If asked to describe myself in recent years, one word would dominate: Tired.
I felt weary, a faded version of myself. Like a sweater washed too often, my bright colors leeched out and sucked down the pipes.
I felt unbalanced and out of synch. The lone bass in a choir of sopranos.
My life was one of self-imposed discipline. If I were not “producing”, not creating measurable “outputs”, I was not worthwhile. Whispering in my eaves was my lifelong critic, my not good enough voice. The voice that prods me to prove my worth. To accomplish. I consequently laboured to perform and achieve. Output was a paycheck, a clean house, exercised pets, a busy, organized life, pretty things. Praise: Look at all the things Tracy can do!
My internal voice declared that I must TICK ALL THE boxes:
Have a career
Excel at motherhood
Keep a meticulous, fashionable house
Landscape a glorious garden
Be a stellar cook
Be well read
Have a busy social life
Maintain a fairy tale marriage
Stay fit and attractive
I’ve decided that for me, “productive” is a dangerous word. My sense of worth is tangled, like knotty hair, with how productive I am. To be valuable means I must generate something quantifiable, readily visible to myself and others. To boot, productivity feeds me. When I achieve a concrete result, I get a rush, a momentary pride. It is a fix, an addict’s high, this compulsion to achieve, to succeed. I need the triumphant burst through the finish line.
However, as I approached 50, my pace slowed. As this foot-drag coincided with the advent of a global pandemic, I considered it a natural consequence of the fear and exhaustion covid wrought. Yet as pandemic hypervigilance subsided, here I was, still tired. Less motivated. I pushed myself more, to accomplish less.
I have long believed that the universe provides what the soul needs. Be it in the form of challenges, opportunities for growth, or a signal to change, learn, or shift. I also feel that it will provide the exact same lesson many times over. Until the lesson is mastered. Perhaps my fatigue was a message from the universe? The lesson: Slow down. Stop rushing about. Open space.
Was it possible to alter my view of productivity? Could my measure of success encompass more than the tangible? Was the universe pointing me in another direction? Away from people pleasing. Away from contorting myself into the wrong version of how I should be in this world?
What if this exhaustion was Wisdom?
I had spent the first half of my life trying to keep up. Impress the masses. Prove my worth. I portrayed myself as an overachiever. And I came to believe that version of me was the only version of me.
What if the universe intended I open space for another version? That I listen to the wisdom of my body? My tired, weary body…
So, I shifted my focus. From the tangible to the subtle.
Measurable output now includes:
Tea on a sunlit deck.
Writing until my thumb aches.
A podcast that causes me to question my place, my role, the bees, everything…
Books that take me. Just take me.
A husband that feels heard and valued.
Comfortable long skirts that make me feel romantic and girly. Rather than skinny pants
that tug and pull.
Undone hair. Cowlick riding high.
Long moments with my nose buried in Mauzy’s fur.
Delicious meals that I cook slowly without a timeline. But with wine.
Tumbleweeds of Elsie's hair in the corners.
Long walks on winding trails.
Being a friend to my daughter.
Happy Hours with dear friends.
Birds in the feeder.
A family that feels loved and welcomed into my home.
A deep breath.
Dancing in the kitchen.
Reaching the floor in Trikonasana.
Peace In My Soul.
In my dread of becoming a fifty year old, I overlooked the possibility of it bringing gifts. Blessings. Now at fifty, I feel softer. Wiser. Less inclined to impress and more driven to authenticity. Truth in all things. I return often to the soul food of my youth, when writing, reading, learning…solitary pursuits, filled my soul. These are the things that sustain me, that establish me firmly within myself.
Am I still tired? Yes! After all, I AM fifty!
But I am no longer weary in my depths. I am happier. There is added ease in my day, increased bounce in my step. I feel a truer version of myself. I feel authentic. I feel more joy. More importantly, I expect joy. Let me tell you, expectant is a divine way to feel.
I think I am more patient, kinder and more open to receive happiness. For like oxygen, happiness resides all around us. It awaits us to create space for it.
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