My life is pretty usual.
I live in my roughly 420 square foot apartment – the bills footed by my parents while I attend a small, local Catholic college. I’m greeted at the door by my dalmatian-mix, Cooper, each day after I drive my late model sedan down the side of the mountain back into the valley I call home.
I’m surrounded by amazing people every day, from my bosses at the warehouse store where I work some weeknights to help cover my commuting costs, to the pastor where I play the piano Sunday mornings. I have a wonderful boyfriend, loving parents, great and supportive friends and family. And I’m provided with an opportunity to attend an absolutely amazing school where I can hopefully build a foundation that will carry me through medical school and into practice and adulthood.
I do struggle though. I deal with depression, I deal with anxiety and bipolar disorder. I deal with health issues that would rival that of your normal nursing-home resident. But mostly I deal with my issues with the ways in which I am expected to live my life.
I don’t want a life of material excess. I don’t want a grand house, I don’t want to own a car that cost more than most people make in a year. And I certainly don’t want to feel disconnected from myself. Which is what I feel that I am slipping more and more toward each day.
I am on a journey toward living purposefully. I am on a journey toward intentional living.