Begin Again
and again, and again.
There’s nothing quite like the flu to knock you sideways. A sick kid, a sick husband, a dog who keeps looking at us like we’ve betrayed her, and to be honest, we have. Her food forgotten in the freezer, walks abandoned due to weakness. Sometimes all you can do is survive. And yet, I dwell in guilt. I feel terrible about not doing my morning pages for days, after missing a day the other week after a 40+ day long streak. I feel bad for not tending to my creative projects – this practice! – to letting it all go, even for a week. I remind myself that I was working full-time while trying to take care of myself while trying to take care of a toddler who only wants to exist on my body. Picture me: trying to take meetings on Teams (the worst), my camera off, my child asleep on me, unable to unlatch them as my husband was able to rest. His body his own. Once again, I was reminded that he is allowed to move through life without being physically tethered to someone. And though he longs for more of a tether, I don’t think he knows the freedom that he has. The freedom to go upstairs and take a nap, for example. I envy his ability to nap freely, peacefully alone without someone calling, crying for him. It’s that push/pull between always wanting our child close and wanting to be able to step outside for fresh air without a fever induced panic of “Mummy, where are you?” that will forever send my heart into a tail spin.
I take pride in my ability to nurture, to tend to my family when ill, and yet, this guilt eats away at me. I am not my to-do list, I remind myself, but I also have an insatiable need to accomplish, and when I’m unable to accomplish what I want to, no matter how unrealistic it is, I ultimately feel like shit. I feel like this is mostly a female trait. We are, after all, told we are never enough and that mothering always takes a back burner to other accomplishments, by patriarchal design. I said to a friend over coffee the other day that we are expected to mother like we don’t have a job, and work like we don’t have kids. This week I didn’t hide the fact that I had a sick child at home. I made it very apparent that they (and me) were the priorities: we needed to get better. But yet, this feeling persists, nagging at me like my lingering cough. Can I be kind to myself, and speak to myself the way I would my own child? Can I celebrate mothering and working all week – focusing on what I did accomplish, instead of what I didn’t? Can I also be mad at the fact that I had to work all week because, as someone who is self-employed, I don’t get paid sick days?
To make peace with the anger, with the guilt, I remind myself that it’s okay to begin again. That for the second time in a few weeks, I will start at day one of my morning pages. That life isn’t all go-go-go. That liminal spaces exist for a reason. I remind myself that it is okay to reset. To take in the simple pleasures of being able to breathe without hacking up a lung, that having the energy to cook again feels fucking fantastic.
Looking back on the week, maybe I did accomplish a lot (and honestly, who gives a shit if I didn’t). I got through a work week with no days off. I nursed my child back to health. I was their safe space for the week, no small feat. I did not write my pages for several days, or send projects to interested parties or work on an essay other than this, but can I give myself that grace? Can I let go of this need to do and instead focus on being? On starting fresh, starting over and reminding myself that I am not what I do. I am not a laundry list of items that need to be checked off. Instead of tearing through a list, can I tackle it with more presence? Can I sit still for a minute?
I feel like this is one of my forever challenges. How to ground, while still keeping my eyes on the prize. But then I think of the things I’m teaching my kid. I don’t want them to hustle through life, never taking a minute to rest. I want them to make peace with the liminal space with a quiet ease that I’m still learning to cultivate. So maybe, instead of feeling like shit for all the forgotten promises that fell away last week, I’ll revel in the fact that we got through it, that I soaked in all the cuddles I could, and that I can begin again. And again. And again. As many times as necessary.