You Don’t Need To Be A Project (Unless You Want To Be)
Show up for yourself. Or, ya know...don't.
You know when someone does something that immediately makes you feel stupid for not thinking of it? Well, that happened to me today at a coffee shop while I watched a person and their dog settle into a table. At first I was amused—the dog looked to be some sort of pittie mix with white fur, wearing a very fashionable, multi-colored sweater. And by the looks of it, it’d actually been a human sweater once upon a time.
From my spot against the back wall, I watched as the pair got comfy at the table in front of mine, facing the window.
Good view for the dog.
Smart.
This person seemed completely unhurried; but also, it kind of seemed like they were on a deliberate mission. They were focused, but nonchalant about it. After setting their bag down, and wrapping the dog’s leash around the feet of the table, they went to get a coffee. The dog surveyed the rest of us with a glance, but didn’t budge. When their owner returned, they took out their laptop and turned to hand a Kong stuffed with treats to the pup in the multicolored sweater.
I think my jaw actually fell open.
Damn...what a pro.
They were aware of their environment, but not like how I am... they showed up and confidently set their own conditions. Even though I tell myself I do that, too, I immediately recognized the difference: I show up ready to respond, and that’s not the same thing.
It was a hard realization to wrestle with. Especially since I’ve spent years working on it. Beyond just trying to be more aware, managing my neurodivergence and my mental health has involved medication on and off for over a decade now. At a routine doctor’s visit recently, I’d taken the opportunity to ask a question about all of this that’s been gnawing at me for a pretty long time—what would it be like to taper-off? Like, could I get to a point of no more meds at all?
My doctor looked at me with inquisitive eyes when I’d floated that idea into the space between us. Sitting against the wall in one of those blue plastic chairs, I’d wobbled my head left and right while considering what he’d asked me in return.
“I don’t really know” I’d told him.
His face broke into a subtle grin before continuing. “Well, you told me what the people in your life think... but I want to know what you think.”
It was a good question.
I’d managed to pull my eyes away from the framed photo of trees on the wall, but when I started to speak, I ended up coughing to clear my throat before I was actually able to say anything.
“I’ve been doing well for so long now, that sometimes...
*sigh*
...I worry it’s the meds and not me.”
At first, his eyes widened when I said that. Then he sat back to gather himself a bit before he leaned forward again and said “that’s not really how they work—at least, not the type you’ve been on.”
I perked up at that. But I quickly clarified, “I’m confident in my ability to self-regulate—you know, manage the moving parts of my life... What I guess I was wondering was whether the meds keep me in the middle too much? Like, from feeling too strongly or sliding too far toward either end of the spectrum—between joy and despair?”
He’d seemed more at ease by that point, unclasping his hands and leaning his elbow on that weird kitchen counter thing that exam rooms in doctor’s offices have. That actually felt pretty reassuring.
“Nope, not with your medication” he’d said again, smiling.
Wow, ok.
I felt myself nodding, more to myself than to him. After taking a deep breath, I looked up just as he started to speak. “Maybe we keep an eye on things and come back to it in the spring?”
I’d actually felt relieved when he said that.
I’m no stranger to self care, which means I know it’s most effective when there’s some discipline involved rather than just giving yourself a break all the time.
The difference always makes me think of a winter camping trip I went on in 2013. We were backcountry skiing in Wyoming’s Absaroka mountains, dragging sleds of camping gear behind us from hip harnesses. We’d mostly planned on building snowshelters to sleep in, but we brought tents as backups. Snow’s actually a great insulator, anyway. But the thing about that trip was that it didn’t get above 0°F for the entirety of an almost three-week adventure. It snowed non-stop and the wind whipped throughout. Also, I’d learn the hard way that I’d brought the wrong sleeping bag... one meant for much warmer weather.
I remember one night, I’d been wearing almost every piece of dry clothing I had, plus a buff and a beanie, but I still woke up with full-body shakes. Trying desperately to will myself back to sleep, I’d keep rolling over—you know, like you do when pretending you don’t have to get up to pee but you really, really, really do.
Eventually, I clicked on my headlamp and begrudgingly pulled on my shells and jacket. After forcing my feet into frozen boots, I’d crawled out of the snow ramp of our quigloo and shimmied on my stomach through the frozen snowbank above. I was shocked to find it wasn’t snowing. And in the middle of the night, still shivering, I did jumping-jacks under the wind-whipped stars to warm up. My breath instantly froze against my eyelashes in the negative temperatures, but it worked.
All to say: showing up for yourself isn’t always glamorous. It doesn’t look like or feel like it, either. But if you won’t, just know that nobody else will. And I don’t mean that in some platitude-laden, pick yourself up by your bootstraps way. You don’t need to be a project (unless you want to be). You can find plenty of things to fix if you look for them. And there’s a time and a place for that, sure… but the best stuff in life seems to come from maintaining a few very important things rather than from trying to fix everything you can find.
onward.
If you enjoy reading my writing, I publish short reflections like this each day as part of my daily column, Kickturn.
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Really solid reframe on self-maintanence versus constant optimization. The contrast btween showing up ready to respond and setting your own conditons is kinda brilliant, honestly. I've been guilty of treating every season like an opportunity for overhaul when what I probably needed was just to keep the basics solid. Maintenance doesnt sound sexy but it works.