I'll Feel Better When Everything Is Done

I'm standing in the garage on a Saturday morning, and I'm doing the math again.

There's the garden — plants stacked in corners waiting to be moved into bigger pots, a project that keeps getting pushed to next weekend. There are the curtains I found for the covered pergola, still rolled in their package, waiting for a day when I have energy and decent weather and the right headspace to hang them. There's the app I'm building, the one that will solve a problem I've been thinking about for two years. There's the content I said I'd batch-create this month. There's the memoir sitting in a folder, waiting for me to commit to the next chapter. There's the house that never quite feels organized, the workout plan I start and pause, the ideas I write down at 11 p.m. when I'm too tired to actually build them.

I keep thinking the same thought: I'll feel better when everything is done.

This is the lie I tell myself most mornings. It comes in different shapes depending on the day. When the plants are potted and the curtains are hung, I'll feel settled. When the app launches, I'll have proven something. When I've caught up on all the projects, I'll be able to actually relax.

I've believed this for so long that I barely notice I'm believing it anymore.

The problem — the thing I'm finally noticing at 40-something with a garage full of half-finished intentions — is that finishing one thing always reveals another. This is not a design flaw in my life. This is just how life works.

I finished the couch essay. Suddenly I had five new ideas queued up. I shipped a program at work. Immediately there were gaps I could see that needed filling. I organize one shelf and suddenly the shelf next to it looks like chaos. The goalposts don't stay still. The finish line moves.

What if that's not something to fix? What if that's the actual structure of a full, engaged life?

I think about my son learning to hide. He loves hiding — or rather, he loves the idea of hiding. He'll ask me to hide him under a blanket, completely cover him, and then immediately say "Find me!" from under the blanket. He doesn't understand that if he's invisible to himself, he's not actually hidden. He hasn't grasped yet that other people's eyes work independently of his own awareness. This gap between what he thinks and what's true will close someday. He'll grow out of it.

But I wonder if I've grown into a version of this same gap. I've been waiting to feel like my life is "finished" while I'm literally living it. I've been so focused on the unreached finish line that I've barely noticed I'm already here, in the middle of everything I was waiting for.

The plants are in pots — just smaller ones. The curtains aren't hung yet and the pergola is still bare, but we sit under it anyway. The app isn't launched and I'm learning something new every day building it. The memoir chapters aren't complete and the stories are still arriving. The house is messy and I can still find what I need. My son is growing every single day, and he's not finished. Jurie and I are still figuring out how to live together well, and we're not finished. I'm not finished.

But I'm here. I'm in the progress. And that counts.

Here's what I'm trying to hold onto as September folds into October: a life in progress is still a life being lived. Maybe the finished version isn't the goal. Maybe the goal is to stop waiting for permission to enjoy the one that's happening right now.

This week, maybe pick one thing to actually finish. Not everything — just one. Let the rest stay messy and real and alive. Because the truth I'm learning, finally, is this: the house is full of half-finished things. The garden is full of plants waiting. The curtains are still in their package. And so am I — still becoming, still learning. And that's okay.

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What are you waiting to finish before you let yourself enjoy your life? I'd love to hear — join my newsletter and hit reply. I read every one, half-finished projects and all.