TW: pregnancy
Hey, hi, hello.
Sitting here writing to you from the beginning of the final third of this marathon that I’m in. (Pregnancy, that is.) I have found that being in this season of life has brought out both the best and the worst of me. Maybe mostly the worst, if I’m being honest.
I’m not nesting or folding teeny baby clothes while listening to classical music or whatever you usually see on social media. In fact, the most challenging part of this experience for me has probably been my brain.
Pregnancy has highlighted my relentless need for perfection when it comes to anything I am doing or that I’m responsible for — a part of myself I really thought I’d reformed in the last few years. ‘Recovering perfectionist’ I have been saying to anyone who will listen to for the last few years. Joke’s on me. I’ve discovered this with the ungodly amount of time I ended up spending trying to find the *perfect* baby crib (really, hours of my life I’ll never get back, only to learn there are complaints and imperfections about every single model possibly ever made, and also, they all do the same thing). This has extended to other baby products that I previously could not have cared less about, and trust me, I know how ridiculous it is. (A recliner is just a recliner, no?) I know where this perfectionist tendency comes from, so it’s not a big mystery I need to sniff out. An urge to control what you can, when you can. As if finding the most perfect crib would mean that this kiddo I’m 3-d printing will for sure always be safe, always be okay, that she’ll be healthy and fine in all the ways my parents didn’t get the luxury of assuming about me. That she’ll make it to the finish line and beyond, that my worries before she even arrives are unfounded, even though there are no guarantees in life.
I’ve also long-held an irrational belief that I can do *all the things,* as if the parameters of time or, you know, energy, do not exist. I don’t know if anyone else is like this, but my time management for things with deadlines (work assignments, etc.) is excellent…. but my time management when it comes to what I can realistically accomplish in a day in my life generally? Please. It’s probably the part I enjoy least about myself during all of the seasons. On the one hand, I appreciate my internal optimism and ambition, but on the other, I hate that it inevitably causes me to rush from one thing to another or be late to meet a friend because I got so caught up trying to “quickly” cross off another item on my to-do list that I thought I could take care of in the few minutes I had before needing to leave for my next thing. “Plenty of time,” I will tell myself, every time. It’s not — it never is. My husband likes to say that I imagine that I can just transport magically from one thing to the next, as if driving commutes or traffic don’t apply to me or my scheduling. (They do. He’s right.) And in this specific life season, it’s just heightened, because I have more to do, more to keep track of.
I had a doctor appointment yesterday and I was nearly 30 minutes early. (Who is she?) And you know what? Instead of being proud of that, I was annoyed. Extremely unpopular opinion, but I sort of hate being very early to things, because it means I missed out squeezing in at least one other thing that I needed to drop from my unending to do list. Even though I know the value and importance of being early, not keeping people waiting (and I do hate to make people wait!), etc. etc.
And hey, while I’m running through this laundry list of less desirable trait that have raised their hands to join the party lately, here’s maybe most toxic of all (to me): how much more upset I seem to get with myself when I, inevitably, can’t meet my own expectations these days. Can’t live up to my own standards. I should be faster! I should be more efficient! I should be more productive!
Turns out I actually cannot fit in everything I want to do every single day. Turns out I’m only human, and that even though I know people who can, daily, work on that manuscript for a book they’re writing and maintain a full-time job and keep an immaculate house and do more than just eat a bagel for lunch and keep up with the appointments and errands and being super present for their loved ones and, and, and, and…. I can’t. I’m not. But I’m still trying, frustrating myself in the process, and I’m still getting unreasonably angry at myself for then failing. Or not even failing — just being unable to live up to this vision I hold of myself. Of what I think I should or shouldn’t be able to achieve, in my days, in my months, in my life. For not being as productive as I believe I should or could be.
When I was younger, I had a fair amount of negative self-talk. I was really, really hard on myself (and if you’re guessing this connects back to the perfectionism pursuit, you’d be correct), and in my 20s, I would beat myself up about not doing something correctly. I still remember my mom’s pleas for me to be nicer to myself. To be less unforgiving. To extend the same amount of grace to myself as I extend to others. If you’ve ever been in a similar boat, then you know this is easier said than done. But I tried, and I adopted this mindset of grace over perfection, and for the most part, I was able to kick that bad habit to the curb and contain more compassion for myself. Somehow pregnancy has erased some of that good work I had done, though, and almost lit a fire under it. Like I don’t have time to be patient with myself, or kind. I have one of those kit-cat clocks watching me, reminding me how much time I have left before — as all the baby books and mom-fluencers like to proclaim — my entire life changes. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t, but either way, I do feel like I have a deadline looming in front of me, and too much I want to get to before then. Versions of myself that I thought I’d already be or could at least start to pull on before then. But maybe not. Maybe I can’t, or won’t, and maybe that’s okay. Either way, being a jerk to myself isn’t helping, and it’s certainly not what I want to pass on to anyone else who will eventually be watching my every move.
Whew.
If you’re like “yikes, put the mirror down,” I’m sharing all this because in case you thought pregnancy was all floral blankets and and bump glamour shots or something, I assure you it’s not. Maybe it is for some people, but I’ve found it to be a bit more complicated than that (with plenty of other shadow sides to it that others have likely experienced but that I can’t speak to). That’s even for someone having a genuinely fine (dare I even say enjoyable?) overall experience. And there’s a lot of privilege in that alone, for sure.
Also... this entire post reminds me of this song. Never take advice from someone who’s falling apart, you know? Granted I’m not falling apart, but I never said I wasn’t a bit of a mess. We all are.
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Thanks for being here, friends! This was a bit of a word/feelings dump but if anyone can relate… then I’ll be glad I hit publish.
If you’re looking for something to listen to, I really enjoyed this podcast episode (the guest quotes my fav movie), and really that podcast overall has been a fun find of late. I also have been obsessed with this new Olivia Rodrigo song (and her recent collab on stage with my #1 fav Noah Kahan at a show in New York City over the weekend), and this one from Miley that’s admittedly a bit older. I’m late to the party, what can I say. 💛
Okay, enough from me! Have a wonderful day!
Thanks for reading,
Joelle
p.s. I have said this will not become a pregnancy/motherhood newsletter, and I meant it. But I do often write about what’s top of my mind or on my heart, so that is how we landed here today…thank you for your understanding.