Let us begin with the writing prompt that got me into this existential wrestling match: “What does ‘having it all’ mean to you? Is it attainable?” This question, like the universe, is deceptively simple until you realize you are a speck in the middle of it, clutching a microwaved cup of coffee, wondering if “all” includes dental coverage and your own Netflix password.

So yes, writing prompt. I see you. You came in bold like a therapist with a clipboard and no intention of letting me dodge the hard stuff. And fine—I took the bait. Because lately, “having it all” feels less like a destination and more like a scavenger hunt where someone forgot to give me the map, the flashlight, or the snacks.

Still, I tried to answer honestly. What does it mean to me?

It means my son. My greatest gift. A relationship that was once fragile and full of ache but grew into something textured, warm, and steady. It means hearing “Dad” instead of “Jay” and knowing he says it with both history and hope. It means watching him be the father I dreamed of being—thoughtful, goofy, deeply present. If “all” ended there, I might already have it.

It means his family, too—those grandbabies who turn chaos into glitter, who make my heart beat harder and softer at the same time. The ones who ask why the sky is blue and why people die and why “Grandpa doesn’t have a robot arm yet.” (Soon, kiddo. June 1 is coming.) It means being part of the village raising them—not from some lofty mountaintop but from the breakfast table, where jelly smears mark our mornings and cereal becomes currency for quiet.

It means my family of choice—those magical, misfit humans who stuck around not because blood demanded it, but because love did. The ones who show up when grief visits unannounced or when you need someone to tell you that your new prosthetic looks like it could punch through walls. (A compliment, for the record.)

It means my dog, who reminds me hourly that unconditional love often comes with a side of drool and a disturbing lack of personal boundaries.

It means time to write. Not just blogs or advocacy letters or TED Talk scripts—but raw, ridiculous, joyful words that come from the marrow. It means letting characters misbehave and metaphors run wild. Writing is my sanctuary, my revenge, my laughter, my legacy. If I am not writing, I am unraveling.

It means having enough. Enough money to cover the bills without checking the account balance with one eye closed. Enough health to live, not just survive. Enough peace to sleep through the night without rehearsing everything I have ever said to a stranger in 1993. Enough breath to keep going.

But is “having it all” attainable?

If you mean the Instagram version—the sleek kitchen, international vacations, partner with perfect eyebrows, kids who never scream in Target—then no. That version is curated, filtered, and often financed by credit cards that smell like desperation.

But my version? A slightly messy, deeply loved, caffeine-fueled, medically complicated life bursting with second chances and imperfect joy?

Yes. I think it is.

Maybe not every day. There are mornings I cry before I brush my teeth and afternoons when I want to punch a cloud just for existing. There are weeks when the body hurts, the bills pile, and the Wi-Fi blinks out right as I submit something brilliant. But “having it all” was never about perfection. It was about presence. It was about choosing joy even when joy feels like a rebellious act.

And humor helps. A lot.

Like when my prosthetist asked if I wanted a “myoelectric limb” and I told her only if it could also brew espresso. Or when my dog farted so loudly during a Zoom call that three doctors said “excuse me” at the same time. Or when my grandson asked if I was part robot now and whether that meant I could defeat Thanos.

Spoiler: I cannot. But I can hold a pen again, and that is its own kind of superpower.

So no, I do not have it all. But I recognize it all. And that might be more important.

“Having it all” is not about acquisition. It is about attention. The ability to look at your life—your real life—and say, “This is messy and painful and sometimes ridiculous… but it is mine. And I would not trade it for anyone else’s highlight reel.”

Having it all means I still want more only because I finally believe I deserve more. It means I want that prosthetic hand because I want to cook without help. I want to type without pain. I want to hold my grandchild’s hand without needing to explain why mine does not move. It means I want to write books, walk across a stage, and fight like hell to make the world kinder.

It means I want to be here. Still. Fully. Unequivocally.

So yes, I am chasing “having it all”—but not like some glittery, unattainable mirage. I am chasing it like a bedtime story I get to write with every breath I take and every word I type.

And tomorrow? If I get another day with my son, another morning with my dog, another hour to write something true?

Well then, my friends—I think I already have it.