Twenty-five years ago, before kids, when Kim and I were living on Hamburger Helper and couldn’t afford to run the air conditioning in our apartment, I made a list.
It answered one question:
How will I know that I’ve made it?
- I am doing what I love. (That was the one I could already check, as I was spending all of my time making art and building a business I was passionate about.)
- The business is supporting us. (This proved to be harder than I anticipated and took a full five years to materialize.)
- We have a cool office. (I dreamed of a water view, but frankly, any upgrade from the bedroom of a sweltering apartment would have qualified.)
- Paying Jenna. (After years of her volunteering because she believed in us, actually being able to pay her was a milestone that often felt impossibly far away.)
- Own a home. (Speaking of impossibly far away, affording a mortgage felt like it was in another solar system.)
- Have kids. (Not only was starting a family not financially viable in the early days, but it’s also not something completely within our control. Once we decided to go for it, it took more than a year before we finally conceived.)
I felt like I was already a success for deciding to chase the dream in the first place, but there was no doubt about it; achieving these six things would serve as conclusive evidence that I had made it. Why, I’d feel like the richest man alive!
It took eight years to finally do it. Although technically, adding the “s” to “kids” would take eleven.
Of course, all along the way, Adultitis whispered that it was impossible. That I was foolish to even try. That I was wasting my time.
Once they all came true, Adultitis moved the goalpost, like it always does.
It tells us we won’t be successful until we get a raise, earn the promotion, eclipse a certain income, win this award, work for that company, or become a bestseller.
Adultitis says success is never enough.
When I introduced The Collector Club a few weeks ago, I honestly didn’t know if five people would join.
We crossed that threshold in fourteen minutes.
Today we’re almost to eighty.
That’s eighty homes where a surprise print and a little dose of wonder will arrive each month.
One membership became a gift for a friend. Another for a grandson. One lady signed up twice; once for herself, the other is destined as Christmas gifts.
Twenty-five-year-old Jason, sweating in that apartment and eating Hamburger Helper, would think eighty collectors sounded completely impossible. He’d probably think I’d made it.
Adultitis disagrees.
“Yeah…but what about one hundred?”
It never lets us enjoy the miracle that’s already happening.
What about you?
What miracles in your life does Adultitis want you to take for granted?
How amazed would twenty-five-year-old you be by the life you’re living today?
Adultitis doesn’t want you to answer that question.
It wants you looking over the next hill instead.
Sometimes “enough” is right where we’re standing.
P.S. If you’ve been watching from the sidelines wondering if you should become one of the Founding Collectors, this is your week. Join us by July 31, and you’ll receive the inaugural print (#CC-001) and forever be able to say, “I was there when it began.” There will only ever be one first edition.
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