We’re supposed to be productive.
We’re supposed to be motivated.
We’re supposed to do at least as much as we can, all the time.
Didn’t you get the memo?
I did. I got it so well that I have a copy automatically sent to my brain every single morning and most afternoons. It gets on my ass when I’m tired, it gets on my ass when I’m sick, and it gets on my ass when I sit down with a book.
A book? It better be a USEFUL book!
Dammit.
I’m done. I’m responsible maybe 99.8% of the time. And if occasionally I do most of everything but not all of everything, if sometimes the dishes don’t get done…
it’s a lesson I learned the hard way. I learned it from years of depression and fight and pushing for the A+ instead of the A…
–and the subsequent slide into the deepest, darkest places I’d been, and then back up and then one more time down. And then up. And I’ve mostly stayed up.
So I know better. I know better than to try and do it all.
And yet?
And yet I still feel terrible when I’m not doing it all, pushing as hard as I can, squeezing every last drop out of everything, functioning as the absolutely perfect student or minister or coach.
You know what?
That’s not good living and it’s not good modeling. And so I keep practicing.
Practicing not doing it all.
Practicing letting it go.
Practicing serving my own needs first so I can have something with which to serve others.
And practicing not feeling guilty for calling in sick and staying home when what I need is a handful of Advil and some solid rest.
Not. Guilty.
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