft landing place of acceptance. I have a spiritual practice, a well-used gym membership, and overnight oats, for fuck's sake. 

All is well, and yet still, I have not felt well. Not well enough, that is. Enough. Never enough. I've been searching and seeking for some kind of elusive satisfaction that just never seems to find me.

Well, let me tell you, on vacation I had it. So now that I know what it is, I can practice making it more comfortable in my body. Satisfaction can become a familiar feeling to me. The best proof of my satisfaction sounds superficial, but as an Enneagram 3, who tends to value image and spending as a status symbol, it is a profound example to me. 

We were at the outlet malls, and everyone except for me found and purchased things they wanted. My husband, who typically dislikes all spending, encouraged me to find something.

I had this feeling of contentment. I didn't have to pursue a hunt or go on a quest for anything. I didn't have to purchase a want, not a need, a nice-to-have, or a little treat. 

I knew there was nothing I wanted. I already have everything I want. In every way. And that feeling? It’s new. It’s still settling into my bones, but I’m learning to carry it with me. It's not just what's in my closet. It's what's in me. It appears I have made profound progress in setting down my bags and not picking new bags up.

The path to satisfaction isn’t always easy, and it takes practice. But I know now that it’s possible to stop chasing and finally feel content with where I am, just as I am.

If you’re tired of running after the next thing and are ready to find that peace and satisfaction in your own life, or if you are ready to lay some of your past selves to rest, I want to invite you to join my 🔗 Insider Community Membership. It’s a space for professional women where you’ll have everything you need to step into your most authentic, empowered self. 

XO!

-Heather