"I AM DOING THE BEST THAT I CAN!"
Or, what I wanted to shout into the void
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“Oh noooo, man, not here!” the man sitting in a lawn chair on the sidewalk yelled as Ryder squatted near the curb to do his business.
I tried to move him (Ryder, not the man) but he’s 100 pounds. He wouldn’t budge. As it was, we were at risk of missing our train at the station just a few more blocks ahead. Michael and I had been snippy with each other just before I left the house for no good reason, mostly because I was exhausted from the week, juggling too much.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, “I’ll pick it up and we’ll be out of your way soon.” I knelt down, right hand covered with the thin green cellophane bag, feeling Sidewalk Man’s eyes burning a hole into my back. I dressed for Spring, incorrectly, as the city declared today the first day of summer. Beads of sweat formed on my face.
Just then, a neighbor from my block walked by. “Jenny!” I looked up from my crouch, eyes squinting into the sun, already wanting to cry. I acted like nothing was wrong as we traded pleasantries about the weather, Sidewalk Man watching with disdain.
I picked up the pile, and Ryder and I hustled along toward Metro North. When we sat down at a seat on the platform, an older man next to me with headphones on rolled his eyes, curving his body into a crescent away from us. A few minutes later, he moved to the other side of the bench.
As our train thundered up the tracks, I gripped Ryder’s leash until my knuckles turned white, terrified it would slip from my hands while boarding. After asking for our destination, the conductor told me I was getting on the wrong car, so Ryder and I started running along the platform, trying to reach another one.
Except that just before we could get to those first four cars, Ryder leapt onto the train in an unexpected moment, one car too early to make our connection. He yanked me at a 90-degree angle, bolting through the open doors. Before I know what’s happening, he’s face-to-face with a chocolate Cocker Spaniel, both growling at each other in surprise, all of us caught off guard.
As the doors behind me slid shut, I stood in the entryway scanning left and right: both cars were already crowded with passengers who embarked one stop earlier. Turns out Headphone Man entered there, too, both of us now equally annoyed we hadn’t avoided each other.
As I turned right to give the dog family on my left space, I struggled to find a place to stand, let alone sit. I was really sweating now, with two backpacks and a jacket on, and Ryder at my side. Before I could figure it out, the car jostling us from side to side, a woman looked up at me with smug-yet-semi-apologetic eyes and said, “I’m so sorry, but I’m reaaaally allergic to dogs.” Translation: we don’t want you here either.
The only other place for us to go was toward the end of the car on my left, past the other dog, near a terrifying open door in front of the conductor’s seat, with gusts of wind blowing in as the express train raced ahead at full speed.
I took a deep breath. We squeezed past the spaniel, and I stood at the end of the car, contemplating how on earth to safely move us between cars at the next station. I looked back toward the double doors we entered through. A gruff man in a hoodie with dark eyes looked straight at us, scowling.
“Do you need something?” I asked. “Are you trying to pass through here?”
He said nothing. Just stood there, stone-faced, looking at me like The Shining twins.
I had just finished the busiest week of client work in five years, while preparing to enter an even more hectic month. Hallelujah, clients! I was incredibly grateful for the surge, and also, I was in over my head.
Michael recently hurt his knee, so for three weeks I was the one taking Ryder out three times each day into the scrum of the city. I needed those breaks, too. I had been accelerating from zero to 100 miles-per-hour work-wise, accompanied by a sense of energetic whiplash.
I knew this mode wasn’t sustainable, and I hate the word busy—I wrote a whole book about it—but this was my time to meet the moment, to rise toward all the opportunities I worked so hard to generate during these last few lean years.
We were on the train because my dad flew cross-country on a spur-of-the-moment trip to visit a friend in upstate New York, and I was excited to take Ryder to a place with abundant grass to run and play on. A place where I could also get some peace and quiet, catching up with family and new friends.
It would be worth the chaotic journey, despite the sea of judgmental faces currently staring back at us. When I realized we had thirty minutes before the next stop where we’d attempt to move train cars, and that there was nothing else I could do at the moment, I crumpled to the floor and started to cry.
“I AM DOING THE BEST THAT I CAN!!!!!!” I wanted to scream to everyone and no one.
So I said it to myself instead: I am doing the best that I can. My clenched jaw and gritted teeth slowly started to loosen and relax.
For the last few years, I have experienced so many waves of feeling like my best isn’t quite good enough:1
I fail to keep up with friends or respond in a timely manner,
I fail to exercise as much as I would like and therefore to fit my clothes,
I fail to “keep house” in a way that doesn’t drive me insane,
I fail to land new “big fish” clients to relieve financial pressure,
I fail to effectively CEO my small business, and
I failed to generate enough momentum with my podcasts to sustain them,
Etc etc etc.
While holding on for dear life so Ryder and I didn’t fly out of the open train door, I looked down at the beaded bracelet on my left wrist, with my word of the year spelled out in tiny white blocks and black lettering: FAITH.2
That’s what I needed to return to, once again. And again and again. Faith in the unfolding and grace along the way.
Within five minutes of arriving in Brewster, the stress melted as I unclipped Ryder’s leash and sent him running free.
We made it. Reprieve, even for a weekend.3
❤️
