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A couple weeks ago, I got a note that someone had commented on one of my videos, saying, “It's one of the best videos on fear and anxiety I've ever seen. You deserve tens of thousands of views.”

“How is it that my child takes so long to put on her shoes?!” I waved my fists around dramatically. The women on in the online room with me grinned and nodded. Deep in my bones, I felt the relief of not being alone.

As my Year of Generosity comes to a close, the most important lesson I learned this year is not the one I thought I would learn.

One thing I’ve realized during this Year of Generosity is that it is much easier to feel and be generous when you stay connected to gratitude.

It feels grandiose to say that writing my book is an act of generosity. But, in the technical sense, you could reasonably call it a gift.

I have a friend who has a problem with giving. Every month, when she and her spouse allot personal “fun money” for each of them, my friend immediately donates almost all of hers to various community causes. What’s the problem? you may ask. That’s so generous!

When I was a kid, I had a little combination safe with a red spin dial where I hid away all the cash I’d received from my allowance, birthday gifts, and odd jobs. I was a saver, not a spender, but there was one thing I wanted to do with the money: give it to my parents.

When I started my “Weekly Gifts” at the beginning of this year to help explore this year’s theme of generosity, I had intended to give money, or at least to spend money on gifts. But, then life happened: my husband got laid off, a sizable medical bill, a fender bender, and near empty business coffers because of my time spent book-writing.

“Take a plant. Leave a plant.” In true Portland whimsy, a line of plant starts sat in dixie cups in a little greenhouse that appeared on the sidewalk near my office. A note encouraged people to take a plant, let it grow, and return with the offshoots it created. I grabbed a baby spider plant and skipped home, delighting in my good fortune and in this little piece of creative community.

The Buddha begged for his meals. He wandered from village to village asking for alms, as was the traditional monastic practice, and strangers placed food in one his few possessions, his begging bowl. How many of us, particularly us mothers, would feel comfortable asking for this kind of help on a daily basis?

This month, in keeping with this year's theme of Generosity, I have something really exciting to share with you—but first, a little story:

A Vietnam War veteran once told me about when he was out in the jungle and came upon a herd of elephants. He watched as all the mother elephants got into a big circle to protect the babies in the middle. As he told me this story, his eyes reddened and he said,

"The thing I wanted more than anything in the world was to be in the center of that circle."

Because I’ve devoted this year to exploring Generosity, I’ve begun to really dig in on some of my emotional hang-ups around money, and I recently did so at a retreat led by my old therapist called “Women and Our Wealth.” On the last day, even after a weekend devoted to unpacking internal money obstacles, I was still struggling with generosity.

I shared with the group that I wanted to be more generous and I had a sense that I should, but that I still felt scared, stingy, and resentful of people who had more than me.

My old therapist, who despite the fact that we hadn’t worked together in five years, could still read me like a book, asked: “Do you know what the Brahmaviharas are?”

After spending dozens of hours over the last month talking with you, my community, about money, wealth, and what is enough for the Prosperity Project, I am more convinced than ever that prosperity is a state of mind.

I spoke with women who have net worths over a million dollars and others who watch their bank balance hover just above zero, all of whom deal with a sense of lack. I found that, regardless of dollar amounts, the feeling of not having enough is almost always rooted in a sense of not being enough.

Happy 2024, ya’ll! So, my theme of the year is Generosity.

I chose to work with Generosity this year because there were some patterns in myself I didn’t particularly like. I noticed, for example, last summer I’d get all prickly inside when my kid’s friend came over and, during snack time, ate nearly the entire box of raspberries I just bought.

I mean, sure that’s annoying. But, my reaction was more than just annoyed. I felt indignant. Like, angry. With a seven-year-old. Inside, I was Gollum, wanting to snatch the raspberries off the table and hide in the basement, wrapped around my precious fruit, elbows pointed out, snarling at anyone who looks my way.

Not my proudest moment.

Last month, during a writing incubator program, my fellow writers and I were asked to name, draw a picture of, and describe our inner critics. Clearly, this exercise was meant to identify the part of ourselves that judged our creative work, but the only thing I could think about was the inner voice that criticizes my mothering.

I named her Bethilzda. I described her as an old witch, draped in black, hissing in my ear, “You’re fucking it up. Your daughter’s going to hate you. ”