Life Rolls On cover

My first reaction was something like, “Whoa, this is like someone taking my thoughts and then publishing them.” It was real. I don’t know many people who know exactly what I go through with SMA. My brother, Matt, knows me inside and out as we often share moments of identical brain activity. Other than that, the people my age that I have talked to who truly understand living with SMA is a tiny, one-digit number. Despite the relentless tragedy that a book about SMA inevitably exudes, I found comfort in knowing that someone else has faced the same challenges I have. But it wasn’t all bad news. Duane’s story was one of hope, acceptance, courage, love, endurance, and positivity.

What affected me the most was the period in Duane’s life just after graduating high school. He was unemployed and lived with his parents. He was struggling with depression because his life lacked purpose. It had been reduced to a life of being isolated in his house only to emerge into the real world for so-called “soda runs” which were less about a craving for soda than they were about a craving for human interaction. He wanted a job and a family even. But those things seemed far out of his reach. At the risk of spoiling the plot, I’ll say he finally did achieve those wishes. But reading about his inner-battle reminds me of where I am in my own life. In fact, I even have his daily soda-runs in the form of having my attendant take me out to lunch. And I hope that, like him, I will find an employer who won’t write me off and maybe I can even run into my own “Kim”, perhaps on one of my lunch-runs. Who knows, right? :-)

The takeaway of Life Rolls On is just that. Life keeps going and you have to roll with the punches. Do what you can, be positive and proactive, and take a leap of faith. As I said before, you still have your dreams. Duane’s book is a case study in achieving them.

I’ve been out of college since May 2009. I’ve been trying to find work ever since. I know I am a good web designer. I know I have a lot to learn. But I know I can succeed if given the chance. I want to contribute. I need to contribute. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life on disability.

I’m an avid learner when it comes to web design. I read constantly. I keep up with best practices and technology. I study principles of design and apply them to my work. All this has managed to keep me satisfied. I justified not having a job to myself by saying that I have been using the time productively, getting better and better at my craft. My good friend Jeff Horton, president of Stop SMA, put me to work on Stop SMA’s websites, and that has really helped me keep going during these last two years.

Earlier this year, I worked briefly as a Happiness Engineer for Automattic on a trial basis. In short: it was awesome. I could work from home just like everyone else in the company. I got to interact with great people. And I got to help people with their WordPress.com blogs. A win-win-win. But I’ve always told myself that I wouldn’t go for a position if my disability kept me from doing a good job. The primary function of the job was replying to email. And one of the things I am slowest at is writing email. Code is easier. I have tools that make me much more proficient at writing code. But good old-fashioned English language I can only output at the mind-blowing rate of about 18 words per minute, thanks to HippoRemote and KeyStrokes. Otherwise it would be a lot slower. Let me be clear. Automattic did everything right. My team leader said she was looking at quality over quantity. They gave me honest feedback and they offered to help however they could. I will forever be grateful for that. But in the end, support requests were flooding in and I didn’t feel like my output was going to help the Happiness team much. In the interest of the company and the users, I ended my trial with Automattic on good terms. It was back to square one.

About three weeks ago, things looked like they might turn around for me. I applied for a web-related position with a Mississippi-based company (of which I won’t name). I completed a questionnairre that was reserved for only the “serious” candidates. I did a one-hour phone interview. The next day, I did an in-person interview. I talked to three people and the entire interview was nearly two and a half hours. Few candidates made it that far, possibly me and one other person. I was told I would here from them, regardless of whether I was hired or not, in a couple of days.

It’s been three weeks. I’ve yet to receive any contact whatsoever. I may have to eat my words (in fact, I hope I’ll have to) but it seems that they hired the other candidate and the courtesy of calling me to let me know just fell through the cracks. I’m not making any accusations, but after a while, I start to wonder why I am able to make it to in-person interviews but never get an offer. How much does my disability affect my chances? I don’t want to think it affects them at all because that would be a tough pill to swallow.

So here I sat. At the very desk on which I am writing this post. And somehow, I stumbled upon the September 1 episode of The Big Web Show with Jeffrey Zeldman and Dan Benjamin. Let me set the stage. This podcast is big, as the title suggests. Jeffrey Zeldman is like the Godfather of web design. His circle of influence hit me early in my quest to be a web designer. And Dan Benjamin is this mad genius with a perfect radio voice who, I’m convinced, can carry on a conversation on any topic with any person and look like a seasoned expert in that area.

