Being home during the panini press that was last year showed me that there’s an anxious version of myself that runs on autopilot whenever doing so feels easier than actively caring for myself. She makes choices that undermine what feels best and most gentle in the name of efficacy and completed to do lists. Last night, she and I were reintroduced as the first day of school had me struggling to choose how much I feel able to prioritize my own wellness over the expectation to perform.
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Reflective Musings
This is for every mama doing her absolute best. Who simply shows up and continues to try… no matter the hand dealt. This is a reminder that your best can look different on any given day… and it’s no less impressive or praise worthy.
My body is saying rest. And still… I’m setting unrealistic expectations for myself. And experiencing frustration when things take longer than expected. And adding more plans to the plans. And pushing back on my husband when he encourages me to acknowledge this sabotage.
It is an eery thing. To recognize the ways you are moving counter-intuitively all the while feeling beyond your own control. Because there are things that must get done. And you must be the one to do them.
I was barely in my 20’s the first time I realized that one of my dearest friendships had lost its familiarity. Having spent high school within a clique of girls… the ranks began to fizzle out, and going off to college was slowly shifting my views. Armed with a bunch of feelings I didn’t have the emotional intelligence to express, I just knew that the friendship began to feel more hard landing than safety net.
About ten minutes before we needed to leave the house, I decided to finally buckle down and wake the sleeping giant. She kept her eyes closed and maintained dead weight as I sat her up, pulled her to the edge of the bed, and did a 10-second count down asserting the amount of time she had left if she wanted to choose her own outfit versus forfeiting her right to autonomy. (In hindsight, I recognize that this was one of my biggest mistakes. Like an amateur… I opted into a power struggle with a tired six-year-old.)
At the recommendation of a dear friend, I attended a workshop hosted by The Well on March 31st. After roughly an hour discussing intentionality, Radiah Rhodes (of Evok Life) said something to the effect of, “I know that I don’t know you, and you don’t strike me as a woman who settles - but you’re settling when it comes to your book.” Then she proceeded to give me a gentle read on how I had allowed noble causes to stand in the way of my end goal. That conversation called my bluff. Never have I been spoken to so candidly by someone without the relational capacity that would warrant such directness.
As a first hand participant in a love story that had its share of nosedives, I know better than to believe that love and pain are mutually exclusive. I also know that the world’s standard for love will have me summoning the magical intervention of Disney princesses and fairy Godmothers instead of recognizing my trauma responses and how they play a hand in the partners I’ve chosen and/or how I show up in relationships.
To be clear, this is not written in attempt to victim blame or relieve abusive partners of accountability. However, this is a call to self-reflect on whether your default setting has you predisposed to foolishness. It seems wholly unrealistic to enter a union expecting wellness when your habits, mental space and capacity for engaging in the key components of a relationship stem from a broken and unhealed place. Ask me how I know.
My mother worked gruesome hours as a cosmetologist while raising two children, doing her damndest to have a dating life, and battling arthritis/lupus. The photos I attached to this article hold a special place in my heart, because at 27, only 5 years shy of the age my mother was when she transcended, I finally see an image of me that reflects her. It shows me in my mother's likeness, and my expression reeks of her joy. It's typically a non-negotiable that I'm a spitting image of my father. However, this photo serves as proof of what I had yet to realize: as I am constantly shape shifting, my face is forming into my mothers.
Today my student's mother died. My biggest concern was making sure he was able to grieve like a child. Because Black boys don't often get that. Considering his experience inspired me to write a long overdue poem for Black boys.
When I sit for a second... when I allow myself to actually feel all that I am feeling, it hurts. So, I reroute the pain, and I cry watching Grey's Anatomy. And I cry on my grandmother's lap til' I unknowingly fall asleep. I cry listening to music that reminds me I'm still feeling. I unfollow friends as means of maintaining mental sanity. I lean into my husband, who caused some of that hurt, and I fall apart. And it's still okay, because it's all temporary if only I make the time to tend to it.
Watching Bishop TD Jakes preach this morning reminded me that we often look for confirmation from other people to affirm our greatness. We forget our ability to proclaim life over ourselves. Today, I'm doing away with that thought pattern and affirming that I am enough. In the fullness of me and in all my faults, I am enough.
As someone born with a nurturing spirit, I've wanted to be a mom since as far back as I can remember. I also wanted to be married. Chris and I were nowhere near ready for the load we took on in committing to both of those visions, and my first trimester was hellish proof.
I am filled to the brim with so many feelings.
But they’re only that: feelings.
They aren’t permanent fixtures or proclamations of my being. I have been feeling them for some time, and now I’ve simply made room for them to exist outside of my mind. Hence, I am releasing all the ones that don't suit me. That don't bespeak an assurance in my ability to do what God has tasked me with doing. That doubt my tribe and their capacity to adjust and provide support. That reveal fear where faith should reside.