Last year, when things got desperate,
I had the privilege of meeting with a psychologist.
I recommend a good round of therapy to everyone.
My counselor was a gift God gave me during a dark time.
The first day we sat down, I was nervous.
I had insomnia. I was depressed. I was praying she had answers.
She asked me what filled my days
and what it was that made me feel overwhelmed.
We chatted for a while. And then she said this,
"What other than being a mom to a 5 year old, 3 year old, and
4 month old, a wife to Scott, trying to start a new church, taking
care of your family, not having time to write, not sleeping,
and surviving in the bay area financially, could be worrying you?"
"I think you are dealing with some very unrealistic expectations,"
And with those words...something shifted, something hard broke in me,
and I began to cry.
And she began to frame some realistic expectations for me.
A good night's sleep. A date, sans kids, with Scott.
An unkempt house but 3 happy boys. An hour a week to write.
She brought me down
from the high unhappy unreachable clouds of perfectionism
and showed me what my day could look like.
And the healing began. I'm still healing I think.
I still start my mornings with visions of grandeur.
Clean bathrooms. Mornings spent writing. My to-do-list complete.
Sometimes I despair. Vent. Yell at Legos that pierce my heels.
But I am trying to enjoy the small snatches of goodness in my day.
Chats on the phone with my sisters. A book read with Addie.
A flower planted. A moment to set in the yard and read a good mystery.
And in those moments....it almost feels perfect.