So there I was. And I they were covering a topic dear to my heart. Disability. And not just the usual screen reader angle. They interviewed this amazing woman, Marissa, who in many ways is going through the same thing that I’ve been going through for the last two years. And they were just chatting about her disability. And she wants to be a web designer. And she needs to work from home. And Jeffrey and Dan were taking to heart her struggle and sharing it with the world. And it was amazing.

Back in 2008, I managed to attend the awesome conference for people who make websites, An Event Apart (co-owned by Zeldman). It was one of the best learning experiences I’ve had. And I want to go to another one. But traveling is extremely difficult. And accessible hotel rooms are expensive. And the conference ticket price is expensive. So I haven’t gone back. I don’t have any web designer friends in my area. I’m isolated from that world. And it’s hard to get in when you’re isolated.

But here was Marissa. She made it to The Big Web Show and she was sharing with Jeffrey and Dan my exact frustrations, as well as my aspirations. While listening to the podcast, I get a phone call from my Mom. She felt bad about the whole job thing and wanted to take me to eat and see a movie (don’t hate, Moms are awesome!). It was in that moment that I realized something.

We still have our dreams.

Regardless of whether this company hires me or that company hires me, I am going to continue making websites. And with each one I will get better and better. Hearing Marissa’s story made me remember when I was in that same predicament. Well, not exactly the same. But close. I was just getting started in web design. It was scary. I didn’t have the means (physically or financially) to go to a design school. But I knew I wanted to make websites. I lucked out and had what may very well be the best course I ever took: Advanced Languages I with Dr. Rodney Pearson. In it, I learned JavaScript and HTML basics. I began picking up CSS and design principles on my own. I started making websites. Starting is at least half the battle. Regardless of what obstacles came in my way, I pushed forward in stubborn ignorance, determined to do what I wanted.

Sitting at my computer the other day, I realized that I had, indeed, become a web designer. I make websites. And not having a job right now isn’t going to take that away from me. I still have my dreams. One day, something big is going to happen. I’ll land my dream job. Or I’ll become a successful freelancer. And even if neither of those things happen, I’ll at least keep volunteering for charity, working on personal projects, and contributing some of my creations to the world (WordPress theme is in the works!).

We still have our dreams. We have them when we are frozen with fear. We have them when people think it silly to reach for them. We have them when it seems everything is working against us. Sometimes life can appear a bit hopeless. But when we don’t quit believing in ourselves, when we have friends and family behind us, and when we take a leap of faith, who or what is going to stop us?

People operate out of different—sometimes opposing—contexts. Let’s take American politics for example. Conservatives look at government as an intrusive entity abusing its power by eating away at the citizen’s personal liberty. Liberals look at government as an extension of the people charged with the responsibility of making sure that all citizens, especially ones with more potential to be marginalized, are taken care of. Both are well-intentioned at a conceptual level although I would argue that there are politicians on both sides that have less than pure motives. So it can be irritating at times to see liberals and conservatives react to each other as if each side has completely extreme views. Conservatives, is it really so shocking that liberals support [insert entitlement program here]? Liberals, should you really be upset that conservatives support [insert spending cut here]?¹ I’m not really trying to discuss the ideas surrounding government spending. I’m just illustrating how people, usually with good intention, work out of their own contexts.

When I talk about someone operating out of one’s context, I’m referring to how one thinks, how one feels, what one believes, what one values, and what one does based on these things. You might just say I’m talking about one’s worldview. And when it comes to my worldview or context, my disability is a major influence. If anything, having a disability has taught me to be aware of people’s contexts. Don’t judge people prematurely. Don’t make false assumptions about them. I’ve been in some awkward situations due to my disability and I’m sure I’ve left some strange impressions on people. For example, my wheelchair battery was nearly dead one night heading back to my campus apartment from the library. I was traveling very slowly down the sidewalk as my batteries struggled to haul my fat hiney home. Two pedestrians got behind me along the way. I could hear them murmuring under their breaths about how slow I was going. They sighed impatiently, probably hoping I could take a hint.

