Present Over Perfect

miserable. Not all the time, of course, but sometimes, in
those rare moments when I let myself really feel honestly
instead of filling in the right answers, I realized with great
surprise that this way of living was not making me happy at
all.
People called me tough. And capable. And they said I
was someone they could count on. Those are all nice things.
Kind of. But they’re not the same as loving, or kind, or
joyful. I was not those things.
I believed that work would save me, make me happy,
solve my problems; that if I absolutely wore myself out,
happiness would be waiting for me on the other side of all
that work. But it wasn’t.
On the other side was just more work. More
expectations, more responsibility. I’d trained a whole group
of people to know that I would never say no, I would never
say “this is too much.” I would never ask for more time or
space, I would never bow out. And so they kept asking, and
I was everyone’s responsible girl.
And I was so depleted I couldn’t even remember what
whole felt like. I felt used up by the work, but of course it
was I who was using the work, not the other way around. I
was using it to avoid something, to evade something. I was
using it to prevent myself from becoming acquainted with
the self who sat hidden by all the accomplishment. I wanted
to get to know that person, make friends with her. I wanted
to learn to beckon her out from behind the accomplishment,
and, when the wind piped up, take her off to the sea.