You ever find yourself thinking about grass? How it always seems to be greener on someone else’s lawn?
And I’m speaking metaphorically here because if we were talking in terms of actual nature, well—now seems like the right time to share that I’ve managed to kill a few succulents.
I researched pots. There was soil analysis. I spent money on miracle grow.
“But Allison, you can’t kill a succulent.”
“But Allison, succulents thrive in dry conditions.”
Well. Hold my Fairy Castle Cactus, Cathy.
I wanted to do my part to help clean the air. My birthday is Earth Day, damn it.
But I don’t have the gift.
Now, I could keep at it. Become a succulent whisperer.
If I’m being totally honest—why shouldn’t I be considering you already know I’ve unintentionally murdered several perennials?—plant instructionals at the charming used book store I frequent make my eyes glaze over.
Also I’m no Joanna Gaines. The gold-embossed floating shelf succulent garden of fantasy’s making that lives in my mind isn’t realistic without a shit-ton of work.
Now that’s true whether I’m a naturally gifted cultivator of plants—or not.
Which is the part we all forget.
That’s why we get caught up, staring at other lawns, and going hand-to-hand combat with the green-eyed monster, wondering why we can’t have green grass, too, damn it.
It’s because so many of us can’t or aren’t willing to put in the amount of pure hustle it takes to mushroom.
Now. This whole thought process began as I was huffing and puffing my way through a mile.
One measly mile.
It was infuriating.
Because my lungs, once capable of sustaining me through a 4:33 marathon, could barely be put to task getting my ass up a small incline.
But I’m determined to reach a PR (personal record) for a half this fall. Because somewhere in the midst of marriage and motherhood and business ownership I forgot about doing things that set my heart on fire for purely selfish purposes.
Except I’m two years out from a regular running schedule.
I’m six years out from my last marathon.
And the humble pie that tiny incline recently forced down my gullet tasted mighty bitter.
Nonetheless, I’ll keep running.
April. May. June. July. August.
I’m willing to put in the shit-ton of work a PR is bound to take. Because it’s a mountain I’ve scaled before. One I want to traipse up again. And again and again.
No one will tell me I can’t. No one will tell me I’m not good enough. No one will tell me I don’t deserve something I’m prepared to work horse for.
Which is precisely why I’ll succeed.
But the only thing you’ll see? Is the weight loss.
Who gives a reindeer’s hoof about a PR? Or the miles dutifully logged from April through August? The time I missed with my kid or my spouse? The time away from growing my business?
A BIG FAT NO ONE THAT’S WHO.
But damn if a few of ‘em won’t be jealous, wishing they could drop those ten pesky meandering baby weight pounds as I seemed to so suddenly do.
Which is precisely why you can’t let that green grassy eyed jealous beast to take hold of your soul the next time someone has something you want.
A business. A body. A beautiful yard.
Instead, decide if you’re willing to put in the work it will take to make something seem effortless.
If not? Let that shit go.
But if so?
Guuuuuuuurl, I’ll see you at the finish line.