I can vividly remember my 23-year-old self, standing on my boyfriend’s doorstep, tears streaming down my face.
“I would be happy living in a cardboard box on the street with you!” I cried.
And I meant it. I honestly, ignorantly and whole-heartedly-in-love meant it. At 23 my perspective was untainted by the money, fame, or success that would later find its way to my doorstep.
My boyfriend at the time was a professional blackjack player. He had become increasingly depressed and withdrawn after suffering a huge financial loss. The man I knew and loved completely disappeared: physically, mentally, and emotionally. I never cared about the number in his bank account. But he became so absorbed with money that he lost sight of all else. Subsequently, our relationship deteriorated, resulting in my first heartbreak.
A lot has changed in my life from the time I was an in-love 20-something, willing to roost in a refrigerator box on the streets.
In 2008, I gained fame at the World Series of Poker when I was the last woman standing out of 6,844 players. My 17th place finish broke the record for the largest field ever beat by a female in live poker tournament history, and scored me a payday of $334,534.
I became an overnight poker celebrity: signing endorsement deals, landing on magazine covers, appearing on TV shows and being invited to attend events all over the world. Suddenly I was walking red carpets, hanging out with celebrities, and travelling the world in style.
At the core, I’m the same person. But I would be lying if I said that my life experiences and career success haven’t changed me. I’m constantly aware of people watching me and judging me: my looks, wardrobe, actions, personal life and career. I feel pressure to be impressive and live up to the expectations of what success means and looks like. In Hollywood, it’s nearly impossible not to get caught up in the rat race.
When I was 23 I could afford to be foolishly in love, without care or concern for much else. But at 30, it’s a whole new ballgame. I feel a sense of romantic urgency and social pressure.
The new guy I’m in love with is really nice. No, he’s better than nice — he is exceptional. He is one of the most upstanding, sincere, giving, and considerate men I have ever met. He’s the man my heart had always hoped and believed existed. It’s easy. We click. He gets me.
Everything within me says he is The One, but he is much younger than I am, and he’s basically broke. He’s not broke in the sense that he made bad choices and lost it all (i.e. my first boyfriend). He’s just starting out in life and hasn’t had the chance to establish himself yet.
I recently sat at my mom’s kitchen counter, explaining my romantic dilemma. “He is amazing in every possible way. My only concern… is the money thing.”
Mom did not validate my misgivings.
My parents have always wanted me to find a good man. (I’m pretty sure they started praying for my future spouse when I was a kid, knowing it was going to take a lot of prayer and some heaven-sent help to conjure up the man who could handle the likes of their daughter!) A person’s resumé, financial success, or social status has never mattered to my parents. They’re heart people. And they raised me to be a heart person as well.
“Remember who you are, and whose you are,” my dad would say every time I stepped out the door to embark on my next poker event, photo shoot, TV appearance, or glamorous adventure.
As I was voicing my concerns to my mother, I had an out-of-body experience. “He’s really great. I’m just worried about the money….” Suddenly, I was transported from the barstool in Mom’s kitchen to my ex-boyfriend’s doorstep. “I would be happy living in a cardboard box with you.”
It was as if God was taking me back in time. Remember when you said this? Remember when love mattered more than money? Remember that girl? It was a Tiffany Epiphany. Literally. My 23-year-old self was reminding me who I am.
Change is inevitable. Life will mold the heart, success can confuse it, and money is likely to obscure it. But if you remember who you are and whose you are I believe you’ll always be able to find your way back — back to a moment (or a doorstep) when you loved purely, simply, and without measure.
I wonder: what if, seven years ago, God knew where I was headed? What if He orchestrated that doorstep moment so that I could figure out what to do in this moment? What if seven years ago happened so that I could find my way now… here… today?
“For love or money?”
I expect to be faced with this question many more times in life. I hope I can rise to the challenge. I hope to keep an unadulterated perspective. Mostly, I hope “cardboard box Tiffany” stays with me. I think she’s onto something.
Photo by wickedchopspoker.com
This article was originally published in the March/April issue of Converge Magazine.
