One Starfish is Enough

Today, I stood in the middle of a field and bawled my eyes out.

It’s a good thing I was wearing absorbent mittens.

I’ve been feeling positively lost lately. For the first time in years, I have absolutely no direction. It’s just so frustrating because a few short months ago, I seemed to be on such a solid path. Seemed. Now our podcast has effectively died, I’m disillusioned about blogging, and all I’ve been doing is questioning my motives — and other people’s motives — for just about everything.

I feel like I got wrapped up in all the number-crunching, fan-building, page-hit-counting hype that jumps onboard with blogging and social media whether you like it or not. And it sucked away part of my soul. I started drinking the Kool-Aid and serving it up iced cold to everyone else (sorry about that). Then one morning, I woke up, looked in my glass, and remembered, “Oh crap, I hate Kool-Aid. This stuff makes me want to vomit.”

Now I find myself not knowing exactly what to do. I have ideas, but they don’t make it onto the page like they used to. I’ve lost all my drive to put them there. I keep asking myself, why bother? Who’s going to read it? You’ve been writing since 2009, and really, nothing has come of this. You’re doing that definition of insanity thing that people love quoting.

And that’s why I’m so lost.

When I started my blog, I felt like I’d finally found my voice after years of being silent. Developing a chronic illness in my twenties brought my life to a screeching halt, and I didn’t think I’d ever be able to sit at a keyboard and type again. Writing was like letting lose all the little monsters, demons, jesters and gladiators from my head.

And then came the bonus — some people actually read what I wrote. And liked it. And were helped by it. Or inspired by it. I remember saying that if something I wrote impacted just one person, that was good enough. It was worth it. It made sense.

And then I got lost.

When the numbers for our podcast started climbing, my husband asked me what it would take to make me feel successful. I didn’t really know. Doing work that I loved, for one. Feeling like I was contributing to something. And being heard. But by how many people? When does it ever become “enough”?

Just last week, my brother’s friend died. He was a fixture at our house during junior high and high school. Apparently the last time they met face-to-face, he told my brother that he really wanted to see my parents again because they’d made such a big impact on his life. I’m sure they had no idea.

Just one life. Just one person helped. Just one life changed. Is that enough?

After I stopped crying in the field today and started walking home, I couldn’t help thinking about the story of the starfish on the beach. Hundreds of starfish get washed ashore. They’re all going to die. A man comes upon a boy who’s throwing the starfish back into the ocean. He says to the boy, “Why are you bothering? There are so many starfish — it’s not going to make a difference.” The boy chucks a starfish into the water and says, “It made a difference to that one.”

Over the years, I’ve gotten emails, comments, tweets, and messages about the pieces I’ve written. It’s one of the best reminders and reinforcers that my writing is worth something. That I’m not doing this all for naught. That it just may have made a difference to that one…

It wasn’t until I started walking home that I realized — writing all these years has saved the one starfish that really matters.

Me.

It saved me.

That’s a good reason to keep going. And continuing to write will, no doubt, make a difference to “that one.”

And that will be enough.