The All I Carry: A Poetic Meditation on What It Means to ‘Have It All’

I once thought “having it all”
was a destination—
a glittering hilltop
where all things waited
like loyal pets:
success wagging its tail,
love curled by the fireplace,
and peace humming quietly
in a room without clocks.

I was younger then,
younger not just in years
but in certainty—
the kind that comes with
checklists, career fairs,
and color-coded calendars
that promised if I just kept moving,
life would reveal its secret door.

Now, I walk slower.
I ask more questions.
I peel the word “all” apart
like an orange
and study the pulp.


---

To me, “having it all”
is not a mountain
but a mosaic.
Not a trophy
but a tapestry—
woven with mornings
when I wake
without an alarm
and remember my own name
before the world calls me
to be anything else.

It is not
owning the whole orchard,
but knowing the taste
of a ripe mango
on a day you didn’t expect joy
to visit.

It’s the moment I text a friend,
“I saw your favorite flower today,”
and they reply,
“You remembered?”
And that exchange
feels bigger than any promotion
I ever put on a résumé.


---

I used to think
having it all meant
never choosing—
saying yes to every opportunity,
collecting gold stars,
balancing a home like a teacup
on a tightrope of ambition.

But now I see—
sometimes
you choose sleep over applause.
Sometimes
you let go of one dream
to make room
for one that fits your hands better.

And sometimes,
having it all
means having enough wisdom
to say,
“This is plenty.”


---

What is it, really?

It is presence.
It is wholeness.
It is laughter that starts
from your stomach
and makes your eyes wrinkle
without apology.

It is sitting in a sunlit kitchen
with someone you love,
both sipping tea,
both reading,
and not needing
to say a word.

It’s being able to breathe
without shrinking.
It’s dancing badly
but freely,
even if only your cat is watching.

It’s the kind of love
that doesn’t ask you to shrink,
to soften,
or to explain
why you cry at commercials.

It’s rest
that doesn’t feel like laziness.

Joy
that isn’t performative.

Success
that doesn’t require
a translation
to your inner child.


---

Is it attainable?

Yes—
but only when I stop
chasing someone else’s version
of “everything.”

Only when I realize
that the “all” they sell
in ads and glossy covers
comes with fine print
that forgets the cost
of burnout,
comparison,
and silence.

Only when I stop
measuring abundance
by accumulation,
and start seeing it
in attention.

When I count
a soft breeze,
a belly laugh,
a long phone call,
as wealth.

Then, yes—
it is attainable.
Not all at once.
Not every day.
But in moments strung together
like fairy lights
in a room of ordinary hours.


---

Let me be clearer:

Having it all is—

A full fridge and an empty inbox
on the same day?
Rare.

A peaceful heart
and a noisy street outside?
Possible.

A hug that lasts
longer than the question
you didn’t want to answer?
Attainable.

It is not about arriving.
It is about noticing.
It is not about “either/or.”
It is the art of “sometimes/and.”

Sometimes
I am confident and scared.
Grateful and grieving.
Strong and sleepy.

And I carry it all
like a poem
with too many verses
but somehow—
they still rhyme
when I whisper them slowly.


---

So when someone asks,
“What does having it all mean to you?”
I don’t say:
a corner office,
a magazine cover,
or a curated closet.

I say:

It’s remembering
who I am
when no one is watching.

It’s finding small glories
in the mundane—
the way my favorite song
comes on shuffle
when I need it most.

It’s the freedom
to choose softness
in a world
that rewards armor.

It’s an old pair of jeans
that fit better now
not because my body changed,
but because my expectations did.

It’s enough time
to be still.
Enough space
to say no.
Enough courage
to say yes
when I want to.

It’s a life I don’t need
a vacation from.
A heart that no longer
competes with itself.
A soul that can say:
“I am full—
not because I have everything,
but because I notice
everything I have.”


---

So here I am—
no summit,
no finish line,
just this ever-turning spiral
of choosing presence
over perfection.

I may not have it all
by anyone else’s terms.

But I have love,
peace in pieces,
and laughter that lingers.

I have the sky
and its moods.
Books that feel like
conversations with my past.
Time to sit with myself
and listen
without judgment.

And on most days,
that feels like
having more
than I ever asked for.