Learning to cut myself some slack
In a session with a client today, I was reminded of a short story I wrote a couple of years ago. The story captures the first time I was able to SEE the Good Girl in me rather than BE the good girl. It also documents the birth of another part of me — a me that insists on being cut some slack daily.
This tension — between being very good girls, or even goddesses, and our need to rest, not do, be cut some slack, to say “No. This is too much.” — has come up again and again with my coachees, in Her Circle (a coaching group), and in conversations with friends.
Those two parts of me are still very present in my life. When the story was written, I felt I had to choose: I could either be a good girl or “the wild one.” Now I see there is no need to choose. I am both, and much more. I am learning to be with the tension.
At times, I call on one or the other of the incredible team I have within me to come and hold the helm. Sometimes it’s total anarchy. Either way, I trust that the wind will bring us forward.
If you resonate with this, I would love to hear from you. I read every message.
38.4
I remember this: I was lying on the couch as a child, maybe ten years old. I had a temperature of 38.4, to be exact. High enough so I’m declared officially sick, but not too high that I can’t enjoy the sweetness of being taken care of. The TV is on; my mom brought me a slice of toast. She stayed for a while, letting me put my head on her tummy. I smell her and feel her softness; I am lost in the rumbling of her stomach; I can listen to it for hours if I’m ever allowed. I know she’ll have to go soon. I’m trying to make every moment of this last. This was one of the few times that I was able to cut some slack from the endless responsibilities of a good girl.
Like my mom, I assumed hyper-responsibility for fixing the world and pleasing invisible expectations. I was dedicated to being the best Good Girl one could ever become. As a “Good Girl”, my role was vast; it included being a responsible older sister to my wild brother and little sister, a good student, helping bring world peace, and making my mom happy. Rest? It was for the weaker ones. I was made of the strong stuff that my mother, my grandmother, and my great-grandmother were made of.
I never saw my mom rest. I have no memory of lazy Saturdays, her reading the paper with her feet up, long breakfasts that roll into lunch, playing in the garden with no pressure of a plan. Instead, my mom was an expert planner and crisis manager. She planned family gatherings and trips. She wove each experience with purpose and meaning; A trip to the desert was an opportunity to learn about rock formations; each mountain had a bible story, and during long drives, we peered outside and shouted the names of crops: “Pears! Plums! Bananas! Wheat! Corn!” If there were any quiet moments, we used them to learn songs and reflect on the recent experiences, grading them from best to good to bad.
But we were only human; our minds and bodies still needed to rest. For me, power naps didn’t do the trick. For true rest, there were sick days and mental breakdowns. So 38.4 was a golden ticket. The other “cut me some slack tickets” made you feel much worse.
When my daughter was born, her arrival shook my existence. With four hours of sleep, I couldn’t keep holding it all together. I never considered that she would have so much will of her own or that I would have so little control. Now, even 38.4 did not work. I was left with the worst of the worst tickets. I had to go to places so dark to be allowed to rest. For a while, motherhood became a foggy swamp where dark spirits hung around. When my inner sun cut through the clouds, I emerged briefly to connect, laugh, dance, and feel joy before returning to the darkness.
When my daughter was three and a bit, my mom died. My mom had said I’ll have more space to grow after she’s gone. I couldn’t have imagined the vast emptiness she left behind. I still can’t. I feel like a promise was broken, or maybe a spell. Why did I try to keep things together? What was the point of it? Who wants to be a good girl? And what does it even mean?
For days and days, I let these questions eat my flesh in small bites, like little fish. There were weeks when I wasn’t sure who I was anymore. But as the good girl has slowly been eaten away, another identity emerged—a brave me that insists on being cut slack daily, she demands to be let lie on the sofa with no fever at all.
This version of me lets her braids loose. She has grass and straw in her hair from lying in strange places and a wild look in her eyes - a look that says she is not totally with us. She is resting; she is taking a break. She is chaos, and she is fine.