This morning, I walked out of my house without making my bed or running the vacuum cleaner. These were chores I used to insist on completing before starting my day. I would even risk being late to an appointment if it meant the crumbs on the carpet weren’t taken care of. A tidy, organized home was my measure of success; I believed it made me a better person. But in truth, it only made me anxious and irritable.
I used to clean my kids’ rooms for them, dust regularly, and never let more than four weeks pass without coloring my hair to hide those pesky roots. My shower was immaculate, and I always lit a candle to create a welcoming atmosphere for any unexpected visitors. Even during the holidays, I meticulously wrapped each Christmas gift, coordinating tags, ribbons, and bells with the same care I used while swaddling my newborns.
But after nearly 15 years of striving for this illusion of perfection, I realized it was taking a toll on my mental health. I thought that as a stay-at-home mom, it was my responsibility to be not just clean and organized, but flawless. I felt compelled to always look presentable, juggle countless appointments, and ensure my home sparkled. With no excuse to skip a home-cooked meal, store-bought snacks were simply out of the question. I believed I had to be the ultimate mom, and the pressure was suffocating.
I was so tightly wound that I could have turned coal into diamonds. My shoulders were perpetually tense, and my jaw clenched so hard that I developed defined jaw muscles. I was terrified of what others might think if they saw me in sweatpants surrounded by laundry piles. While I could claim ignorance about my fixation, I knew precisely why I cared: I wanted to be perceived as a woman who had her life together.
But the truth is, no one was focused on me or my home. People are more concerned with their own lives than with critiquing others. If they compared themselves to my seemingly perfect life, it only made them feel inadequate. My relentless pursuit of perfection was, ultimately, fruitless.
I could tell you that after my divorce, I suddenly recognized I couldn’t maintain this charade anymore, and the exhaustion of trying to be a perfect single parent forced me to stop. But that would be misleading. I had been drained for so long that perfectionism had become second nature. I could have continued indefinitely.
What really shifted was my newfound sense of self-worth. I began to embrace the messy, authentic version of myself. The dust on the baseboards became insignificant, and I prioritized self-care over domestic perfection. I stopped feeling anxious about an unkempt fridge or a disorganized pantry. I was no longer hiding behind a mask of perfection; I felt liberated.
In the aftermath of my divorce, I realized that a clean house or homemade cookies don’t define my character. I delved deeper into understanding myself, and I found joy in being true to who I am. I’m a great mother, I’ve ended a relationship that no longer served me, and I have nothing to prove to anyone. After all, people appreciate authenticity far more than spotless homes or perfectly manicured nails.
Now, as I sit here writing this, I’m waiting for a friend to join me for lunch, sporting gray streaks in my hair. Instead of preparing homemade treats for my kids’ class party, I’ll buy something, and when I get home, my bed will likely remain unmade, and the vacuuming will wait. And you know what? I am gloriously happy.
Summary
My divorce has taught me to let go of the unrealistic standards of perfection I once clung to. Instead of striving for an immaculate home and flawless appearance, I now embrace my authentic self. Life is too short to worry about crumbs or unmade beds when there are more fulfilling pursuits to focus on.
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