Choices

My Grandma, I realised the other day, has had to overcome a lot of hurdles to accept who I am.

It has been hard for her to accept that I’m never going to be a career woman; that I’m not interested in becoming a journalist or a teacher, or indeed embarking on any kind of career that would earn me a useful amount of money. She has just about accepted that working part time and spending the rest of my day writing is the way I’d like to live my life. But she doesn’t understand it. She tells me about my cousins who have both bought houses in recent years and are more financially secure than I’m ever likely to be. And every time she does, I feel very aware of that stability I don’t have; that house I can’t afford; those holidays I don’t go on.

And then I remember: I’ve chosen not to have those things.

For me, the process of affording them will not make me happy. A full-on career with all the stresses that go alongside it and the complete cut in time for myself would make me miserable. Perhaps I would be able to buy a house, but unless I could spend lots of time in it writing and cooking and doing all the things that make me happy, it’s not much use to me. For my cousins, it’s a sensible choice. As far as I gather, theirs are careers they enjoy and the houses are a bonus.

I’d love to have a house of my own. I’d love to be able to decorate my living room or decide to put shelves up in the bedroom. I’d love to know that my home is mine. But what I enjoy doing won’t pay for that right now. And what’s the point in life if you’re not enjoying it?

My Grandma understands the theory, just not the practice. And when I talk to her about it, I feel a little bit guilty for making her worry. She accepts that I’m doing what makes me happy; she just can’t for the life of her think why it does. And every time she remembers how much I’m paying in rent or the state of my bank balance at the end of the month, a little part of her panics.

But that, I remind myself as I open the front door at an hour when the sun is still reflecting on the letterbox, is no reason to become a journalist.

Image by Ian Britton