These two pedestrians were not aware of my context. I was afraid I wouldn’t make it to my apartment. My batteries were dying! Instead of being open to multiple possibilities, these two individuals assumed quickly (and falsely) that I was just an ignorant cripple who at best didn’t realize how much inconvenience I was causing or at worst was being intentionally spiteful.

Another example of “context dissonance,” you might call it, occurred on a discussion board (as it often does) for people with disabilities. One commenter was discussing how her disability can tend to maker feel left out because her friends all have busy lives and she struggles to “keep up” because of the various barriers her disability imposes. Another commenter replied with the “stop complaining” mentality. This is a classic example of two opposing disability contexts. One seeks empathy from like-minded individuals by talking about frustrations. The other seeks to charge head-first into life without time for worrying about disability.

My input in the discussion was that both ways of looking at or coping with life with a disability were fine. But we should be as open-minded as we can about each other’s context. If people want to talk about their frustrations, let them. There’s no need to chastise them.

Understanding people with disabilities is just an exercise in understanding people in general. People are different. People have different worldviews. They operate out of different contexts. I’m not saying you have to be all postmodern and let everyone live in their own reality. You can have disagreement. I would even encourage it! But be friendly about it. Try to be aware of other’s contexts as well as your own. Doing so will cut down on some of the unnecessary conflict in the world. And we could all use a little of that.

If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. – Romans 12:18

I’m stuck between sadness and anger. Sadness because people who acquire a disability or terminal illness sometimes (or perhaps often) seriously consider committing suicide; anger because there is a growing number of folks encouraging them to do so.

It is certainly a trend. Spanish director Alejandro Amenábar’s 2004 film “The Sea Inside,” which I admit I’ve never seen, tells the true story of a ship mechanic turned quadriplegic who campaigns for the legalization of assisted suicide and when he doesn’t succeed, kills himself with cyanide. You know, because who would want to be quadriplegic and still live? That same year, the Oscar’s Best Picture, Million Dollar Baby, seemed to tell us that when a person is faced with paralysis, society’s aversion to suicide should become null. If quadriplegia is terrible, who could reasonably imagine living with paralysis?

If you get a chance to watch Pratchett’s documentary, don’t let the pro-assisted suicide language fool you. They’ll use words like “choice.” They make it look like they are not arguing life is worthless with a severe disability or illness. They say it can be worth it, that it’s all about the individual’s choice, all about whether life is worth it to that individual. But to let an individual make that choice instead of stopping them or trying to stop them is to agree that the choice is a valid one. And they, the pro-assisted suicide advocates, only consider it valid in the case of disability or illness. Indeed, that’s why they attempt to legitimize legalization of assisted suicide by assuring there would have to be some sort of “safeguards” to protect against rampant, non-justified suicides, as opposed to suicides that are justified, that is, the suicides committed by cripples.

Another word is “dignified,” indicated by the very name (Dignitas) of the Swiss institution that legally helps people commit suicide. “To live with dignity – to die with dignity” is the slogan of this non-profit suicide clinic. It may sound good, brave even. But it’s obvious to nearly all disabled people (at least those who blog) that the slogan implies you cannot live with dignity with a disability or illness. Simple as that; don’t let them explain it away as if it’s not clearly implied.

Another aspect of the documentary that struck me was the quite normal quality of the featured Dignitas’ clients’ disabilities. As I’ve noted before, normal doesn’t mean good or healthy, so I don’t mean to say the Dignitas clients were being wimpy. However, they suffer from maladies like motor neurone disease and MS. Those are some of the worst illnesses, and I don’t blame the clients for wanting to die. But many people have these diseases and keep on living with the emotional and physical support of their families. You would think assisted suicide, if it were morally acceptable, would only be acceptable in the most severe cases of excruciating pain.  Peter Smedley, the man in the documentary with MND, was arguably healthier at the moment right before his death than I am, even though the progression of his disease would eventually have taken an uglier course. Stephen Hawking’s MND has taken that course for 50 long years. Should he have considered killing himself a long time ago? Pro-assisted suicide advocates would have said, “Yes, as long as it is his decision,” never expecting him to have lived this long or better yet to have continued so well in his work.

Let’s think about the “safeguards” mentioned earlier. Certainly, not all should have access to assisted suicide, so the death advocates say. If a man with MS or MND can legitimately commit suicide, can a man with spinal muscular atrophy or muscular dystrophy do the same? If Terry Pratchett can commit suicide because he’s losing his mental capacity to Alzheimer’s disease, what other types of mental illness onset should be acceptable reasons for killing yourself?

