What’s the Endgame

“So what’s the endgame?” Betsy asked—not with urgency or judgment, but with the kind of curiosity that felt more like an invitation.

I had just spent the weekend hosting a writing immersion with my small but mighty write-your-story cohort, the Haven. Betsy had flown in from Baltimore to join us.

We spent two gorgeous days writing at Stinson Beach. There were some tears and a lot of laughter—but most of all, progress.

Betsy had been game to brave the Northern California water with me. There’s nothing like the thrill of the waves and the chill of the water to wash away the shame that gets stirred up when we write.

Now we were back in San Francisco, taking a walk before it was time for her to head to the airport.

I wanted to respond, The endgame is the same for all of us! After all, we were walking through a public golf course that had once been a city cemetery. :)

But I wondered whether Betsy could see a larger impact for me that I couldn’t see for myself. The way she asked the question made me want to know my own answer.

I took a deep breath.

“You know, I’m probably hiding a bit,” I said, looking down at the bumpy sidewalk to make sure I didn’t trip. “But frankly, I’m trying to protect the life I have.”

I was turning 55—double nickels, as my husband, Duncan, likes to joke. 

“I’m finally at a point in my life where white space on my calendar actually calms my nervous system instead of sending me into a tailspin of anxiety.”

I told her that at one of my recent retreats, someone had asked me, “What’s next?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I’d said. And then, surprising even myself, I exclaimed, “And I don’t know if I care!”

As I recalled that moment, I thought of my dad. He loved telling stories to make a point. And now, here I was, doing the same thing!

I remembered the time my oldest son, Charlie, met someone who had known my dad. The guy immediately teared up, threw his arms around Charlie, and said, “I loved your grandfather!”

I paused, imagining what my son must have felt in that moment, and looked over at Betsy.

“My dad made an impact on a lot of people,” I said. “But what mattered most to me was knowing how much he loved us.”

“I know how easy it is to get swept up in work,” I continued. “Especially when the work is so meaningful. But I don't buy into the narrative that a wider audience is better.”

Betsy listened as I tried to describe how much I love creating spaces where people feel safe enough to be vulnerable and connect deeply. I also admitted how I still wrestle with my own striving nature.

Relax! Duncan used to say before he learned that telling me to "relax" was pretty much guaranteed to have the opposite effect. :)

“I want to enjoy what I've created, and take care of myself, too,” I finally landed on.

“Oh, I hear you, Katherine,” she said. “I just want other people to experience you!”

By the time we reached Land’s End, I realized Betsy had given me exactly what I try to offer others: the space to slow down, listen inward, and say out loud what matters.

I didn’t need her to give me an answer. I needed the space to hear my own. (Thank you, dear Betsy.)

Maybe that’s the endgame. To keep creating that kind of space—for others and for myself. 

And to make sure that the people closest to me know how much I love them. (Happy Anniversary, Duncan!)