On Plans, Potential, And Success

By Jennifer Batchelor
@jennbatchelor

“So, have you given any thought to your birth plan?” My no-nonsense OB/GYN posed the question at the end of my 32-week appointment. It was my first pregnancy, and I had dutifully followed every instruction she’d given me—except for the daily caffeine guidelines, where I fudged a little. This question threw me, though. 

“Birth plan?” I echoed, my brow furrowing.

Seeing my confusion, she explained. “Things like, when and if you want an epidural; who you want in the delivery room; do you want to be able to see when you start to push—”

“Let me stop you right there with a hard no to that last one, thanks,” I interjected. She smiled.

“I see what you’re saying,” I added slowly. “But, I mean, it seems like whatever’s going to happen is going to happen, yeah? Isn’t coming up with a whole written plan kind of ... setting myself up for disappointment?”

“That’s one way to look at it,” she said. “But some women feel more in control if they have a plan and their wishes written out.”

I nodded, considering. I like control just as much as—okay, fine, probably more like slightly more than—the next person. But plans make me wary. Setting goals mostly feels like an exercise in tempting fate. My typical M.O. is to determine the lowest bar I’d like to clear and set my sights there, minimizing the risk of failure. My first childbirth attempt didn’t seem like the time to break that pattern.

“Doctor, I want to survive this, and I want my baby to as well,” I finally said. “If you can make those two things happen, I’ll be good. Do I need to write that down?”

She smiled again, and I patted myself on the back for eliciting two smiles from the least smiley person I’ve ever encountered.

“No need,” she replied. “Sounds like we’ll be working from the same plan.”

***

At my high school, we had what were called senior superlatives. The senior class voted for one boy and one girl in a handful of categories like “Wittiest” and “Most School Spirit” who best embodied those characteristics.

My classmates voted me “Most Likely to Succeed.” 

My male counterpart, Mr. Most Likely to Succeed, was the class valedictorian. In the twenty years since, he earned a Ph.D. in chemistry from a prestigious university, became a research scientist, and is working to find a cure for cancer. That is not hyperbole. He has a patent registered in his name and regularly authors research papers with titles I cannot pronounce.

He is, by nearly every measure of the word, successful. I haven’t mapped the career trajectories of every single person I graduated with, but I feel reasonably safe assuming he is, in fact, among the most successful.

I attended a state college, quit a job I was good at seven years ago to stay at home with my kids, and regularly forget about putting dinner in the crockpot until it’s far too late to put dinner in the crockpot. Any writing I do is slapped with a pejorative “mommy blogger” label, and while I’m excellent at washing and drying the laundry, folding and putting away has a 7-10 business day lag time. I have zero professional goals. No vision board. No five year plan.

The Class of 2001 is batting a .500, is what I’m trying to say.

***

When I was in college, originally my plan was to major in journalism and minor in business. Actually, that wasn’t my plan at all. I wanted to minor in history, a subject I’d always enjoyed. But the dean of the College of Communications saw my GPA and hand-selected me to be one of his advisees. I showed promise, he said. He nixed my history minor suggestion for general business, saying it would make me more well-rounded. I wasn’t married to my plan (obviously), so I shrugged and agreed.

Turns out that I’m more of a one-trick pony. I’ll write all day long, but put me in a class with a bunch of business undergrads and things get dicey, fast. I made it through Accounting I on a wing and prayer (and by negotiating a C from the professor in exchange for promising to never, ever do my own taxes), but I decided that was as far as I was willing to go. By then, I was dating Jon, the man I’d eventually marry. He lived three hours away in Nashville, and so did my new nephew. I was spending every weekend I could at home and wanted a lighter school schedule so I could avoid having class on Fridays and stretch my visits. 

At our next meeting, I told my advisor I was dropping the business minor. He tried to dissuade me, but my mind was made up and as I held my ground, I watched him grow visibly frustrated. He said he was no longer willing to serve as my advisor. That was fine, I responded. I’d find someone else.

“You’re wasting your potential, Jennifer,” he said to my back as I left his office. 

I wanted to tell him where he could shove his potential. Instead, I turned and looked over my shoulder, my hand on the doorknob.

“Maybe,” I said quietly. “Or maybe I’m giving some of it up for a life I can live with.”

His eyes widened in surprise, and I grinned and winked.

“Good luck getting words like that from a business student,” I said and walked out the door.

***

I didn’t recognize it at the time, but that conversation in my advisor’s office turned out to be a watershed moment. For someone who eschews a plan with every ounce of her being, I probably would’ve panicked if you told me that I’d just charted my entire life course with one decision. All I wanted was a little more time with my boyfriend and my nephew, and I saw an easy way to carve it out of my schedule. But it was so much more than that.

I picked my people over my potential, without regret. 

I did it again when I graduated. There’s a hierarchy in journalism—you have to start in a small market and work your way up. A willingness to move repeatedly and work long hours is just as important as a way with words. But things were getting serious with the boyfriend. And my nephew was going to be joined by a niece in a few months. This time, the decision came even more quickly. I didn’t even look for reporting gigs and took a job in communications in my hometown—the same job I’d quit nine years later to stay home with my kids.

This is not to say that everyone has to make a choice between their ambitions and their family. It’s taken some time, but I’ve learned that I have less bandwidth than others. Sure, no one can “have it all,” but there’s no question that some people have the capacity for more than I do. The hustle invigorates them. Their dreams give them purpose. There’s nothing wrong with that—our society, in fact, is built to celebrate it. But there are also people like me who live in a smaller footprint, not because we are lazy or uninspired or without ambition … but because we’ve had to choose.

I don’t make much use of my journalism degree these days; even less of that half a business minor. And yet, most of the time, I’m satisfied with my existence. Content, even. But then a friend lands a book deal. Another one writes a screenplay. Someone else gets a long-awaited major promotion, and then there’s always the possibility that Mr. Most Likely to Succeed is going to end up on the news for having actually found the cure for cancer. It can feel a bit like everyone else is leaning in and hustling and chasing goals, kicking ass and taking names. I buy their books and watch their episodes and attend the celebratory dinners toasting with champagne, and I do it all with pride and enthusiasm. 

But then I come home, to my simple life, and I wonder if it’s enough. Do I need a five year plan? Should I rustle up some goals? Have I done a disservice to myself by structuring my life around my relationships instead of my ambition? At the bare minimum, it seems like I should commit to folding and putting away the clothes as soon as they’re clean.

I was in the midst of one such spiral, avoiding the laundry by trolling the Internet, when I read these words from Jamie Varon:

“We become so obsessed with never settling that we forget to get settled. To know when good enough is enough. To know when it’s time to be content and satisfied. And that doesn’t mean that you won’t want more or that you won’t grow or that you won’t challenge yourself ever again. But it’s okay to just ... live in your life.”

I realized, maybe I’m rubbish at goals and plans. Maybe my college advisor was right and I’m wasting my potential, and maybe my high school classmates were wrong and I’ll never be much of a success by most definitions. My bar is too low; I settle too quickly.

But I’ve been making choices to live in my life, without apology, since I walked out of that dean’s office when I was 20, and maybe that’s not the worst thing I could do. A small life is not the same as an unimportant one.

Still not folding the laundry, though.