Dear Fake Friends from My Past:
When I walked away from a successful career three years ago, you thought I was crazy. Even crazier when I said I wanted to cultivate my passion, pursue my dream: writing. It’s all right, there’s no need to deny it now: save your apologies—I’m not looking for one.
Scores of you, my ostensible friends, talked behind my back. The grapevine is not self-contained, so, yes, I heard the terrible things you said about me. You said I was dumb, out of touch, too idealistic. You gossiped, you told people I’d lost my mind. I was an idiot, you said. Lost—I’d be broke and alone in no time.
It was upsetting—gut-wrenching and heartrending—to hear the vitriol. I thought you were different. I thought we were different. I thought we were friends.
You, my lip-service friends, told me it was impossible. If people could make a living from their passions, you said, then everyone would be doing it. I was making a mistake, a horrible decision. I’d regret giving up the money, the status, the ostensible success. My plan would never work.
It’s evident now you were projecting your own fears, hoping I would fail so your flawed idea of success would remain unblemished. continue reading on the minimalists