Twenty-six books and 4,758 pages later, and I’m no better off than when I started. I’m not saying that self-help books are solely to blame for my lack of fulfillment in my life, but they sure didn’t help make things better.
I’m 43 and nowhere near where I want to be – professionally, financially, personally, physically. You name it, I’m not there. And by there, I mean in a “good place.” So what does one do when they find themselves quite unhappy? For me, I looked for instruction manuals on how to get happy. I tore through self-help books and read formula after formula from those who started low and ended high. I Libbyed, Kindled, and I audio booked. Amazon gladly recommended books for my self-loathing cart. And I went on a reading journey of taking notes, highlighting, and feeling all the feels. I would connect with the beginning of self-help books for the most part. Yes, my life is falling apart. Yes, I feel like I could be doing more. Yes, I am far from reaching my happy self. I want to stop apologizing. I want to believe the universe has my back. I hear you Rachel Hollis! I see you Gabby Bernstein! I see your badass self, Jen Sincero. I want to be a badass, too!
I finish each book with a scripted play-by-play of what to do and how to do it. By the time I get to the end of the first few books, I am hungry to be the best version of myself. Energized. Empowered. Ready to kick ass in the world one small step at a time. Pink’s “So What” plays in the background as I dance around self-actualizing. F*ck yes. It’s time to kick ass.
But then something happens. The music stops, and I do what makes sense to any self-actualizing addict to regain the high. I search for more recommendations and buy more books. I hear a cacophony of self-help gurus hauntedly chanting, “Don’t just survive, Haverly, thrive!” I dig until I find the right next book with the right formula to get me there. I can’t resist the urge to want to be better, richer, happier. Damn it, I want to thrive like them.
But the cycle continues. I land in self-help book rehab. After years of dumping money into the self-help book industry, I realize that none of their journeys are right for me. These authors are writing their stories from their happy place. They’ve reached the other side of their rainbow and can look back and write about how they got there. I’m not there. It’s like I’m stuck on page 71. I want someone to meet me where I am: barely getting by, with a high BMI, unenchanted, and living in her sister’s basement.
I’m stuck in the middle of the story. My life isn’t great. Part one. I want to get better and I’m trying. Part two. And that’s where the similarities with self-help books end. As far as part three is concerned –self-actualizing and making things happen for yourself – well, I need to figure that part out on my own, and if I do, that will become my self-help story.
The long and short of it is this: other people’s self-help books are not for me. They’re almost, but not quite helpful. And I find myself almost, but not quite where I hope these books will take me. I’m stuck in the middle of my story, and that’s okay. Their books are rightfully their stories; they’re not mine. And while some people may have a major transformation from a self-help book that is more permanent than my fleeting inspiration, that will never be me.
I am stuck in the middle of my life, and these books are not my savior. I am almost, but not quite there in everything in my life, and perhaps someday I’ll be okay with that. Until then, I know where not to look.
How about you? I can’t be the only one whose life has half-assed moments of self-actualization. What are you favorite “almost but not quite” moments? I have a bunch. So many in fact that I’m dedicating an entire blog series to them. For now, suffice it to say that Haverly is almost but not quite there in just about everything.
