I Should Be Doing More

Something short and sweet 💌

I have times of panic when I think to myself I should be doing more. Writing more, pitching more, creating more. Painting again, which I haven’t done in years. I have the curse of the eldest daughter, ambitious to a fault and hard on myself, harder than my parents or anyone else could ever be. More is always possible if I just work a little harder.

More gets more confusing the older I get. I’m finished with school, I’m an adult who lives on my own. I get to decide what I want more of in my personal life, professional life, romantic life, etc. Do I want more friends? Do I want more fun? Do I want a snack from the bodega at midnight? More is out there, but it has its limits.

At holiday gatherings, buffet tables, and other food-centric events my mom loves to say my eyes are bigger than my stomach. To this day, I can’t help but miscalculate how much food I want to eat with how much food I am capable of eating. My plate is always littered with leftover scraps I couldn’t quite finish. 

There have been times when I’ve taken on too much work. Too many side gigs, freelance roles, and odd jobs. More than I could healthily handle. But, the overload of too much seems to be the far better alternative to not enough. Someone has to pay the bills. It’s always best to buy too many chips for the party than not enough. Leftover chips are great. What is the leftover version of too much work?

I am constantly reminded that I have my limits. I get sleepy, or crabby, or hungry, or stuffed. I cannot for the life of me write a Substack every week no matter how hard I try. I could work out more, hound editors for bylines more, network more, party more, network at parties more. Be more outgoing, take more risks, wear better outfits. More, more, more. But I think I’m doing the best I can. 

More can be greedy, more can be distasteful and ungrateful. More can result in an oversalted pan of roasted broccolini. I cannot have more of everything. I don’t even think I want more of everything, but more is what our consumerist monkey brains have been trained to desire. 

I definitely have too much stuff. In my moments of manic cleaning, I dig through my drawers and my closet and make piles of things to get rid of. The sheer amount of shit I have sometimes feels crushing. In an alternate universe, I live in a cabin in the woods with very few belongings and there’s not much I need more of.

Enough is as good as a feast.

My life today is unimaginable to who I was and where I was a year ago. I have built myself up from scratch, crafting my own little routine of mores that make me happy. I FaceTime my mom more, and talk to my sisters more. I seek more intentional friendships, but I also do things alone more. I go to the movies more, I go on walks more, I cook more. I text people more, even if they live far away and we haven’t seen each other in years. These are the mores that I truly need more of.

How can I ask for more when I already have so much?