Newfound Self

There was life before kids and there was life after kids.

I never anticipated that my life after kids would require intense reprogramming, rewiring, and reparenting of myself. I emerged out of my post-pandemic, postpartum daze eager to do the inner work to become the best parent I could. A mix of different therapies, conversations with friends, and self-help books have gotten me to the more enlightened place I am today - someone who isn’t going to have a crushing panic attack when she leaves the house with her kids.

Looking back at the dark place I was in when I first became a mom, I told Steve that I probably should have been institutionalized. He didn’t disagree.

I’m doing the readings. I’m doing the homework. I’m doing everything I possibly can to be the parent I want to be, the person I want to be. I can finally feel myself going through the transformation. A second coming of myself, if you will.

It took having a kid to make me realize just how severe my insecurities and anxieties were. It took having a second kid to make me finally let go and move on to becoming the person I’m meant to be.

The three biggest revelations I’ve had so far are:

1. Being a perfectionist isn’t a bad thing. In fact, perfectionism is a superpower if I stay connected with myself and remember that “ideals are not meant to be achieved, only meant to inspire” (from a life-changing book: The Perfectionist’s Guide to Losing Control).

2. Emotions aren’t good or bad. They are simply learnings. Learning about what I like and don’t like, what I want more of in my life, what my boundaries are. What I used to consider a “negative” emotion is really my mind and body trying to tell me something.

3. Every part of me belongs. The good, the bad, the ugly, the awkward. The parts of me still yet unhealed. The parts of me that are. Accepting all of me and believing that my worth isn’t conditional - it’s a profoundly liberating feeling.

Even though I see these revelations and I believe in them, I’m not yet at the point where I’m internalizing them. But, I’ll get there. Baby steps.

Maybe when my baby takes her first steps, these newfound beliefs will be a little more rooted in my subconscious. Maybe when she learns to run, I’ll no longer be riddled with fear. I’ll be able to run outside with her. Present. Carefree. Joyful.

Giving Grace

I love fall. When you can smell the leaves instead of the grass. When the wind is more blustery than breezy. When you relish the sun’s warmth on your face rather than hide from it.

Big life events tend to happen to me in the fall. It makes me nostalgic for the start of a new school year. Fall reminds me of when I met and fell in love with Steve. Gosh, 17 years ago. It reminds me of when we bought our first home together and when we brought home Buddha. Oddly, major career changes would take place for me around September. And before I know it, it’s my birthday in October - the dawn of a new age.

Since the pandemic started and Bubba was born, fall reminds me that everything is temporary. I’m learning to soak up the little things. Bub’s vocabulary is getting better each day. He’s saying “yes” and “more” with real intention. He tries to repeat the words we say and was really close to saying “banana” the other day. At the park, he is more opinionated about when he wants to slide down the slide or swing on the swings. I can no longer plop him where I want him.

I’m reminded that babies don’t stay babies. Nobody has to tell me how quickly they grow up because I know. It’s happening right before my very eyes and while I’m heartbroken I can’t freeze time, I’m in awe of the transformation I get to witness. How he learned to do a somersault. The way he picks himself back up after a tumble. He is so cute it hurts. It hurts because I know he won’t be this cute forever. Next fall, he will be speaking in full sentences and running faster than I can catch him.

Despite the beauty of watching him grow, I wasn’t expecting the transition into toddlerhood to require so much patience and true parenting. There are moments when he’s throwing a tantrum and I literally do not know what to do. Sometimes, I say or do the wrong thing. Other times, I’m able to help him understand. When I get fed up and overreact, I feel like a horrible mother and I beat myself up for not being perfect. But toddlers, they are so gracious, so forgiving. He doesn’t know what perfection means. Maybe to him, I am perfect. He never stops loving me, no matter what my behavior or reaction is. He gives me grace. Why can’t I give myself some?

When big emotions happen, whether it’s me or him, I’m reminded to slow down. To take a breath. To let him figure out how to put on his shoes. To let him watch tree branches in the wind. To let us both observe the little things.

After all, it’s the little things that build meaning in our lives.

“There is no such thing as a perfect parent so just be a real one.”

— Sue Atkins

Every day, I hit the ground running. Harder than I ever thought I could. I throw up my hair in a scrunchie, put on my running rotation of sweats, and barely pause to look in the mirror. I tell myself that I should make an effort, to make myself happy. But then, I hear a little voice call for “mama” and I run to it.

I have to remind myself that this is just a season of life. That raising this kiddo is just a blip in my lifetime. It’ll pass by in the blink of an eye, and I know I’ll miss it so very much. I pray that the hustle, the worrying, the exhaustion - that it’s all worth it. That some day when he’s older, he’ll think back on his childhood and remember it with joy and fondness. When we’re sitting around the dinner table years from here and my hair is completely gray and I’m moving a little slower, I hope we laugh and relive the beautiful memories we’re creating right now.

