There are chickens living in my backyard who couldn’t care less that I have a bachelor’s degree and there are four dogs in my house and they do not give a flip about my book – even though Bonnie is on the back cover. My son doesn’t have a hoot about my LinkedIn. They don’t care that I spend months worrying about what happens next school year or wondering whether I’ll ever find another career. Each morning, these dogs and chickens greet me with the same question:
“Did you bring snacks?”
If the answer is yes, I’m the greatest human alive. If the answer is no, I may as well not exist.
Honestly, I love it. And yes, I always have snacks.
Each school year there is a new set of introductions, each new position, new classroom, new building. New coworkers. It’s exhausting after a while.
What do you do here?
Where did you go to college?
What part of town do you live in?
Where does your son attend school?
It’s amazing how quickly we begin believing our worth is hidden somewhere inside the answer to those questions.
I remember sometime ago I was chatting with coworkers. They didn’t realize public employee salaries can be found online. So one by one they began searching for the salaries of all our coworkers. And then the room got quiet and I realized they were all searching for my salary. This was not to be cruel on anyone’s part, simply their curiosity in the moment and I was not immune to the search. But why, in this moment, did I feel shame and vulnerability? Because my worth was now attached to a number and I hated it.
I’d much rather be valued for what I give out in love and caregiving than what is given to me based on what someone else has decided I’m worth.
I would much rather be measured by chicken treats and milkbones.
It makes me a little sad to realize how easily we’ve built entire identities around titles, salaries, and accomplishments. So, in the meantime, my chickens spend an afternoon celebrating the discovery of a Japanese beetle they accidentally dropped three times. My beagles believe every time I come home it is the greatest reunion in recorded history. Pure Joy all around. Maybe they’re onto something.
So, to these morning-singing fluffy-butt egg-gifting ladies, I am the giant who brings watermelon. I am the keeper of mealworms and chicken scratch. The opener of the coop door and the handler of their freedom. I’m the waterboy(girl), the one who scratches behind their neck when they’ll allow it. And I’m the one who built their home to keep them safe and happy. That’s my resume. That’s it. That’s how they measure me. And…
It is enough.
The beagles (and wiener dog) don’t wonder about my professional side either. Enzo isn’t curious about my profile or portfolio. Tony doesn’t laugh harder because I have another credential. The people who truly love us rarely love us for the things strangers admire. They love us because we’re us!
Ten years ago exactly, my biggest dream wasn’t career advancement. It wasn’t publishing a memoir. It wasn’t getting another certification. It was simply getting to walk outside.
Now that I can walk outside, it’s a privilege that’s been easy to forget.
Every morning I step into the backyard carrying a bucket of chicken scratch. Four feathered little dinosaurs come barreling toward me with all the grace of toddlers chasing an ice cream truck. Not one of them has ever asked where I went to college. They’ve never inquired about my salary, my job title, or whether my book sold enough copies.
They only want to know one thing:
“Are you here?”
Maybe that’s the better question. Because the ones that matter most in my life aren’t keeping score of my accomplishments. They celebrate those accomplishments, absolutely, but do they really care? Not about that, not really.
They’re simply glad I showed up.
Love,
Amanda
P.S. If you’re wondering why chickens make such good therapists…
My chickens will…
- sprint at full speed because another chicken sprinted.
- forget why they walked somewhere – just like I do.
- hold heated arguments over a single blade of grass.
- celebrate catching worms by immediately dropping them.
- panic because a leaf fell.
- panic because their own shadow moved.
- Panic because their run door doesn’t open on time.
- Sing beautiful songs each morning – the morning song.
- announce every accomplishment to the entire county.
- take luxurious dust baths and somehow emerge dirtier.
- They love sitting in the rain and also look offended by the rain.
- wiggle their fluffy little butts while running.
AND
- Every one of my hens believes she’s upper management.
BUT
- Not one of them has ever asked to see my résumé.
Thankful for them, and you.