I was talking to Jesse last night, about something I can’t even remember, and I said something about how I didn’t feel like I had “it” together, and he responded with:

“Well what the heck is “it” anyways?”

I just sat there and moved my mouth for a few seconds unintelligently. I couldn’t even think of an answer.

Secret Expectations

I sat and pondered what “it” was for a while. Eventually I realized I had this whole set of secret expectations of myself, wherein once I met them, I would consider myself a successful woman.

This list consisted of a whole array of almost arbitrary criteria like:

- I had to be making at least $100 000 a year. At least.

- I am a domestic goddess. My house sparkles with cleanliness and dust could be found nowhere.

- I miraculously become a model. Or at least become perfectly model-gorgeous

- I have toned, wonderful abs

- My cellulite has mysteriously disappeared

- I suddenly can bake and cook and not make a complete mess

- Everything I do is graceful and elegant – no longer do I walk into walls without warning, or trip on air

- I handled everything with perfect ease; I always knew what to do and I never freaked out, cried, or got upset. I just dealt with everything.

- I have somehow managed to become very, very strong and can kick ass like Buffy. No more small and weak for me.

Without my knowing it, this has been the yardstick I’ve been subconsciously measuring myself against for the past few years.

And you know what? Fuck, I am sick of it.

I am never going to be Martha Stewart

This woman who I’m supposed to be kind of makes me think of a more formidable, more attractive version of Martha Stewart. Maybe minus the doilies though.

For one, I am never, ever going to be a domestic goddess. I have more interesting things to do than dust. Sure, I love to cook and bake but as creative pursuits and an opportunity to make a glorious mess than to one up the Joneses.

I just wanna make stuff. I keep my house clean, but not spit shined. I pick up after myself, do the dishes, wash the floors.

But is it the first thing thing I think of when I wake up? No. Sometimes I’m apt to forget that my laundry is in the dryer, or that I was going to wash the floor. Maybe an interesting creative idea caught my imagination, or a beloved friend called.

Maybe I’m successful just the way I am

I feel like this is a theme that I keep coming back to, from different levels and different angles. I mean, success is just a word, with multiple definitions. What if I redefined my meaning of success?

What if success was that I’m living on my own, 1800 km from where I grew up, when no one ever thought I could?

What if success was running my own business and making money from my art when no one ever thought I could?

What if success meant being able to get out of bed in the morning and shower and create, when I was supposed to be banished to a bedridden life of boredom?

What if success was being in a healthy, happy relationship and not an emotionally abusive one?

What if success is living in exactly the place I want to, just because it makes me happy?

What if success was just being me?

If my definition of success were all those things, then by that measuring stick, I’m a fabulous success.

It’s about nudging the pattern

Changing my definition of success won’t happen overnight. Lord knows I’ll probably still have moments of overwhelming insecurity where I’ll wonder if maybe I should focus on becoming domestic goddess instead of a creative careerist.

But then I can remind myself that that’s not actually my own definition of success – it’s someone else’s. And that I’m allowed to have my own definition of what makes me successful, and that I can follow my own path.