Enough. Enough now.

So my birthday is on Saturday. My mom, as she is wont to do, asked me weeks ago what I would like, and I've been struggling to come up with ideas. What a terrible problem to have, eh? Someone is chomping at the bit to buy me presents, and I can't think of much I want. The struggle is real, y'all.

Not that I'm suddenly a saint-like person who doesn't desire material possessions; I rarely walk out of Target without at least one unplanned purchase, and I've managed to buy more books than I have time to read. But it doesn't have a hold on me like it used to. I'm not constantly concerned about making more or working harder or "having it all." I read this somewhere a few months back (I can't for the life of me find where, so if I co-opted it from your blog or Instagram, my apologies):

When Googled, it's sourced as a Workaholics Anonymous mantra, which probably also makes it applicable to me.

It resonated at the time, but now it's really sunk in, and for the first time in a long time (maybe ever?), I am content. I do enough. I have enough. I AM enough. My life isn't perfect: I've fallen off the workout wagon, and I would prefer to be in better shape. My career is going well, but I'm not sure it's my dream job. But I'm not beating myself up about it anymore.

I can't really put my finger on HOW this happened, so I don't have any tips or tricks to share, but I'm so thankful that it has. I'm a work in progress, and I've still got goals to work toward, but things are good. It took a full three decades for me to get there, but I think I've finally arrived. Life is good. To borrow a cheesy phrase my sister emailed me, I think this upcoming year will indeed be "thirty-wonderful."