Thoughts Do Become Things
Years ago we found ourselves in a position that was less than desirable. My husband’s stress levels at work were rising to the point that he was becoming physically ill. At the time, we felt there was no choice but for him to leave his position and take on a different one – one which would pay less, but would make him infinitely happier, at least for a time.
I was pregnant with our second child, and had a few shifts at work. With a severe decrease in income, we made the decision to sell our home, and move in with my husband’s mother. Although it was a frightening prospect for me, his mother was kind, and I knew it was best for my husband that we do it this way. We couldn’t have afforded to stay in our current house, and we wanted to continue to provide what we could for our children.
While on maternity leave, my passion for writing deepened. I’d written freelance pieces now and again, but with no regularity. I remembered a quote from Sex and the City, in which the lead character Carrie said, “I wanted to be a writer, so I made myself a writer.” It was a profound statement for me, because I made that a conscious choice. Within weeks, I was hired on with a local magazine as a copywriter, and began to take on more work with the city paper as a special features writer.
Although it seemed I had my dream job in place, the money still wasn’t sufficient enough to help us buy a new home. Through my contacts at the paper, I heard about a job opportunity with the paper as a member of their regularly paid staff. This was February 2008. Under the guidance of a management member I knew, I called every week, picturing myself in the office, knowing without a shadow of doubt that I would be hired, despite the fact that it was a union environment and internal applicants would always be considered first.
In July of the same year, I got the job.
My husband, too, exercising the Law of Attraction, attracted a new position, one which would pay more and which seemed to hold more promise. With two steady incomes, we were now in a place that we could find a new home. But I knew I wanted to be careful, and I knew that there was only one area of the city in which I wanted to live, a beautiful new subdivision that was safe, and one which had a healthy mix of starter, mid-end, and higher-end homes. I didn’t share this desire with anyone but my husband – not because I didn’t want to, but it just happened to be something I kept to just us, and knew that I would soon be looking in that area in case anything came up.
Within only four weeks, we had a fateful phone call. A friend of my husband’s, a realtor, called us out of the blue and said, “There’s a foreclosure in (the subdivision I was dreaming about). Come on out, I just want to show you.”
We went to see the house. It was beautiful – modest but spacious, with a quaint design, new paint and new trim, a two-car garage, and a lovely backyard. It was the perfect home for our small family… and in the neighborhood about which I’d dreamed.
The house, as it was a foreclosure, was already significantly cheaper than the rest of the homes on the same street. Still, I thought we could negotiate the price with the bank. My husband, and even the realtor, thought my offer was a little low. “They’ll take it,” I said firmly. I’d never had experience buying a home before – my husband had bought our first home before we were married – so I’m not sure what gave me such confidence that the bank would take my offer. But like Lisa Nichols had said in The Secret, “I knew like I knew like I knew.”
The next day, our offer was accepted.