It Counts

My chest achingly tightened as I listened to the former marine describe his open heart surgery DURING WHICH HE WAS PARTIALLY AWAKE. We were on our way to the beach, and Tyler had requested that we listen to a new audiobook he downloaded. By “a new audiobook” I mean “his first audiobook ever.” Tyler does not read. In the seven years I have known him, he has never finished a book, so of course I was happy to listen to his book if it meant he was interested in reading. 

As this man told his life’s story, it included a handful of gruesome details including a chapter about the time his anesthesia didn’t work correctly during his open heart surgery. “My chest is getting tight,” I said to Tyler, rearranging the vents so they blew cold air directly into my face.

“You have a problem,” Tyler laughed as he watched me overreact. My breaths grew deeper and deeper, which made me lightheaded. I do this thing where when I hear about symptoms other people are experiencing, I take them on, myself. My brain knows I’m not lying on a hospital bed with my chest cut open, but as this man describes how it feels, my body thinks its there too.

“Here, why don’t you put in your headphones and listen to something else until this part is over?” Tyler suggested. I countered with the suggestion that he put in his headphones instead, but then he pointed out the dangers in not being able to hear while driving, and I can’t argue with that kind of logic.

Apart from a couple of other overly descriptive bits such as the author’s hands being shredded to the bone while breaking a pull-up record and his toes nearly freezing off during a long run (WHY DO YOU NEED TO SPEND FIVE PAGES DESCRIBING EVERY DETAIL OF THIS?), we listened to the remainder of the book together. When it was finished, I told Tyler how proud I was of him for reading a whole entire book.

“I didn’t really read it,” he said. “It’s an audiobook. It doesn’t count.”

“Of course it counts,” I assured him, though I’ve heard this argument before. Who made up this rule? Is there a designated person whose job it is to decide what counts as reading? Is there a page limit? Do children’s books count? If I read a book in bits and pieces over the course of two years, does it count? Can someone read the book aloud to me? What if I reread the Harry Potter series for the seventh time? DOES THAT COUNT OH GREAT WISE BOOK SULTAN?

As I stared out the window in the passenger seat, mentally advocating for Tyler’s reading achievements while he obliviously drove down the highway, I thought about how I do this to myself. Someone recently congratulated me on publishing my first book. “I’m self-publishing it,” I quickly corrected them. “It doesn’t count.”

When I first started running, I was afraid to call myself a runner. I thought it would offend real runners for an amateur like myself to identify with them. When I started my business I was afraid to call myself an entrepreneur. I thought there was a certain level of success that my business needed to attain to be considered legitimate. When I started writing, I was afraid to call myself a writer. Real writers spent their days in a cabin in the woods sipping whiskey and writing novels while a cat named Felipe snuggled at their feet–not writing short stories at their dining room table during nap time.

But it counts.

And whatever accomplishments you are downplaying in your own life – those count too. There is no official count-classifyer who is going to tell you that you’ve finally arrived. I hope that you will take time this week to appreciate of the progress you have made. Celebrate your hard work. Be proud of yourself–you're allowed to do that. And if you're waiting for someone to tell you that you're doing a good job, I am happy to be that person for you. Today. Right now. As you're reading this email. This is it. Because it counts. It all counts.