I talk about perspective, healing, and learning not to compare yourself to others so often, I think sometimes people forget how much work goes into maintaining a healthy mindset. Our society seems to thrive on the superiority of judging people by appearances, measuring success by the sheen of a new car, the size of a fancy house, or the brand name on a handbag.
But something happened last week that made me wonder why we see those things as the ultimate sources of self-worth and success—and why we shouldn't judge success by appearances. Because the truth is, success isn't always visible and the assumptions we make can easily become barriers to useful connection.
If you were to see me walking down the street, you might never realize I have spina bifida. Still, I've spent every one of my forty-two years living in a body that can't quite do what I wish it could. I carry groceries well over the weight limit established by my neurosurgeon because I have no choice, and while I make the best of good days while allowing for the bad ones, I don't rest nearly as much as I need to. My spine is straight, my legs still work, and I've brought two incredibly beautiful and gifted young women into the world—young women I raised mostly by myself.
My apartment is small, but I'm grateful for the roof over my head. My car sucks, but I'm thankful to have one that still carries my daughter and I to countless doctor's appointments. My bank balance is laughable, but the bills are paid. There's gas in the car and food in the kitchen, and every time we flip a switch, the lights come on. I grew up in a place where none of those things were dependable, so for some, perhaps that's the meaning of success.
My youngest daughter is seventeen years old. By the time I was her age, I'd gotten sick of going hungry and having to move every other month, so I got an apartment of my own. A high school dropout working full time to keep the bills paid, because at least that felt stable. I was married by eighteen, I turned twenty a few weeks after my oldest daughter was born, and by twenty-one, I was a single mom being actively hunted by a husband in a drug-addicted rage.
Sometimes I think success is taking the next step up. Maybe it's just the act of determinedly giving advantages to the next generation that weren't possible before.
This has been a hard year for a girl still learning the importance of perseverance, especially while overcoming judgment. But I guess that's the root of personal development, isn't it? Finding value in the journey, learning from life experience. Building a meaningful life and learning to recognize your own progress—even if no one else can.
As the week wore on, I questioned a lot of things. I re-examined my own personal growth and progress in life, looking for evidence of success beyond money, in a world where people feel no shame about saying things like, "You sure work a lot for someone with so little." Looking for proof of value, not for anyone else, but for myself after hearing, "Well, she can't be doing that well, look at what she drives!"
Fortunately, I found what I was looking for. I took my total book sales over the course of the last fourteen years and averaged them out...and I was stunned. Partly by the sheer number of book sales, but mostly by the realization of the millions of words I've written in that time. By nearly twenty thousand readers who took a chance on my stories. By messages and comments from people who found themselves in my characters.
What's funny is, it didn't actually make me feel better. The averages looked good, but some of those years were great, and others weren't. Sometimes I wrote so much and so quickly it was exhausting just to talk about...and other times I went months or even years without writing much of anything. Maybe the volume of those numbers would look like success to some people, and the failure to hold momentum due to personal crises would look like failure. Maybe it's all relative.
I told myself to open the laptop and carry on. To trust the process and the numbers, to hold faith in the readers and the God who gave me this gift. I told myself to let it go and get over it. Briefly, I indulged a mental fantasy of a future where the success I'm working toward is visible enough to matter to the people who once mattered so much to me.
And then I shook my head, curled up in bed, and took a nap for three hours.
I've never been the best at dealing with criticism. I'm not proud of that, but the fact is, even without the impact of complex PTSD, I'm sensitive and I get my feelings hurt, just like anyone else. Maybe that's why I focus so much on the idea of progress over perfection, especially when it comes to balancing in the space between success and failure—where success isn't always visible and the effort we pour out isn't always measurable.
The thing is, it didn't have to be that big of a deal. I'd heard that someone I know was working on a book and struggling with the publishing. I offered to help, not as an expert, but as someone willing to share what I've learned through the trial and error of long-term experience. I guess it was just a little surprising to have the offer thrown back in my face because that person looked for dollar signs as the only proof of value.
The next time I saw them, I made casual, respectful conversation just like always. I didn't say, "I know what you said." I didn't say, "I recently learned that you're two-faced enough to talk kindly to my face and then trash me behind my back." And I didn't say any of the mean things simmering behind the line where there are parts of me that Jesus isn't finished with yet.
Because Jesus isn't finished with that person, either, and their unwillingness or inability to see value in me doesn't have to impact the value I see in them—or in myself. Because maybe true success is finding value in the journey even when you're not where you want to be. And maybe the fruit of that success is the ability to show kindness to others who aren't there yet.
*****
The danger of assumptions is that they allow us to look at someone's surface and make up stories about what lies underneath. Too often we know just enough about people to think we know everything, and we forget the power we wield in taking the time to look beyond the surface.
In the end, the measure of a life well-lived lies in looking honestly at the progress made over time. It's about the growth and the value of lessons learned, and the transformations that make us who we are—no matter how we appear on the outside.
I could be a closet millionaire who drives a crappy car simply because it's still running. I could have loads of money and still choose to wear yoga pants and basic T-shirts simply because they're comfortable. I know a millionaire who actually buys all her favorite jewelry from Temu, and she's so beautifully grounded you'd never know by looking at her that she's wealthy.
For the record, I'm not a closet millionaire. I'm just a simple single mom chasing a dream—and maybe the fact that I'm still chasing it looks like failure to some people. But to me? The fact that I'm still chasing the dream at all shows a fortitude that looks a whole lot like success to me. Not because of the dream, but because I haven't given up on it. (And by the way, the book is still coming along, still releasing in January, and still utterly phenomenal.)
If you've ever felt the same way, I hope this gave you some encouragement, because there's no standard scale on how to measure success in life. What there is, is this: the determination to keep trying, the strength to believe in yourself even when you're the only one who does, and the will to...
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