Cats are liars.

“It’s quite common for cats to lie about being dead,” Nancy explained. “They don’t mean to — they either don’t know that they’re dead or they’re embarrassed about having died in a stupid way, so they deny it and say they’re fine.” My daughter’s cat, Steve, had been missing for a week and the proper Boulder response to a missing cat is to call the Human Society, post a zillion Lost Pet signs around the neighborhood, flood social media with pleas for help, then call an animal communicator (aka pet psychic) — not necessarily in that order. The first three options yielded no results, so we called in my friend Nancy who happened to be a very talented animal communicator.

Apparently, Steve could see us; he was hanging out around the house and on the roof with the neighbor’s cat, Harry Potter, all the time. He seemed kind of offended that we couldn’t see him. “Why would you think I’m dead? I’m right here.” Sadly, Nancy confirmed that, despite his protestations, Steve was no longer with us. He had probably fallen victim to the coyote pack that roamed the prairie dog field on the other side of our fence. I told Steve he could hang around as long as he wanted.

Nancy and I chatted for a while about how our family could deal with this news, then as she was about to leave, she casually asked, “How are things going lately?” I’m not sure if it was the raw emotion of knowing we’d have to tell five-year-old Alijah that her beloved Steve wasn’t coming back, or if I was just in a really loony place then, but my interior dam broke and I tearfully blurted in one breath, “I’m a stay at home mom but Alijah is in kindergarten now so I’m only a part-time mom and what am I supposed to do with myself the rest of the time because I forgot how to be me over the last five years and why am I here and what is my purpose?”

Yeah. I’m a lot. You innocently ask me how I’m doing and I may just regurgitate an entire existential crisis all over your lap. But Nancy is one of those grounded, steadfast types who can implacably wipe away the word-vomit and carry on, unabated. She offered to do a life purpose reading and I eagerly accepted.

When a Pet Psychic Accidentally Fixes a Midlife Crisis

After she settled me into a peaceful kind of haze, Nancy began to guide me through a series of visualizations, each one going a bit deeper into my psyche. Eventually she asked me to imagine myself living a life that aligns with my values and passions. What does that look like?

Gilda Radner and Jane Curtin, laughing with each other from behind the SNL News desk.

That’s the vision that came to me, crystal clear, as if I had just adjusted the rabbit ears on my inner television set to NBC at 11:00 pm on a Saturday night in 1977. Nancy was confused, and I think a little disappointed that it wasn’t something a bit more profound. “Let’s go a little deeper. What does that mean to you?”

“It means that like Gilda and Jane, I’m supposed to make people smile. That’s it. That’s all. Just smile.”

Ever since then, anytime I have felt like I am not enough — not productive enough, not successful enough, not fill-in-the-blank enough, I ask myself whether I made anyone smile that day. If the answer is yes, I try to ease up and congratulate myself for another day of fulfilling my life’s purpose.

Good for me, right? But what if it’s not good for the people around me? What if I’m trying too hard and it makes others uncomfortable? Maybe not everyone I come into contact with wants to smile right at that fucking moment. Maybe I’m just tossing joke grenades into the conversation to make me feel better because I’m a thirsty little attention ho. Even if those jokes are interspersed with an occasional bit of quiet wisdom or anecdotal empathy, is that because I’m genuinely wise and empathetic or am I performing as wise and empathetic so that people will like me — and therefore, I will like me?

I Found My Tribe and Immediately Wondered If They Hate Me

I recently joined a group called Real Roots, an organization that matches up groups of likeminded women based on age, interests, beliefs, values, etc., with the goal of building genuine, deep, friendships. At our first meetup, ten fabulous women gathered at a local brewery where we laughed, we bonded, we overshared secrets; by all accounts, it was a smashing success. As we left, we all professed our mutual love and marveled at how lucky we were to find such an amazing collection of fun, high-energy people. As I got in my car, I was giddy — high on camaraderie, but as I drove home, the doubts infested my brain like that scene in World War Z where thousands of zombies swarmed like amphetamine-addled ants over the walls of Jerusalem.

Replaying the evening in my head, it felt like I was too “on.” Like I was performing as my authentic self rather than being my authentic self. For the rest of the night and most of the next day my thoughts spiraled: Did I talk too much? Was I too loud? Did my jokes pull focus from others and demand that I be the center of attention? Did I swear too much? Did they find my ample use of the word ‘cunt’ off-putting?

Probably yes to all of this. But I made them all smile.

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