7. I Want To Do Something Meaningful

Nora thought that having a worthwhile career meant being a teacher or a nurse or a social worker. But as her dad pointed out to her in college, any career can help you live a meaningful life.

Transcripts may not appear in their final version and are subject to change.

INTRO MUSIC 

I’m Nora McInerny, and it’s going to be okay.

It’s sophomore year of college, and I’m lying on my extra-long twin bed, talking to my mother on my hot pink Hello Kitty cordless phone. I’m telling her about my classes, and I’m not telling her about my depression or my eating disorder because it is the early 00s and we haven’t really invented mental health yet and we certainly have not normalized therapy.

Anyway, I’m lying in bed telling her about my marketing class, and wondering if it’s time for me to declare a major. Maybe marketing?

“I don’t know,” I say, “it’s just kind of meaningless, ya know?”

My mom laughs. She and my dad have spent their professional lives in the advertising industry. I spent my childhood begging to tag along to their offices, where there were neon signs and free pop and lots of weirdos saying swear words and doodling and putting their ideas up on walls. I would thrill when I saw that work out in the world. I’d poke kids in school and say, oh, you got Rollerblades? My dad worked on that campaign. Your dad may have BOUGHT them, but my dad SOLD them to your dad!

But, you know, it wasn’t like advertising was as meaningful as teaching. Or social work. Or being a doctor or a nurse or a lawyer or, or, or…

I can’t remember when my dad chimed in – maybe he was overhearing it on the home phone, maybe she had recounted the conversation to him later – but I remember his feedback on what I said.

“I didn’t realize that providing for my family was meaningless. I didn’t realize that sending you to college was meaningless. I didn’t realize that feeding you and clothing you was meaningless.”

And that sounds harsh – and my dad generally was – but he didn’t say this harshly. He said it with a little bit of hurt, and I realized that what I’d said was hurtful and ignorant in a way that is easy to be when you’re 19 or 20 or honestly even 40.

Recently, I found a letter that my father had written me when I was in kindergarten. This is a proper paper letter, with a stamp. He had moved up to Minneapolis from the small town we’d spent two years living in, to take a job that would help pull his family of six out of crushing debt. His letter told me about his daily routine: how he would wake up on his brother’s couch in South Minneapolis, pack himself a sack lunch, and take the bus downtown where he’d work until after dinner, then take the bus back to his brother’s house, and do it all over again. 

Reading that letter as an adult, I wept. My dad spent his days writing copy about fishing lures and fitness equipment. He ate at his desk to avoid spending money on lunch, and when he could, he moved us all up to the city to be with him. He did such meaningful work for us, and I’d forgotten all about it.  

My work today is meaningful to me. But it isn’t more meaningful, necessarily, than the work that I was doing when my husband Aaron was sick with cancer. It’s different, yes. I no longer spend my days writing quippy tweets for brands, or putting together social media strategy pitches for companies I had no interest in working with. Ask me about writing a social media strategy for a power generator company. Don’t ask me about that. But that work paid our mortgage, it paid our medical bills. That work gave us health insurance and short-term disability.

There’s a quarter-to-mid-to-late-life crisis that floods through people when we experience loss and trauma. When you see the truth of life, finally – that it is fleeting and gorgeous – it is so, so normal to feel like you need to upturn the entire apple cart and make sure that everything you do is infused with a deeper meaning.

When Aaron was dying, I told him that I would go back to school and be a nurse, or hospice worker. And he laughed in my face and said, “I love you, but you’d be terrible at that.” Which was so rude, but true.

Because here is the thing: everything we do is infused with meaning. You do not have to try to squeeze depth and meaning to every bit of your life because it’s already there. It’s inherently meaningful to be a person on this earth, living your life. And the work that feels meaningful does not need to be the specific tasks of the job you had, but instead, what that job lets you do. Does it pay your electric bill? Does it feed you? Let the meaning of your work, of your lie, not be the tasks, but the impact. Let the impact of a decent life for yourself and the people you love be enough. 

So many of us want to accomplish great things, be great things. But if you’ve ever walked around a college campus and wondered who a building was named for and had no idea … yeah. Me too. Have you ever driven down a street named for somebody and had no idea who they are or what they did? Yeah, me too! 

The great things are not always more meaningful or impactful than the ordinary ones. 

So if you want to make sure you’re doing something meaningful with your life? You already are.

OUTRO MUSIC

I’m Nora McInerny, and it’s going to be okay.

The “it” changes every day, it’s different for me than it is for you. And I want to know about yours. Call us at 612-568-4441. Or email us at [email protected].

CREDITS