There’s such a pull toward busyness, towards proving you’re working hard, regardless of whether the things you spend your time on add any actual value to your life or anyone else’s.
Then there’s the real work. The work that does add value. The work that fulfills you, simply by the process of showing up every day and doing it.
Here’s a collection of notes about real work that I’ve jotted down over the past few months on the edges of notebook pages and the scrap pieces of papers.
Writing is the real work.
Building community is the real work.
Lifting people up in their moments of exhaustion is the real work.
Loving and being loved is the real work.
Creating moments of magic – where people are seen, not where they’re entertained – is the real work.
Being kind to myself is the real work.
Holding space for others’ journeys is the real work.
Being genuinely and vulnerably myself is the real work.
Choosing connection over information and convenience is the real work.
That’s (part of) my ongoing list. What’s yours?