You Don't Have to Earn Your Place

A few weeks ago, I was getting ready for a backpacking trip to Goat Rocks.

Three days. Two nights. Just me and my backpacking partner, Dale.

I had been looking forward to it for weeks.

Life had felt heavy. Between work, my divorce, parenting, and trying to build what's next, I was desperate for a few days where no one needed anything from me. I wanted to walk through wildflower meadows, sleep under the stars, and remember what it felt like to move at the pace of nature instead of the pace of my inbox.

But somewhere between planning the trip and leaving town, something shifted.

I started thinking about how this could become the launch of Lesbian Culture Club's Outdoor Club. I imagined the photos we'd take, the stories we'd tell afterward, the excitement it could generate, and the momentum it could create for the community.

Without even realizing it, I had taken something that was supposed to restore me and turned it into work.

The night before we left, I was talking about the trip with my friend Shana.

She looked at me and said, "Carrie... stop trying so hard."

Then she said something I'll probably carry with me for a long time.

"Take care of yourself. Stop making everything about everyone else."

I remember feeling a little defensive.

Building things is what I do.

Creating opportunities for people is one of my favorite things about my life.

Why wouldn't I combine the two?

But the more I sat with her words, the more I realized she wasn't asking me to become less ambitious.

She was asking me to protect something.

So I changed my mind.

I decided not to make it an LCC trip.

It would just be me and Dale.

No launch.

No strategy.

No pressure to turn a personal experience into something productive.

Just two friends walking through the mountains.

Oddly enough, the decision made me uncomfortable.

Almost guilty.

That surprised me.

Why did choosing something simply because I wanted it feel almost selfish?

The more I've thought about it, the more I think I know the answer.

Somewhere along the way, I learned that my worth was tied to what I could create for other people.

Not who I was.

What I could build.

What I could organize.

How useful I could become.

Looking back, I can see that pattern almost everywhere.

A backpacking trip became a community initiative.

A friendship became something I felt responsible for nurturing.

Even love became intertwined with work.

I met my wife through work.

Years later, I met someone else I cared deeply about. Instead of letting that relationship simply belong to us, I invited it into the orbit of Lesbian Culture Club. What should have remained personal slowly became connected to my work, my identity, and the community I was building.

Looking back, I think that's one of the biggest reasons it didn't last.

I merged work with love.

For years, I thought this was simply ambition.

I thought I was someone who saw possibility everywhere.

Now I wonder if what I was really doing was trying to earn my place.

I've built businesses.

I've built communities.

I've hosted dinners, organized hikes, introduced friends, and created spaces where people feel like they belong.

I don't regret any of it.

Some of the most meaningful experiences of my life have come from building things that didn't exist before.

But every strength has a shadow.

Mine is that I have a hard time letting beautiful things simply belong to me.

I'm always asking what they could become.

How they could help someone else.

How they could serve a bigger purpose.

How they could justify the time they take.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped believing that joy was enough of a reason.

That realization has been quietly changing the way I move through the world.

Lately, I've been asking a different question.

Instead of asking, How can I turn this into something?

I'm asking, What if this already is something?

What if a backpacking trip doesn't need to become a program?

What if a relationship doesn't need to become part of my work?

What if an afternoon spent painting doesn't need to lead to a gallery show?

What if dinner with friends is enough?

I think ambitious people have a tendency to turn every meaningful experience into raw material for the next idea.

It's one of the reasons we build incredible things.

It's also one of the reasons we burn out.

Because eventually nothing belongs to us anymore.

Everything belongs to the work.

I'm beginning to think that some experiences are sacred precisely because they never become productive.

They're not meant to become content.

They're not meant to become businesses.

They're not meant to become opportunities.

They're meant to become memories.

The trip to Goat Rocks reminded me of something I had forgotten.

Not everything that nourishes me needs to nourish my career.

Not everything I love needs to become work.

And maybe my worth has never depended on how much I can create from the things that bring me joy.

Maybe it has always been enough simply to experience them.