Momma, I made it!

What does it mean to have “made it?”

I had my first panic attack in fifth grade, during which I hyperventilated to my mother about needing to study harder so I could earn admittance to Stanford University one day. Back then, “making it” meant attending a prestigious school almost a decade later.

Though I never enrolled at Stanford, I did attend a world-renowned undergrad program for aspiring filmmakers. And the goalposts of “making it” shifted even further into the unattainable: I would cross that finish line only if I won an Oscar, which only a handful of living cineastes might manage as the pinnacle of their long careers.

“Making it” meant prestige—and getting a lot more of it.

But then I actually entered the workforce—I interned at a major network, assisted on feature films, contributed to national ad campaigns, and joined elite initiatives in education and mental health—and quickly discovered that the managers and higher-ups in these prestige-oriented environments hardly ever seemed happy. In fact (with rare and special exceptions like Mike at HBO) they were grumpy, brooding, and sometimes downright mean.

I also noticed that, even if an advertising executive celebrated a huge contract or shiny new Clio Award—even if they high-fived and pumped their fists and treated the team to a white tablecloth lunch—they would go right back to their usual grump the very next day. That kind of happiness didn’t seem to last.

The price for attempting to “make it” appeared to be… misery. 

And the ones who were trying to “make it,” never would—because the goalposts always shifted again. There’s always a bigger client, with a bigger budget. Another shelf of trophies, and a wall of plaques to match. Never, ever, ever enough.

I realized that this idea of “making it” wasn’t just hard—by its very definition, it was impossible. 

But this definition changed when, a couple years ago, I finally landed in a workplace that valued well-being more than prestige. A few months settled into the job, I went home on lunch break and made a plate of toasted focaccia, salted olive oil, and two perfectly ripe plums. I ate slowly in the backyard, with my heels kicked up on the fire pit and my golden retriever lazing in the grass beside me. We basked, alone together, in the sunshine of early summer. Such simple enjoyment. Pure presence. Contentment.

And it finally dawned on me that “making it” isn’t about getting. It’s about not needing.

After letting go of my book deal dream, I received this gift of “not needing” even more deeply. For the first time since early childhood, happiness was no longer something to achieve against all odds, after some grueling years or decades. Now I know better. Happiness is my warm clean home. My wholesome job and supportive colleagues. My sweet puppy and loving partner. My own mind, which inclines every day toward stillness.

Happiness is already here.

And, more and more, it’s also everywhere I go.

“Contentment, the ultimate wealth.”
—Gotama Buddha, Dhammapada 204

The dream evolved

Spoiler: I did not get a lucrative book deal from a Big 4 publisher.

But there was a bigger, better dream that came true for me.

Growing up in America, I was conditioned with stories about George Washington’s cherry tree, the Boy who cried wolf, and the Emperor’s new clothes. I would always marvel at the importance of Truth—and at the sheer courage it takes to practice constant integrity, when sometimes it’s so much easier just to fib. I hoped with all the earnestness in my small toddler body that, if placed in scenarios like those of the folk tales, I’d also confess to my father that I cut down the tree; I’d only shout about wolves if one were actually present; I’d also declare to the crowd that the emperor was, indeed, naked.

Of course, the strength of one’s integrity is only known when it’s tested.

And for many years, my integrity was not strong. I lied to my parents first as a child—pretending to have practiced violin when they were out of the house—and then as a teen, sneaking out the window at night to drive around with not-so-nice friends. I’m appalled at this now, but I was actually trained to lie as a film student—encouraged by well-meaning teachers to bullshit my way through interviews and win the job at any cost. Even into my 20s, I would exercise the “white lie” (the equivalent of, “um… it could have been anyone who cut down this cherry tree”) to serve my own convenience.

My integrity had the strength of a Jenga tower. 

But something shifted when I decided I’d rather be universally rejected than compromise my ideals. 

My integrity became… ironclad.

I made that decision, and I drew a hard line on my values. I chose the tenderness of my own heart over the perceived potential for money and fame–for the book deal I craved for so many years. And from that day forward, in any choice between my integrity vs. any worldly gain (no matter how vast or tantalizing), my ideals would win. Every time. 

That choice became easy (even if the conversations around that choice, whether with friends or with colleagues, were sometimes not).

This, my friends, was a much sweeter dream come true.

And I didn’t know it at the time, but when I fully let go of the book deal dream, I would soon find another gift waiting for me.

“An ethical person, who has fulfilled ethical conduct, need not make a wish: ‘May I have no regrets!’
It’s only natural that an ethical person has no regrets.”
—Gotama Buddha, Anguttara Nikaya 11.2

Birth of the dream

11 years ago, I birthed the dream to become a traditionally published author.

Since then, I transitioned from day jobs in film to photography, to advertising, to education, to mental health, to my current gig in graphic design. I made and dissolved friendships. I fell in love for the first and second time—and then the third time to my favorite person in the history of the universe, with whom I got engaged and then married. I evolved from someone who admired Buddhist philosophy from afar, to a self-proclaimed “Buddh-ish,” to a practitioner now fully dedicated to awakening.

And while living all that life, I was writing—always writing.

Even when I was at shitty corporate job, balancing a laptop on my knees while hiding in the stairwell, or when I was a classroom teacher, using prep periods to plot a new story instead of grading student work. Always pursuing my dream.

Many wins along the way.

Some of my work has been published in indie anthologies; some are available on Amazon; some were printed into zines and distributed at local art events, to a warm and welcoming response. I also found a literary agent, who’s submitted my novel-length manuscripts to traditional publishers from the small presses to the Big Four (that is, Penguin Random House and the like).

But for the longest time, all I got was curt rejection slips.

And then, as my writing got better and my stories got richer, I started getting thoughtful, encouraging rejection slips—from more and more prestigious publishers, who printed books that became bestsellers and Netflix movies. “Almost, but not quite,” they said. “Grace is a strong writer, but I’ll have to pass.”

With noble intentions, a mentor once suggested a small change to a manuscript that would make the story appeal to a broader audience.

But also a small change that I thought at the time would conflict with my highest ideals. Because, in the 11 years since I started writing seriously, I also discovered that I only want to write about awakening as it was taught by the Buddha, about the releasing of all attachment—all greed, hatred, and delusion—in favor of kindness, wisdom, unshakeable peace.

With gratitude I told my mentor, “The way it’s written now is authentic to enlightenment as the Buddha taught it. Let’s keep it the way it is. I would rather be universally rejected for an authentic story than become a bestseller for anything else.”

And soon, a dream came true.

To be continued in my next post!