I used to have this sort of moralistic view that if things weren’t going well for me it was my fault because I wasn’t a good person, or at least not a good-enough person. Like the Puritans who equated money and prosperity with being right with God, I developed this screwy idea that because I wasn’t married or didn’t have an awesome job or had to live in a crummy apartment it was because I lacked some crucial quality that made me undeserving. It’s so easy to look at other people’s lives and assume they are perfect, especially when you’re feeling kind of low about yourself.
Lately, however, I’ve been noticing that even the most rad, crazy-awesome people I know have hiccups and setbacks in their journeys, and it doesn’t make them any less super-cool—and maybe, just maybe, the same is true of me.
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