Enough

I’m in a busy season.

I’m writing for my clients, writing for myself, pitching articles, moving my body every day, planning a wedding, walking the dog, attempting to live as plastic-free as I can, nurturing my growth as a person, nurturing my relationship with my partner, nurturing the garden…etc. It’s a busy season.

In a conversation with a friend recently, I articulated a feeling I had over the past few months when I was also completing my first semester of grad school: I’m doing a million things and I’m not doing any of them well enough.

It’s a horrible feeling, to believe this lie your brain is trying to convince you is true. Feels like a sinking in the stomach, or an overwhelming jitteriness in the chest. This deeply felt knowledge that you, at the core of your being, are inadequate.

It’s not true, of course. I know it feels true, but not everything our brains tell us is fact. (Most isn’t.) As I notice that feeling of inadequacy, I try to tune in, to reconcile with what’s deeper, what’s below. I've found that what’s below is the actual truth: I’m doing too much. I’m stretched too thin. What I accomplish or how I accomplish it doesn’t have anything to do with my value as a person. I’m simply saying yes to too many things in too little time.

Framed this way, I have so much more self-compassion. I treat myself as I’d treat a good friend: Ah, okay. I see the problem here. And it isn’t you.

Also, Why don’t you have some chocolate?

Framed this way, I have an opportunity to linger in curiosity, to decide what priorities are important enough to remain in the roster.

For me, moving my body will always be on the list. It’s my medicine. It's confidence and strength and social hour and endorphins all wrapped up into one. That stays.

Writing for my clients isn’t going anywhere, though I might need to push an occasional deadline when my brain is absolutely fried.

Pitching articles can be pushed to the back burner. Writing newsletters and blogs will surely slough off the list (hence why you haven’t heard from me as regularly). The house can stay dirty one more day. Maybe Moon doesn't get a walk today. We can scrounge for leftovers for dinner.

Choosing to not do things—or choosing to do things less frequently—has become an unexpected form of self-care. It’s a loving evaluation of what is important. An acknowledgement that I’d rather live in greater simplicity than in the lie of inadequacy.