You're doing too much.

No award, title, or dollar amount will fix ya.

My dad and me, circa 1987.

My dad died when I was a kid, and he died quick. We thought he had the flu; three weeks later, he was dead. Leukemia.

This extreme loss, occurring in the midst of my most formative years, imprinted upon my soul a personality-molding, life-altering, code of behavior:

You do, in fact, die, and that shit can happen fast and out of nowhere. Therefore, there is no time to waste. Your dreams, your desires, ambitions and hopes: create them immediately. There is only now.

And so, I did that.

I won’t be so crass to list my accomplishments here, but OH WHAT THE HECK IF YOU INSIST:

I traveled the world. Earned three degrees, culminating in a PhD. Had my research published in a top journal in my field (the academic’s dream, even though bout fourteen people read those articles). In the meantime, I stripped on stages across the South, was voted Best Stripper in Atlanta twice while teaching at Georgia Tech just up the road from the club, built an internet following that turned into a fanbase that turned into a clientele, bought a house, wrote a book, got a deal with iHeartRadio for a docudrama series about my hometown; in the meantime my husband and I have sustained a fifteen-year marriage (so far!) with two beautiful kids.

Sorry to brag, but I list these accomplishments for context to the hideous confession forthcoming:

Not a single one of ‘em ever fixed it.

Fixed what?

That nagging core of anxiety driving all this ambition in the first place.

An eternal sprint to feel safe. To “make it.” To reach some point that I erroneously assumed adults reach when you sit back and say, “I’ve got a steady career and a family and a nice home, and now I can enjoy all this in peace.”

When my dad died, early on I learned that nothing was safe. Maybe you too learned that nothing was safe, in your own way—we all eventually do. Yet I’ve raged, raged against the dying of that light with making my dreams come true and proving myself and getting straight A’s on every assignment in every class until the day I fucking die I guess which LOL we all know could happen anytime! All in an effort to find a moment where I can feel like I might not lose everything any second unless I get everything right all the time.

I have imagined any number of milestones would make me feel safe.

I thought thoughts such as:

“Once I get married, everything will be okay.”

“Once I own a home, everything will be okay.”

“Once I achieve professional success, everything will be okay.”

“Once I have ten thousand dollars in savings, everything will be okay.”

For one fleeting moment, I had as much as twenty thousand in my savings, DOUBLE MY GOAL SO I SHOULD DEFINITELY BE SAFE, and then the sewer line broke and the bill was, you guessed it, twenty beautiful G’s. Poor again, ya bastard.

Back to the beginning of that breathless race.

I’m still striving. Forever striving. Striving for publication deals, and sold-out retreats, and enough money to throw at my evil debts which by the way are the chief monsters threatening my safety, and yet I know:

Defeat that monster, and another enters the arena.

And despite the knowledge of the ultimate futility of any accomplishment to fix the nagging knowledge that “this too shall pass” also means that all the good things shall pass as well, I’m still striving.

Frankly, I’m exhausted.

I became the best at a lot of things. Yet, it fixed nothing. Quieted no urge. Scratched no itch. The itch only moved higher, farther to reach. Cool, I wrote a book—but what next? Movie deal? What next then?

BY THE WAY PLZ GIVE ME A MOVIE DEAL OR HONESTLY A TV SERIES

I am proud of my accomplishments and grateful for the life they have afforded me.

But sometimes, and I mean this very literally,

I daydream about running away to rural South Carolina and getting a job in the smoked meat department at Buc-ees.

I literally fantasize about running away to work in this feat of Americana excellence.

Show up to work for regular hours. Carry not the burden of what can I wow em with next into every second of my mental landscape. Instead, leave work and go home and read a book. You don’t have to post on Instagram because you don’t have to market yourself anymore. You’re just a quiet, normal person.

Maybe, actually, you’re an abnormal person, in this modern world, ye noblewoman working in the smoked meat department at Buc-cees. You’re not a brand. Nothing to prove. No need to embarrass your soul by filling up your phone with photos of your dumb face. Babe, aren’t you in your forties now? And we’re still pouting for Instagram? I’m annoyed even with myself.

I keep thinking that the next financial marker will fix my anxiety. The next major achievement will make me safe, secure my position, promise me I won’t lose this all, when of course, one day, we all lose this all.

There’s no fending off death with straight A’s.

Intellectually, I know that.

Maybe I’m doing too much.

—L.B. 2024