I was sitting in my car, waiting to go in for my therapy, with thank you notes in my lap.  I always do this—bring work with me somewhere, for the scraps of time in between appointments.

Most tasks return home undone.  I perpetually overestimate how much I can do.  It is a dilemma I put myself in often, and something I try to untangle most days.

So I have this beautiful card in my hand.  It’s a dreamy watercolor, with autumn leaves resting on the surface of a bluegreen pool.  A peaceful image.

I’m admiring it.  And then the hunger pangs start.

I’ve been awake since 6 am.  It’s nearly 9, and I haven’t eaten.

I’m sitting in my car, and I start therapy.  On myself.  It goes like this:

I am waiting to shell out $140 for a 50 minute hour wherein I explore how not to practice self-neglect like it’s some kind of Olympic sport, and my belly will be rumbling the whole time.

If I wait to eat, I’m missing the point.

I’ve managed somehow to bring with me a book on people-pleasing, some coffee to propel me through my morning, and these damned thank you notes to offer kindnesses to others—and I’ve forgotten breakfast for myself.

I am missing me.  I am missing the point. of. my. own. life.

Thank you notes be damned

And who are the thank you notes for, anyway?

They’re thanking other women in my life for the work they have done to help me nurture myself—childcare, holding space for healing. 

I want to make their work visible, I want to acknowledge their contributions—with money, with words, with gratitude.

I am writing them with a true sense of thanks, not out of obligation.  So there’s that, at least.

I think of what these women would say, if they could see me.

“Eat first,” they would say.

“It’s fine,” they would say.

These women want to fill me up.  They are wise women, mothers of grown children, who intimately understand the exhaustion that seems part and parcel of womanhood and motherhood.

And there’s no point in sitting through an hour of therapy while hungry.  It defeats the entire purpose.  And if I’m late?  It’s my time anyways—let me use it well.

And so I did.

The banana enters stage left

And so I drove to Trader Joes and bought myself a banana.  For 19 cents.

It was the strangest, cheapest transaction I’ve ever made there.

I felt the need to apologize to the cashier, me and my lone banana.  (There’s more of my stuff coming through.)

And then I sat in my car, and I ate the damn banana, and I wrote you this story.

This is what self-care looks like in my life.

It’s realizing when I’ve left myself behind.  It’s choosing my belly over the thank-you notes.

It’s realizing that when I finally do sit down to write the notes, with a full belly, they will be written with love.  They will not be work, a chore to be done.

If I slow down so I can better respond to my own needs, that is a radical act.

Things conspire in ways I do not even fully understand to speed me along.  Some of it is history, some of it is culture, some of it has dark roots I cannot see—all of it is unconscious.

Let me make it conscious.  And let me remember to pack a banana next time.

*Gratitude to Audre Lorde for her pioneering work in feminism, civil rights, and the importance of self-care.

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As always, knowing which changes to make isn’t the hardest part of change.  It’s actually doing it, and sustaining those changes over time, in spite of the resistance and backlash that may come.  (See above, har har.)

Helping people-pleasers is what I do!  So, if you’re in Austin, Texas, and you’re looking for a counselor who helps with people-pleasing, drop me a line.  I offer free, half hour consultations in person at the office, and I’d be glad to set one up for you.