Living by Choice

I chose to live a long time ago because I realized my dad died at 52 and never got to really live. He died from a disease that took him too fast. And my dad was the kind of person who thought he had time — he saved, he worked, he pushed through day after day thinking that “later” would come. He worked to get by, not to live. He could have done so much with his life, but he kept waiting. And the truth is, he never got to enjoy anything he saved for.

Yeah, he saved money. And his wife took what he had. I had to fight for whatever little inheritance I got. And he always told me he didn’t want to leave me too much because he wanted me to value the dollar. When I look back, I understand exactly what he meant. And I appreciated every moment of that lesson because of where I come from.

There was a point in my life where I had a larger than normal amount of funds in my bank account. Me. A girl who came from nothing. And yeah, I paid a whole bunch of shit off, so it disappeared quick — but the moment mattered. Just seeing that number, seeing something I built on my own, meant everything. I honestly didn’t think I would ever see that kind of money again. Maybe I will someday, who knows. But I took it for what it was: proof that I made something happen for myself.

Having savings now is the only reason I can even take time off work. I’m dipping into my GIC, but I already said this year is going to be my year to live a little. Once my birthday celebration comes and goes, then I’ll put my big girl pants back on and figure out my next moves. Because if I’m living this life, I need to be able to maintain it. I don’t want to fall into any holes.

This whole HR situation matters because it’s either going to make me or break me. Make me — meaning I get a severance cushion and time to plan my future. Break me — meaning I fall back into the same 9-to-5 cycle of keeping my head down and doing whatever needs to be done. And honestly? Whatever. I know how to eat shit. I can do it for as long as I need to. And move on to where life brings me, because I believe that everything happens for a reason.

But the truth is, I started living because my dad didn’t.

And now that I’m approaching 50, it feels even more real. I’m two years away from the age he died. I’m not comparing myself to him — I know I’m not dying — but I’m stepping into the age where he was taken. And I remember thinking he was so old. But here I am, at that same stage of life, and I don’t feel old at all.

And you know what?
I want to live.
I want to be happy.
I want to be free.
I want to be at peace.

And I will do that with intention and will not hold myself back from being who I was always meant to be, that little girl my dad adored who had spirit, sass and spunk. This is for you daddy. Lost but never forgotten.