In making those decisions, we would be officially passing judgment on the worthiness of all disabled people’s lives. We would be saying that, if you have SMA, feel free to kill yourself; you have good reason to. If you will soon suffer from mental retardation, feel free to hurry up and end your life while you can still give informed consent. You don’t have to, but you can.

I watched “The King’s Speech” last night with family. Everyone seemed to enjoy it. Indeed the movie has been received favorably. I think a large part of the reason for its success is that people like disabled heroes.

Think about it. Many good tales involve protagonists who have some handicap. Forrest Gump, The Secret Garden, Radio, Rain Man, Remember the Titans, Pearl Harbor (the scenes with FDR) … I’m sure you can think of a lot more.

As Blake noted, every scene in the film where King George speaks bothers you. The work of the speech therapist, Lionel Logue, reminded me of several moments I’ve had as a tutor/teacher’s assistant. Not that I’ve helped anyone with a speech impediment, but I have helped a few people with learning disabilities. You absolutely must be patient, and that goes for anyone, learning disability or no, to whom I try to teach a second language. When the king finally delivers his first great speech, all that patience required of the audience pays off. The hero overcomes his weakness. Classic.

Most good heroes are handicapped ones. I always found Superman a little boring, at least when there’s no kryptonite around to hurt him. For the past several months, I’ve been slowly reading through The Lord of the Rings trilogy, and the main hero in that story is a simple hobbit, a midget practically. He can barely defend himself against the Enemy’s minions and spies. At present in my reading, he’s almost dead because he’s too fragile to fight against monsters. The only reason he ever got this far into Mordor in the first place is because more able and strong men like Aragorn have helped him. His fragility is what makes him so interesting, though.

If you think about it, this sort of mirrors real life. That’s why people love these stories. There is no one on earth who hasn’t experienced the profound fragility that marks the human race. The more I live, the more I realize that disability, illness, cancer, psychological distress, cognitive deficiency, life-changing car wrecks, liver failure, kidney failure, diabetes, etc. are the norm for most people. If you have been lucky enough to avoid those curses, you surely know many people who have not been so fortunate.

As a result, I’ve often let myself feel depressed (not chemically, just emotionally). Movies like “The King’s Speech” help to raise me back out of that sorrow. They remind me that heroes aren’t people who can do everything. They are people who are heroes precisely because they can’t do certain things but figure out how to succeed in life anyway. They remind me not to be so anxious about my many weaknesses, but to find out what it is I can do, what I’m called to do.

Other than the chubby Mississippian, I also fit into another category: the fat kid in the wheelchair. You see, crippled folks usually come in two sizes: really big or really small. I was naturally never able to exercise much, but I ate like every other kid. Other wheelchair users sometimes have medical complications that make it hard to eat and cause severe weight loss. As one who fell on the overweight side of the divide, I listened to specialists for years beseeching me to “stop eating.”

I didn’t obey them, but my sweet tooth may be related to my eventual weight loss. In the fall of 2010, I finally became diabetic, something I suspected might happen since diabetes runs in my family anyway. Some initial high blood sugars and a strict decrease in my carb intake has turned me into skin and bones (by Southern standards).

Pros

This situation has turned out to be a double-edged sword. First, the good part.

I enjoy a little more upper-body mobility now that I’m skinnier. Doctors told me for years that losing weight would make it easier on my atrophied muscles.

I’m pretty sure losing weight takes away a couple of statistical health risks. This reduction in health risks often feels inconsequential, being that I’m a diabetic with SMA and all the side afflictions that arise from those two, but I might as well mention it.

I get compliments on my weight loss, which is nice considering I used never to think I would ever be on the receiving end of those compliments. Let’s face it. I’m sexy. OK, OK, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

Cons

I’m seriously turning in to skin and bones, as I only ever had SMA-style muscles under my protective blubber.

I say protective, because another downside is that my disjointed joints and osteoporotic bones are no longer guarded from surfaces only as firm as my air mattress. My fanny hurts these days. I no longer fail to appreciate the shielding quality of cellulite.

