I knew this would happen because it’s something that is classically Brooke. I’m the queen of biting off more than I can chew and then allowing one minor setback derail my game. This is something I’ve never wanted anyone to know, though.
Have you ever been there? You know, that place where you’re coasting and working hard, then something happens and you hit a downward spiral?
I mean, forget the blogging in this case (or lack thereof). I’ll give you another example.
This weekend I was talking to my best gal pal about working out. We both have a peloton and were discussing the various classes and how we manage our time in order to hop on the luxurious and fancy bike that is in our respective homes.
We both confessed to each other that we have streaks of being really good about maintaining a workout regimen, only to fall victim to the “mental health day” excuse or “that time of month” excuse or whatever the hell else excuse comes our way.
Then ultimately, that one day becomes two days and then three. You get derailed. It’s a vicious cycle. In the case of working out, allow me to throw in my impassioned stubbornness which really translates to the well known adage, “You are your own worst enemy.”
Well, let me tell you what happened with the whole blogging thing.
This effort is a labor of love. I have no ambition attached to it other than I love to share things I love with people who may love the same things, too. I wear my heart on my sleeve. If I do anything, I bare my heart out there for anyone and everyone for the beating.
A personal ambition, unrelated to blogging, but nevertheless attached to my happiness, it to lose this FREAKING (I used PG-13 words now) pregnancy weight. It’s a beach.
My husband and I planned this elaborate baptism celebration for our son, who was baptized in to the Catholic faith by the Monsignor of our parish here in Atlanta, who held our hand during our wedding preparation and who is a friendly presence in our lives.
I intended to share all of this on the blog. I hired a friend of ours who is an extremely talented photographer. I had this dress picked out (purchased) BEFORE Pierce was born. It fit, it zipped, it did all it was supposed to do.
But the photos came back and I realized I somehow hadn’t done all that I was supposed to do. Let’s just say I didn’t look great. It was a rough day (we have those once a month guaranteed), it was hot as crap and I was wearing white. I was stressed by the orchestration of the event, the walking and my sudden inability to walk in Jimmy Choos.
Those photos debilitated me mentally. It wasn’t the photos themselves. They had beautiful composition. It was ME. I had decomposed.
For someone who thrives on being composed and put together, a perfectionist of sorts, this was depressing. I spent about a month sulking. I felt like no matter how little I ate, how often I worked out, how much time and effort I out into my hair, skin and nails, I felt like I looked like poop. I wasn’t kind to myself.
I’ve always been this way. As a daughter of the Italian-American heritage, the Godfather naturally dictates how I view nearly all life situations. Something about, “A friend should always underestimate your virtues and an enemy overestimate your faults.”
The way I felt was my own fault. At first, I didn’t want anyone to realize how I felt. How I let this one event derail me.
That attitude slowly grew to a strength. People who love me see the mom I am to Pierce, the wife I am to Houston. They see that I am earnestly trying to be the best everything that I can be. I could work harder at it. I could be thinner like I was when we started dating. Perhaps it’s mandatory for a wife to be these days.
I will still strive to be a healthy example to my child.
Those who look at my blog, or my life, or the parts of it that I share and think very little will think those things no matter what I do.
The best thing I could do with regard to any of these audiences is to be honest. I don’t wish to paint a picture that perfect. No great masterpiece is perfect.
And I could be better at other things. I could be kinder to myself. I could pray more and ask for peace. I could write more.
So thank you for reading and thank you for being patient. It is most kind of you.