33, Be Good to Me

I’ve wanted to make Flo Braker’s buttermilk cake for over a year, ever since I heard about it on the Home Cooking podcast. The podcast has been a great source of comfort for me during the pandemic. I listen to it almost every day. Apparently, rewatching movies or shows, or in my case, listening to the same music (hi, Phoebe Bridgers) and podcast over and over is a way for anxious people to control their emotions in a world that feels out of whack.

For my birthday this year, I was determined to make this buttermilk cake. A week before, I remembered to buy buttermilk and cake flour. Yesterday, I sent Steve to the store to buy butter and parchment paper.

He came back with salted butter and wax paper. Close, but not the same.

Also realizing I didn’t have a hand mixer and that my butter wasn’t at room temperature, I gave up on this double-layer cake with chocolate sabayon frosting being picture perfect.

At 10 pm on a Saturday, Steve and I deliriously giggled our way through dolloping lumpy cake batter into misshapen muffin cups and mixing whipping cream by hand until our arms hurt. The mini cakes looked like they were sat on, but they were buttery and delicious. After 12 minutes of whipping the cream, it suddenly and miraculously stiffened. And shockingly, we had fresh strawberries in the fridge, which we almost never do.

We laughed and ate until our stomachs grumbled hurt.

“I’ll remember this when I’m old,” I told Steve.

Making this cake was somewhat symbolic of the year I’ve had. Riddled with panic attacks, triggered by not being the perfect parent, 32 has taught me that my mental health has taken a toll and needs tending to. Perfectionism is what I continue to strive for and when life isn’t perfect, I beat myself up for it. The chronic guilt has cancelled a lot of the inner work I had done before I had a baby. Should’ve, Could’ve, Would’ve pepper my thoughts relentlessly.

But through it all this year, Steve has been there for me. Somehow, he makes me laugh even when I don’t think I ever will again.

I hope 33 is more of the latter laughter and less of the former guilt. I hope 33 is onwards and upwards and not constantly feeling downtrodden by my own thoughts. I hope 33 is peace and not panic.

Pursuing Perfection

“What do you consider your greatest weakness?”

“I’m a perfectionist.”

Perfectionist

noun

a person who refuses to accept any standard short of perfection

I used to think being a perfectionist was a good thing. To be the perfect student, the perfect daughter, the perfect wife, the perfect teammate. I want to excel at everything, to be kind to everyone, to look beautiful at every angle. Striving to be the best, to be flawless - how can that be such a bad thing?

It’s a bad thing because perfection isn’t real.

It’s taken me years to realize that perfection is the root of so much pain and suffering in my life. Growing up, I was so far from being perfect that I perpetually felt immense pressure and disappointment. Self-deprecation and I were best friends, and she was always in my ear whispering that I wasn’t good enough and that I could have done better.

When I let a petty thing ruin my day or when I obsess over things outside of my control, I know that’s perfection knocking at my door. A couple weeks ago while riding my bike to the grocery store, I was heckled by a driver. Apparently, my waiting behind him at a stoplight bothered him. I sobbed to myself while walking through the ketchup aisle - sad that someone was mean to me and disappointed in myself that I let a complete stranger ruin an otherwise perfect day.

I feel perfectionism breathing down my neck when I receive constructive feedback - actually, when I receive any type of feedback, be it positive or constructive. When it’s constructive, I feel heartbroken and unworthy. When it’s positive, I feel like an imposter. If I get five pieces of feedback and one of them is constructive, I’ll only focus on the constructive and not the four positives. There goes perfection, trying to rob me of a joyous moment.

It also doesn’t help that being a perfectionist and a highly sensitive person (HSP) can work against each other. As an HSP, I’m hyper-aware of my environment, super sensitive to criticism, and try to avoid getting upset at all costs. For years, I thought being an HSP was a downfall, a disorder. My perfectionism was an attempt to compensate for my HSP shortcomings and a way to protect myself from future criticism and pain.

Somehow the older I get, the more perfect I want to be. I want to be the perfect spouse to my husband, the perfect mother to my children, and the perfect daughter to my parents. The sandwich generation pushes perfection from all sides. When more people need me, the more pressure I feel to be everything to everyone. My mind is either analyzing the past (“how could I have done that perfectly”) or planning for the future (“how will I make it perfect”). I’m rarely focusing on the present.

I have to make a conscious effort to ignore perfection when it doesn’t serve me, which is most of the time. I have to deliberately acknowledge it and choose not to pay attention to it. This might sound easy, but it is the hardest thing I’ll do each day. It doesn’t mean perfectionism will someday go away for me. It might be a part of me for the rest of my life, but I strive for a better relationship with it.

I’m learning that when I seek perfection, I only perfect disappointment. The mantra in my head right now: let go of perfection and seek to be present instead.

“In truth, the notions of perfect or imperfect are simply constructs of the mind and have no actual basis other than thought has created them.”

— Mel Schwartz, A Shift of Mind