Last Saturday, Elysha and I drove to New York City. After parking the car, we ate brunch in the world-famous Carnegie Deli before walking down the block to The Palace Theater to watch Kieran Culkin, Bob Odenkirk, Bill Burr, Michael McKean, and others star in “Glengarry Glen Ross.”
I’ve eaten in the Carnegie Deli before.
I’ve been fortunate enough to see about two dozen Broadway shows in the past four years.
But sometimes I still get punched in the face by the reality of my life, as I did while eating omelets with Elysha on Saturday.
I live a brilliant, wonderful, happy, lucky life, but occasionally, a younger version of me — the one who never expected much from his life —rises up and says, “You’re in New York City with your wife! The woman you thought would never even look your way! Eating at the Carnegie Deli! About to watch an Academy Award winner perform on Broadway! Can you believe it?”
And in those moments, I can’t. I look around and can’t believe it.
That exact feeling hit me while eating omelets with Elysha in the deli. That younger version of me—living on his own since he was 18, struggling to make ends meet, wondering why he couldn’t go to college like his classmates, eventually homeless and jailed and staring down a prison sentence—sat down beside me and said, “Can you believe this? Look where you are today?”
I couldn’t believe it. I wondered, “How is this possible?”
I have a shelf in my office with copies of each of my nine published books. Sometimes, when sitting at my desk, speaking to a client, or working on the next book, the same thing happens. A younger version of me, managing a McDonald’s restaurant or working at a construction site for food money, sits down beside me, points at that shelf, and says, “Can you believe this? Look what you did!”
And no, I can never believe it. I sometimes feel like I’ve stolen someone else’s life.
It even happens in my classroom. For a very long time, I thought my dream of becoming a teacher was an impossible dream. College can seem like a million miles away when you can’t afford to turn on the heat in the dead of winter and are struggling to eat enough each day. The simple act of teaching students is a dream come true for me, so sometimes, when I’m sitting at my desk, watching my students work, that younger version of me appears beside me and says, “Look at you! You’re a teacher! You did it!”
In those moments, I still can’t believe it.
I know for many, the idea of becoming a teacher is hardly a dream come true, but when you’re 23 years old, sleeping in your car, wondering if you’ll ever sleep in a real bed again, the idea of becoming a real teacher in a real school can seem like a ridiculous, inpoissble, unimaginable dream.
I sometimes wish I could tell that younger version of me — feeling alone and frightened and hopeless — that it will be okay. It’s strange to feel sorry for someone you used to be, but that is how I sometimes feel.
I ache to tell that younger version of me that you’re going to find a way.
That’s how I felt on Saturday in the Carnegie Deli — an odd blend of awe and joy and disbelief and a little bit of sadness for the younger version of myself who could never have dreamed of being here, on this day, loving his life as much as I do.
It was nearly as much drama as I would later experience in The Palace Theater watching a brilliant actor portray a salesman ruining his life because of the same fear, loneliness, and desperation I once felt.
If you’ve struggled mightily in your life and had to fight to make a dream come true, I hope you also get visited by that younger version of yourself from time to time to remind you of how far you have come.
If you came from poverty, desperation, fear, and hopelessness, you deserve a reminder every now and then. You deserve to be reminded of how far you’ve come and how hard the road was between then and now, even if those visits are a little bittersweet.
