SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY, someone told us we weren’t good enough. We weren’t pretty enough, creative enough, crafty enough, or dedicated enough. Social media feeds, blogs, magazines, and other people began to set the standard for us. And they set it high—unreachably high. We mashed together other people’s highlights and best moments and created this standard of perfection we’re all after. Once I reach it, we tell ourselves, I’ll be good enough. I’ll be a good mom, a good friend, a good spouse, a good professional.
Birthday parties are now judged by Pinterest-worthiness—that picture-perfect quality that people swoon over online. Dress sizes are measures of our physical worth—the smaller, the better. And busyness? Well, that’s just the norm. We run on adrenaline and lattes. If we’re not busy, then we’re not measuring up. At least that’s what we’ve told ourselves. And although the chase may earn us “likes” and immaculate Instagram photos, it also leaves us feeling empty, alone, and just plain not good enough. So we try to do it all: we answer e-mails and push baby swings. We text and drive. We overload, overcommit, overwork, and end up overwhelmed.
Without realizing it, many of us have decided to let the world tell us what the “good life” looks like. And, sister, this isn’t it. The perfectly constructed, magazine-worthy life does not equal happiness. Happiness isn’t found in the prettiest Instagram feed or in a large number of Facebook friends. True joy isn’t found in having it all together. The good life is rich, slow, real, and flawed.
Forget what the world is telling you. You don’t have to constantly strive to be more. You are enough. You deserve simple, slow, and sweet. You are worthy of happiness. You deserve silly, extravagant joy, belly laughs, and rich memories worthy of being slowly retold in rocking chairs on front porches. This is attainable—where you are, as you are, with what you have right now. And together, through the next few chapters, we’re going to talk through simple, practical ways to attain this.
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON, and traffic in Tampa was disastrous. I was racing home to get ready for date night after a big day at work. Hours before, I had nervously and triumphantly handed in my two weeks notice. It was official: I was leaving the corporate world to dive headfirst into the fledgling design business I’d nurtured in the wee hours for the previous two years. It was finally time to devote my attention to the endeavor that had stolen my heart and ignited my passions: designing meaningful paper goods for life’s most special moments. Though I was eager to get home to celebrate, I spied a drugstore ahead and turned in to the parking lot. Twizzlers suddenly sounded like a great idea.
This might be where all you mamas giggle and remember the first telltale sign of your pregnancy. Gracious. I should have known something was up! I’m normally a gummy bear girl.
I pulled into my driveway a few minutes later. The Twizzlers were long gone, but a pregnancy test was tucked away in my purse. Without much thought, I tossed my purse on the counter and took the test to the bathroom. I wanted to be sure I could safely enjoy a glass of celebratory champagne that evening. I had learned after months of disappointment not to put too much thought into those tests. Too much thought always equaled too much heartache.
I saw the ink begin to appear and impatiently set it aside. For such a small thing, that test packed a pretty big punch. It scratched at a very raw, painful spot in my heart that I desperately wanted to ignore on that happy day. Our years-long road of infertility had been paved with more bumps and potholes than we ever thought we’d face, and I wanted nothing more than to be a mama. Remembering that I’d purchased an unfamiliar drugstore brand, I picked the box up to read the instructions one more time.
Confused and suddenly breathless, I laid the test, the instructions, and the box next to my bathroom sink. I held the test next to the diagram on the crumpled paper and, in an instant, felt my heart begin to race and my breath leave my chest. I looked around the empty room, desperate for someone to run to, to scream with. Memories of pill bottles, doctor appointments, and infertility procedures flooded my head as tears gathered in my eyes. I heard Bryan’s truck pull into the driveway as the tears fell down my cheeks. Though I’d scoured Pinterest for months for the perfect, photo-worthy way to tell him he’d be a daddy, I ran to him—a red-faced, tear-stained mess—and blurted it all out. “I don’t . . . this thing . . . the Twizzlers . . .” I caught my breath through a beautiful, ugly cry. “A baby. I’m pregnant.” It was perfect
Becoming a mama on February 16, 2011, was the most pivotal experience of my life. My heart suddenly existed outside my body in this chubby little ball of all that is good in the world. Every emotion seemed heightened. Food tasted sweeter. Tiredness was now exhaustion. Love was a totally new feeling.
“I love him so much it physically hurts,” I tearfully confessed to my own mom as she folded a tiny blue onesie and put it in Brady’s dresser.
She paused and smiled. “That never changes.”
These new emotions were confusing and overwhelming. I loved Brady with a new part of my heart—with feelings I’d never experienced before. I loved him with an all-encompassing love that I wondered if he’d ever understand.
I tried for a long time to be the Pinterest-worthy girl with the Pinterest-worthy home and the Pinterest-worthy marriage and the Pinterest-worthy child. I wanted the world to know my life was pretty effortless and I had it all together. I wanted to be the girl people pointed out on Facebook and said, “Did you see that super-cute, over-the-top thing she did for her kid’s birthday?” To me, that translated to, “Did you see how much she loves her child?” Sweet validation! I’m doing a good job! I’d think. I must be—people I don’t know very well approve of and admire me.
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