For as long as I can remember, I have been convinced that the way to solve a problem is through immediate action.
When I was single and feeling particularly down about it, I’d say yes to just about anyone who asked me out. If I were feeling a particularly brutal bout of imposter syndrome, I’d basically chain myself to my desk and force myself to write until I produced something worthwhile. If I was worried that I wasn’t showing up for my friends or family the way I ought to, I’d call, or text, or find little slivers of time in my schedule to come over with a pizza, or meet for martinis. I’d make the first move, so they didn’t have to. So that they realized how much they meant to me.
Taking a step back, I can understand this impulse. I can trace it back to the root, point to the place where it emerges from the ground, and recognize the exact set of circumstances that gave birth to the part of myself that is wholly unable to sit around and wait for things to happen. “Nobody is going to do it for you,” I can hear the voice in the back of my mind whisper. “What makes you think you’re so special that life will just work out for you?”
I have never looked at myself as exceptional enough for good thing to just happen to me. Why would they? That only happens for other people — lucky people. So I book myself solid. I bring soup to my friends when they’re feeling sick. I drive out to the far corners of New Jersey for as many family functions as I can. I organize coat drives at work and host holiday dinner parties and wake up every morning as the sun is rising so I can get my 8,000 steps in before 9 AM.
Over the past few weeks, though, I’ve started to realize that none of this is actually for me. My impulse to create, and to do, and to make sure that everyone is happy has everything to do with other people. It’s a way of controlling the narrative around me — slapping a mask over my real face that is pleasing to as many people as possible so that I can define myself before they define me. I know that I am not exaggerating when I say that this has been my modus operandi for most of my life.
I know this now, because two weekends ago, I broke so severely that the feeling loomed over me for days. I screamed. I threw things. I pulled at my hair. I curled up on my bed and sobbed. I dug my fingernails into my shoulders as I wrapped my arms around myself, trying with all my might to physically hold myself together as I mentally fell apart.
The sick thing is I saw it coming. Earlier that week, I’d sat in bed on a Zoom call with my therapist hungover from the night before and crying from exhaustion. I’d been self-medicating for days, trying to numb myself into zombie-walking through the packed calendar I’d set up for myself — my self-inflicted torture having sprung from never wanting to say no and disappoint. My therapist warned I was headed toward some kind of break, and that I should make it a priority to take care of myself. I said I would try, thanked her, and hung up. Just 48 hours later, I lost my mind.
“No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be true.” I remember reading that line in The Scarlet Letter in high school, but Hawthorne’s meaning didn’t press upon me until recently. And while I’m not as duplicitous as Dimmesdale, I have been trying to wear a perfect face on the outside while neglecting the person I am in the quiet, dark moments when it’s just me.
Lately, though, she’s been coming out, making herself known, rebelling against years of disregard in ways that can sometimes feel dissociative. And it’s been scary, especially because it’s all coming up around the time we’re starting to plan for a family. I have this deep, acute fear that until I learn how to take care of her — that little neglected girl who exists within me — I will never be able to care for my children. I’ve heard that having children does a lot of that healing and care for you, but I would really like to be part of the way there before becoming a mother. I don’t want to put all of that hope and expectation into a tiny human.
So how do you rewire your brain to place yourself first after living nearly 30 years with the opposite intention? This is the thought I have been turning over in my head lately, and I don’t have an answer yet. But for the moment, I am trying to remember one word: Stop. When my mind starts going in 100 different directions, I force myself to stop. When I feel anger bubbling up, I breathe and tell myself to stop. When someone comes to me with a plan, instead of answering immediately, I stop. Action has gotten me nowhere. So I am trying to stop.
And when I stop, I find that I am able to make a little space for myself to breathe and decide how I want to proceed. It’s a truly basic task — listening to yourself. How have I forgotten how to do this? Did I ever really know how? I seem to think that listening to myself and putting myself first is inherently selfish. How have I gotten this so wrong?
I realize now that self-care isn’t just about everything showers and bucatini with vodka sauce and binge-watching the Before trilogy in a single afternoon. I am learning that self-care is pulling a tarot card and journaling about how it makes me feel. It’s sticking to a routine that makes me feel good, and getting enough sleep. It’s saying no, or saying maybe, and not apologizing for it. It’s about showing up for myself first before I show up for anyone else.
And it’s really hard. And it feels really vulnerable. But this is what I feel pulled to do. I want to learn to take care of myself before I bring a human into the world and my existence spins on the axis of caring for them. I want to model for them what it means to care for yourself. But before I can do that, I need to learn it for myself.
And that’s where I’ll begin.
xx MDR
PS: I think this is part of a larger shift in female consciousness — I wrote this essay on December 1, and on the 4th, Heather Havrilesky published this brilliant essay on pretty much the same thing. Anyone else feeling like they’re needing to pause and make space for themselves? I have a feeling there will be more to come on this topic in future newsletters…
This is huge… HUGE!! There are moments when we get so frustrated with the way we’ve been living that it forces us to change. For the better. You are TRYING. It won’t be perfect, but keep showing up for yourself again and again… and again.
I noticed you mentioned journaling. One of the many things I love about journaling is that clarity comes from the quiet moments of putting pen to paper. Once we have that clarity, THEN we can take action (which begets further clarity!). It’s a beautiful cycle. I hope you keep at it.
My Substack has journal prompts aplenty if you need ‘em. 💗
Hugs, Maria. Your generation of women, in particular, got a huge dose of "you can (and more importantly should) do it all. But also growing up and finding peace with yourself is darn hard for any human. Stop is a great idea. :)