I suppose the reason I didn't take a picture of my car this morning was I didn't want to risk taking my gloves off for 10 seconds to snap one. My little Honda Civic had transformed into an igloo. Nearly six inches of snow were coating my tiny Civic, and I was armed with nothing but my half scraper/half brush to unearth it from winter's wrath.

This wouldn't have been so bad, had the car not been surrounded by feet of snow ("plowed in"), and had I not approached it to find a parking ticket. I was parked on the wrong side of the road during a "Madison snow emergency" -- there's no signage for this stuff, you're just supposed to know. At least they didn't tow me. I thought. And then immediately changed my mind. If they had towed me, at least I wouldn't have to scrape my car off right now.

I started brushing. There are many reasons I've never considered running a marathon. One key reason is I don't have the mental fortitude to do the same thing over and over again without going absolutely insane. I brushed and brushed and brushed and brushed and brushed and brushed (etc.) and then looked at my car only to see I had hardly made a dent. So. Much. Snow. 

I was certain I was going to spend the rest of my existence on this earth brushing snow off of my car. I took small solace in that fact that, at least I was right: I always knew a Wisconsin winter would be the end of me.

I sat in the car to warm up, then reemerged to continue brushing. (What else is there? I've heard some people some places might be doing different activities, but my existence was reduced to that of a incessant snow brusher.) It was then I slipped and fell, landing on a fluffy mountain of snow. Now I was coated in it, just like my poor car. If I were six, I would have laughed, but I'm 26, so I swore.

It was only after unearthing my reliable Civic that I realized how foolish I'd been: The brushing was the least of my concerns. I was never going to be able to get out of my parking spot.

Maybe I'll be able to just drive out. I thought like a moron.

I revved up my engine and drove back and forth and back and forth, my car making terrible noises, tires spinning furiously, moving no where. I would never make it out.

I saw a man who I would probably call a hipster walk by holding a tennis racket, which made absolutely no sense. I kept spinning my tires, futilely. Jealous of anyone walking. Why do cars even exist? They're no match for mother nature.

Suddenly, the hipster man was at my window, "Can I help?" he asked.

"I think I'm screwed," I responded, "I don't have a shovel." 

"I have a tennis racket!" he answered, and started scooping and moving snow like a professional, as if his racket were designed for this very purpose.

I sat there, stunned. Why was this man helping me?

Then he pushed my car while I accelerated, and it made some progress, though was still not entirely un-stuck. Another woman clad in business clothes came to help push. Then a third person. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. Why did these people care about me and my car? But care they did. They pushed and dug and pushed, and within no time, I was on my way!

"Yay!" one of the pushing woman exclaimed as I emerged from my terrible plowed in spot onto the road.

"Thank you so much!" I shouted to the three helpers as I drove away. 

But I'll never be able to fully thank them, the three generous people who decided to take time out of their busy mornings to help a desperate girl, with no chance of getting repaid. I don't even know their names. But I do know, at least today, that the kindness of the Wisconsin people outshone the fury of Wisconsin's weather.

You are a Human Being, Not a Human Doing

When I was going through my bad period of clinical depression in college, I saw a psychologist named Linda once a week for an hour.

In short, I loved the experience. When people talk about "the college experience" I know they mean more "drinking beers in the shower to get ready to go out and pre-game simultaneously" and less "life-changing free psychological services" but, to this day, the latter is a college experience I cherish.*

Now as I said before, clinical depression is generally an internal battle, not a result of external factors. But, obviously, just because you're depressed doesn't mean you're somehow immune to life's annoyances and tiny tragedies.

So, often during my weekly hour with Linda, I'd talk about grades on tests, writing papers, fouling out of basketball games, going to lame parties, not being invited to "cool" parties, and whatever. Regular run-of-the-mill college crap. ("Depressed people! They're just like you!" ;) ) My focus was often on things I was doing, the seemingly impossible ever-growing to do list, and things I thought I was doing poorly.

Linda continuously reminded me:

"You are a human being, not a human doing."

Years later, I still love that simple, yet powerful, sentiment.

We are so obsessed with metrics in our society, that we often see ourselves as equivalent to our "results."

We go from asking ourselves in High School: What's my  SAT score? What's my class rank? What colleges did I get into? 

To College: What's my GPA? What sorority/fraternity did I get into? What's my team's record? 

To Life after college: How much money do I make? Where do I live? What car do I drive? How many likes did my facebook picture get? How many hours do I work a week? 

Not realizing, of course, that the whole time we're asking ourselves all of the wrong questions, shining the light on relatively unimportant things. Our lives are not our resumes; our lives cannot be distilled down to a single sheet of paper.** We are more than a carefully curated list of concrete accomplishments.

We are the little things, the tiny actions, the subtle nuances, the fleeting thoughts, the passing emotions. The growing friendships, the intimate bonds, the open smiles.

Your essence cannot be contained on an 8 1/2 x 11 inches of space, you are so much more expansive than that. And when you leave this world, and someone does try to deduce your entire, dynamic life into a tiny newspaper blurb, it will look nothing like your resume. You will never read an obituary that looks like this:

Ashley was a center starter on her basketball team, she scored 8.9 points per game, got 9.2 rebounds per game, and died with a 3.85 GPA. She left behind a six-digit job offer and a signed lease on an awesome apartment in the most expensive part of town. She was survived by her beloved Audi A-4.

Salaries are not mentioned in obituaries, but people are always mentioned. Brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, husbands, children, grandchildren, are always mentioned. So why do we define ourselves by what we DO? We need to define ourselves by who we are, and how we love.

*image

So, I'm not a psychologist (neither was Walt), and actually never took a single psychology class in college, so if you want to ignore me, I'm not offended :) But I just think you deserve to cut yourself some slack if your To Do list seems insurmountable, your resume looks disappointing, or your "metrics" aren't up to society's standards. And just be. It's enough. Thankfully, you are a human being, and not a human doing.

--

p.s. Have you read the Tao of Pooh? From amazon: "While Eeyore frets, and Piglet hesitates, and Rabbit calculates, and Owl pontificates, Pooh just is." It's a lovely, quick read.

p.p.s. ICYMI: my blog post on depression turned Thought Catalog article and I'm so excited for all the support from everyone about it :) A little thing, but a big step for me. There are 30+ comments, and most aren't mean. (ha!)

*I'm no prude, but never have I ever drank a beer in the shower. (You can put a finger down.)
**Even if it is pink and scented.