Contingent Self-worth?

A Word Press friend recently posted that, at one point in her life, when she stopped and looked back, she realized she was defining herself AS her achievements. A day had come when there was nothing to submit, nothing to win, nothing to announce and someone casually asked, “so what do you do?” She felt as if she had been holding herself together with accomplishments, and without them, she was hollow. Empty. Since then she realized that without her accomplishments, she is still enough. She has character, values, curiosity, and kindness. She will continue to strive for excellence, dream big, and crush goals. But who she is matters more than what she produces. She can chase wins without letting them decide her worth.

<<<Food for thought.>>> So, this was my reply:

I felt exactly like that when I retired from running a laboratory for disease research. I got to rest for a couple months, but that was all I could take. I didn’t know who I was without a job. I quickly found work in a winery, and did a lot of agricultural work to make wine. Also tasted, bottled, and sold. Wine Festivals were great fun. But the winery closed, and I jumped fully into being an extra in movies and TV. After many years of that, I grew tired of the long days mostly sitting on my ass. Then I worked harder to become an actor, with lots of classes and unpaid roles in local shorts. But I’ve reached a point where I’m tired of auditioning, auditioning, auditioning. I’m taking a break from all of that now. I had to call a friend to talk about it. I’m OK with it. Still, I crave work.

I volunteer with a railroad history group that has restored a 1944 steam engine. I’ve done work inside the firebox! Which is huge. You could sleep a family of six in there comfortably. The train is huge. It burns oil, not coal, even used motor and cooking oil. There is a 1970’s train and railroad car pusher/puller (aka a shuttle wagon) that we use to move the train in and out of its storage garage, and it needed work. Many things were done to the engine by a local repair shop, but they didn’t change the oil. I did that. The oil was really old, pitch-black, black-as-night, black-as-coal, stygian black. We call the shuttle wagon: Lurch. Lurch drank two full gallons of oil after I flushed the old stuff out and changed the filter. It didn’t start up noteably better. Then someone suggested that the carburator needed work. I found a problem and fixed it the other day. Then, with just a quick turn of the key, the cranky engine leapt into action, and idles like a purring cat. I feel useful that way.

I hike, workout, ride a motorcycle, read a lot, write, and listen to music. But still, I have to do work with my hands. It’s not that I identify AS my work anymore, but I still need it to be useful. My step-daughter thrives after surviving a brain cancer over two decades ago. I helped assemble a new bed for her last week. She got it from Amazon. Probably 50 heavy-duty steel pieces, plus 80 variously-sized bolts, and a manual that was only drawings. It took at least three hours for us to get it together correctly. It was a huge brain-twisting puzzle. I enjoyed it immensely. I don’t know any other way to be. I got to spend time with her while we worked on the assembly. And I got to eat some of the leftover lasagna she had made. Life is good.