My Business Failed

Elizabethown is my favorite movie. It’s overly sweet and flawed, but I love it. If you haven’t seen it, you should check it out. The soundtrack is wonderful.

If you’re not familiar, Orlando Bloom’s character is responsible for a “fiasco” at work, costing his company millions. Right before taking his own life to escape his shame, he finds out that his dad has died and he must return to Kentucky to help plan the services. He meets Kirsten Dunst, falls in love, takes a road trip, the usual. All with his failure looming.

The reason I’m mentioning the movie is because it embodies everything I’m feeling right now.

My business failed.

A few years ago I started selling my clothes on eBay and Poshmark to make some extra cash. It felt like I was rolling in it. I had a part time accounting assistant job that I greatly disliked, and reselling felt like this big expanse.

There were extra nights out and more Christmas gifts and a sense of pride from making more money on my own.

When the company I worked for disbanded, I started reselling full time. I was going to thrift stores to stock up and making spreadsheets.

I was a girl with big plans.

I wanted to expand and grow and be able to work from home and have babies and freedom.

It didn’t work that way.

Things have been slowing down over the past couple months, and I feel like I’m working way too much and way too hard for nothing. This, coupled with this feeling that working from home isn’t the best for my mental health, has brought me to the decision that it’s time to surrender.

All I’ve been doing today is praying and listening to Tom Petty’s “It’ll All Work Out” from the Elizabethtown soundtrack.


A few years ago I was doing some soul-searching work and was posed with the question, “when was a time that you felt like a failure”.

I said I have never experienced that feeling. Due to some near-death experiences, I feel very lucky to be alive. I felt that everything I’ve done since then has been a gift. There’s no room for words like “failure” when you’ve survived as much as I have.

Until now. So this is what it feels like. I feel like I wasted a year of my life. Wasted everyones time. Feels like I let everyone down, let myself down. And in this case, my feelings are true.

In the grand scheme of things, I didn’t hurt anyone, I learned so damn much, and I can rebuild.

I can get a new job, I can go back to school. And this will all just be part of my story and something I share with others. It’s all part of God’s plan, but I think I hear him telling me to move on.

There is nothing more liberating than surrender.

As Kirsten Dunst says in the movie. “We carry on. We are intrepid.” Amen.


Elizabethtown was a box office flop. I was reading interviews with director Cameron Crowe on it, and his perspective on his film is inspiring. He said to Vulture, “Elizabethtown definitely created some thoughtful times, but nothing paralyzing. To me, only if something comes from an inauthentic place should you feel vulnerable to the things that anybody might say.”

Many other interviews with Crowe show him not defending his film, but defending the process of making something that feels honest. He stressed that the audience that connected with Elizabethtown was small, but nonetheless, connected.

It reminds me that I don’t need to make a million dollars or have a job that sounds good when it echoes off the walls at dinner parties. I just need something that feels true to myself.

Man, this growing up thing is hard. I’m still convinced that none of you “adults” have any idea what you’re doing. I know I don’t.

 

I will carry on. I am intrepid.

 

O.


Elizabethtown, 2005.
Just see the movie, okay?

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