My whole life, with everything, the grass has always been greener. No matter the circumstances, I always felt like there had to be something better. God himself could have picked me up and dropped me straight into the Garden of Eden and I’d sit there thinking “but…..if this exists there must be something better and if I’m here, I am missing out on it!”

As far as I’m concerned, existence itself is just proof of all the other/better possibilities. In my logic- if this exists, this place (or thing, or person) that I have never encountered before and is so beautiful/cool/amazing, imagine what else is out there that I just haven’t seen yet. To me, the grass isn’t only greener elsewhere, it’s also lusher, full of bunnies, works as currency and tastes like chocolate.

I am this way with everything. I start books and stop reading them half way through, worried that I am wasting time on this when there is surely a better story out there. I find jobs that I enjoy until I hear about other jobs on podcasts that I need to investigate. I find things I like, but continue to scour the pages of Pinterest because I refuse to believe that it’s the best. I change my hair color every other month because the best color is still out there somewhere. I could go on for days. If you are friends with me, I suggest someday asking Nick about how trying to choose a new cell phone provider almost caused him to murder me.

The best way to describe my brain is to compare it to the Sanderson Sisters when they go searching for their book. All three of them stepping in sync, looking left and right with each step. Taking it all in. I take it all in, trying to find the best.

All jokes aside, this is a contributing factor to my anxiety. When I don’t settle on what I have and keep looking for what I could have, my life gets harder. My mind races. I begin making lists. Lists to take down notes of all that I’ve thought of that day so that I don’t forget. Lists of books I want to read, places I want to visit, makeup routines I want to try, recipes I swear I’ll make, and crafts I might (never will) do someday. I binge. And I write it in lists. All because I refuse to believe that I am not missing out on something. Or that I will not miss out on something if I don’t try to learn everything. Or that I will forget all the things I’ve learned along the way if I do not write them down.

Over the years I have learned how to gain control and I can reel it in. I force myself to stop making lists. I make a serious effort to be present with whatever is currently happening in my life and pay no mind to whatever may be happening elsewhere. I purge. I convince myself to throw away the lists, remembering that anything that is on them and important will make its way back into my life. That any book I really want to read, I won’t need a list to remind me. That any household chore I need to do will be obvious even without a list. That I won’t forget that someday I want to buy a boat. I press restart.

I remind myself that whatever is in front of my right now is all I need. That my grass is just the right shade of green.

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