Finally, the seat in my chair barely fits me anymore. I woke up one morning, and I swear out of nowhere my chair grew a couple sizes too big, along with most of my clothes. While it’s kind of nice to be able to say that, I really, really don’t feel like going through the arduous process of getting fitted for a new wheelchair. So instead I choose to sit here and be in a little pain.

Before becoming diabetic and more seriously dieting, I tried my hand at loosing weight on various occasions, always with the idea that I would lose weight and feel great and look manfully sexy (by Mississippi standards). Eh. Whatever.

I’m not saying I’m not satisfied at all with my success. It’s just that loosing weight is not all it’s cracked up to be, at least when you’re disabled. It’s like getting all excited about watching a soccer game for the first time only for it to end in a tie. Fun, but still lame.

This past Saturday night, I spent what was most likely the last time I will ever spend the night in that apartment, or even on campus. Although I am going back Wednesday to see Congressman Ron Paul speak, my time spent on the campus of Mississippi State University is about to come to an end.

Coming home in 2009 was refreshing at first. No classes. No homework. No exams. But soon, a host of harsh realities began setting in.

My disability was worse. I wasn’t finding employment. I was spending more time in the house. I had people that I had to consider when making decisions. Simply put, I had less freedom.

On campus, I was free. I could leave my apartment nearly at will and travel on the excellent sidewalk system to various places of interest on campus. Coffee at the student union? Done. Spontaneous trip to the book store? Done. Walk around the Drill Field? Well, you know… roll. Done. Go to bed early? Done. Stay up late? Done. Go to a club meeting without needing to arrange transportation? Done. I could do what I wanted. Thanks to all the supports in place, there was a time in my life when I could focus on things that everyone else focused on. It wasn’t all about survival.

I matured so much in my six years in college. In high school, I had few friends my age. I didn’t fit in. At Mississippi State, I met so many people. I found out that I had things in common with people and that my disability wasn’t necessarily a dealbreaker for friendships. For the first time in my life, I was also surrounded by other people with disabilities on a day to day basis. I became great friends with many of them. We did things. And we didn’t worry so much about the logistics.

Two years later, I’m at home. I have no friends here my age. I can’t go and come as I please without significant logistical planning. I haven’t found a job. I’m no longer surrounded by single ladies my age (also see previous sentence). And while my life is actually pretty great considering that everyone in America has a pretty sweet life, I realize that some of the best years of my life are over. And it’s a bit sad.

Mississippi State University, I miss you.

Part of it is the economy. Part of it is a stigma that I have as a person with a disability. I hate to say it, but it’s true. I had a potential employer that was interested in me, but when they learned that I was disabled, I never heard from them again.

The point I want to make is that employment for people with disabilities can be complicated for a variety of reasons. I’m not passing any judgement on people with disabilities who are working. More power to them. I’m also not passing judgement on people with disabilities that aren’t working (for whatever reason). But I know that there are some pretty talented disabled folks out there who, regardless of their possible unemployment, have some great skills to offer.

Now that you know the backstory, here’s the idea:

Create a social networking site for the purpose of connecting people with disabilities with common interests and various skills and facilitate their collaboration on projects of their own creation.

Let me give you an example.

Let’s say Dave has a passion for fantasy novels. He also enjoys strategy board games. He decides that he wants to create a board game. Dave is a great writer and has all sorts of ideas about the storyline behind the game. He has some idea of the gameplay. But he wants the game to have great fantasy art as well. And Dave is no illustrator.

So he creates the board game project on our community site, describing what the project is about.

Soon, Lee sees the project listing. Lee loves fantasy art and is a pretty good illustrator. He contacts Dave through the site. Dave creates a group on the site and sends Lee an invitation. Now the two of them have a place to collaborate.

They get some great concept work done and want to share their progress with the community. So they create a blog on the community site as a place to post updates about their project. Pretty soon, they’ve got quite a few people interested in what they are doing. That’s when Ava, who loves paper crafts, contacts the team about helping create the board and pieces for the game. Dave and Lee are excited about the opportunity and invite Ava to the group. After some hard work by the three of them, a sweet new fantasy board game has been created.

Who knows? If the fan base is large enough, perhaps they sell the game and split the resulting revenues.

The point is that, individually, they could not have completed the project. But by combining their skills and passions, they were able to create something that benefits themselves as well as anyone interested in the game. And they became friends along the way.

