What is Your Value

Ever felt like you’re nothing?

Valueless. Transparent, like no one can see you. And you’re screaming truth, cited facts, pouring your heart out, jumping through hoops to be noticed, heard, but you’re still ignored, marginalized. Worthless.

Ever feel invisible to everyone, even your reflection? Like when your eyes connect in the mirror and the voice in your head asks, ‘Who are you?’

Sometimes, when people say my name, I don’t know who they’re talking to, as if Jeri isn’t me.

I get most people reading this won’t understand what I mean—how it feels to feel like nothing—unless you are an artist, a depressive, or a realist. I’m all three, sadly. I’m also an idealist—profoundly awestruck by our creativity and ingenuity—and consistently disappointed by how often I, we, fall short of our amazing potential.

When I go black, my daughter and a few dear friends try to pull me back into the light by listing my accomplishments. Never works. The life I’ve lived—most of what I’ve done, from raising kind kids to navigating a 30 yr marriage to an autistic man, to a career in entrepreneurship and education, to writing novels and short works—seems so…small. Insignificant, touching so few. Like my mama, somehow I wanted to matter to more than just my kids.

Where do you get your value?

Most people likely don’t dwell on this question. Sleep. Eat. Work. Play. Pay bills…etc., most don’t philosophize much after college when real life takes over. Beyond the overworked and the apathests who don’t ponder, as an artist and an idealist I’ve often wondered why some seem to be born with an inner confidence [I sorely lack], or a delusional self-image [I do not wish to attain].

During my dating years, most of the men I met ‘were at a great place in their life,’ seemingly proud of themselves. Ok…sure, but why? In my 20s, many were beer-bellied, broke, and living in a shared flat or still with their folks. By my mid-30s, most were middle to high earners, but were pudgy, balding, divorced, and blamed it all on ‘that bitch.’

Met up with an old friend last week. He whined about how lonely he was, a refrain I’d heard often. He’s told me he ‘only dates beautiful, successful women.’ And they better have ‘chemistry’ or he was out. He had to be kidding. He’s 73 yrs old, balding, pudgy, in creaky shape with new hips and a heart valve I can hear ticking, divorced twice, an artist all his life so not well off, and living in a sketch part of town. For some reason, it eluded him why the women he met didn’t want to come to his place.

Does Elon Musk think he’s valuable because he’s the richest guy on the planet? Or is he delusional that he’s an inventor when he hasn’t invented literally anything except the Cybertruck, and that ugly, hulking piece of shit is an abject failure in the auto industry with plunging sales since its 2023 launch.

Does being rich, or a CEO or high-paid exec of some oil company, bank, or venture capital firm make you valuable? A Silicon Valley colleague and friend seems to think so. He recently held a conference matching founders to VC and was very impressed with the caliber of the executive panelists. Extensive research shows that from Elon to the head of Chevron, most who’ve risen to the top of the corporate ladder are psychopaths.

Had parathyroid surgery recently. The surgeon assured me in effusive detail that he was ‘absolutely sure’ only one of my parathyroids had a tumor, and the surgeon at UW Medical was wrong in her diagnosis of hyperplasia. Turned out, UW was right. When I woke from surgery, the surgeon had removed two and a half of my four parathyroids. What made him so sure he was right, especially with evidence from multiple tests done at UW showing more than one tumor? What on earth made this man such an arrogant prick? Not once in post op, or in the follow-up a month later did he apologize for his diagnostic mistake. And I’ll bet that doc never, ever questions his value.

I’ve been slamming myself as long as I can remember—weighted by self-doubt and self-recrimination. My lack of self-esteem didn’t come outta nowhere. Failing to be a trad woman by my parents’ reckoning, and feeling invisible in my marriage certainly hasn’t helped my self-image any. I could blame my lack of self on my parentage, or marriage, but really? My limited success as an author has crushed any sense of self-worth. Writing fiction and biz books for over 20 years and I have just over 12,000 followers on my socials collectively. And no, for folks who don’t know, that is not good.

“Did I make a difference?” my mother wept on her deathbed. “Did I even matter?”

She wanted to make a difference to the world outside her limited sphere, and she did as a marine science educator of South Central elementary kids. But I get how she felt. I, too, want to be so much more than I am, achieve so much more than I have.

Winston Churchill explicitly told his private secretary, Anthony Browne: “I have worked very hard all my life, and I have achieved a great deal—in the end to achieve nothing.”

In the days leading up to his suicide, Vincent Van Gogh told his brother, Theo, “he had failed, as a man and as an artist.” He sold only three paintings his entire career. (Kind of like an author today having only 12,000 followers after writing to be read for over 20 yrs, says the voice in my head).

“You’re your own worst enemy,” my husband tells me. And ofc, he’s right. I’m a realist. I have a hard time with delusion, which is likely why I see me as I am at times—nothing. In fact, we all are. Regardless of our contributions in life, famous to anonymous, all of us make very little difference beyond our small sphere. We will be missed by few upon death, and only for a short time, then forgotten.

In my darkest moments, reminding myself that it simply doesn’t matter if I matter beyond the lives I touch directly brings color into black. None of us are more valuable than a tree, or a bird, or spider. Some of us just think they are. (Must feel great to live delusional!)

To release myself from the shackles of nothingness, I remind myself that life, living, is merely a collection of moments, and to make them as pleasurable as possible. Choosing to be present—giving, caring, sharing—with those I care about who care for me makes me feel seen, and often valued.

Engaging with my creative muse, building, designing, teaching, or immersing myself in the process of writing, conjuring worlds and the people in them, I forget about feeling like nothing. Then I hear the whisper of doubt, that I’m writing crap and no one will read me anyway. It creeps in and takes over, and I find myself staring at the blinking cursor and the blank page after it…