Admittedly, the idea has little to do with disability. That is, anybody might enjoy such a site. But the idea here is to connect people with disabilities who spend a lot of time alone. There’s no reason to spend so much time in isolation when you could easily connect with others who are in similar situations.

I don’t have it all worked out. This is the inception of an idea. I don’t know that anyone would care to join and foster such a community. But I think it would be a great way for people with disabilities who have trouble getting out to meet new people and make or do some cool things.

What do you think?

We’re headed to the door of a shiny new restaurant in town. I enter first, as the people I am with hold the door open for me. The host(ess) makes eye contact with me momentarily before looking past me to ask the (non-disabled) “adult” how many people are in our party. I answer, “Four,” trying to show that I am perfectly competent enough to answer his/her simple questions. My brother, also using a wheelchair, enters behind me.

We sit and wait in a highly cramped space as we try to make enough room for patrons to enter and exit. Finally, our party is called and we head back to a table. Naturally, the table is in the very back of the restaurant, requiring my brother and I to carefully navigate the dangerous waters of old people (who are getting up to leave), tiny screaming kids in booster seats, and a steady current of waiters and waitresses who are overloaded with heavy dishes.

Upon arriving to the table, we realize that two large power wheelchairs are not going to fit at this table without some serious rearrangements. The employees try to help, but eventually the folks we are with take over the operation and shift the table around until we are able to fit.

Our waiter comes to the table, takes our drink orders and gives us some menus. Actually, just two menus. Matt and I don’t get one because obviously, being disabled, we are unable to read and comprehend such a complex document. I think about sharing menus with someone in the name of being peaceful. “Could I get a menu,” I say instead before I have time to stop myself.

We eventually figure out what we all want to eat, and our waiter comes to take our orders. “What does he want?” the waiter says gesturing toward me. “I’ll take the number 23 please,” I say, once again trying to show that I am competent enough to order my food.

We enjoy a meal with friends and family. Our waiter is particularly nice and helpful. But then it comes time to pay. “Is this going to be on one or two tickets?” our waiter asks. Of course, the cripples are surely being paid for by the walking man. I mean, isn’t that why our taxes are so high?!¹  ”We’re on separate tickets,” we tell our waiter.

It’s about respect

So I would be lying if I said that any of this keeps me up at night. But I think it’s a matter of principle. People with disabilities just want to be treated like everyone else. Hey, we enjoy getting sweet parking and all, but we don’t want too much special treatment. Carl Thompson of Working at Perfect had the following to say regarding preferential treatment.

In theory, this is a good thing. It definitely made it easy to get a good position at the venue. But if you think about it more, it is preferential treatment. I really don’t want preferential treatment, just as I don’t want to be treated in a traditionally negative discriminatory way.²

At the end of the day, people with disabilities want what everyone wants. Just a little mutual respect and admiration.

Wow, that’s the first time I have written that. It feels alien. This year has gone by so fast. I don’t feel like I accomplished much in 2010. But here’s to making 2011 more productive.

My main goal for 2011 is to work. For money. This can either be as an employee or as a freelancer. But it needs to happen. If I did anything in 2010, I added greatly to my knowledge of web design. It would be great to get a chance to put that knowledge to use on more than just a handful of really small projects. Don’t get me wrong though. I have enjoyed being the webmaster for Stop SMA and I hope to make it’s web presence even better in 2011. But I think I could do some great work for larger organizations if given the opportunity.

Another goal I have for 2011 is to see a pet project through and not quit on it. I usually start several projects out of personal interest and curiosity but they end up being abandoned before they get off the ground. This past month, after watching my brother struggle for a week with end-of-the-semester grading (he’s a TA), I decided to develop a web application for managing grades. It’s just a simple online gradebook. Actually, simplicity is it’s biggest feature. I’m sure I’ll be writing more about that project soon. Suffice it to say that I want to stick with this project and make something useful out of it. Who knows? Maybe I can make some money with it.

I failed to write a novel in November, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t get anything out of the experience. I plan to take what I learned and try again in November 2011.

I also have some goals for the new year that many others likely have. I want to eat healthier and lose some weight. I want to stick to a one year Bible reading plan. I want to meet new people and maybe get involved in some kind group or club or something.

I guess what I want is to be able to look back 365 days from now and know that I used each one to do something that mattered.

Is that too much to ask?