It’s 10:30 on Saturday morning. I’m at my office, lying on the hard floor, trying to sleep. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I’ve been up since 4:00 a.m. I start to doze for just a moment before tears begin pricking the inside of my eyelids, which then triumphantly morph into miniature rivulets down my cheeks.
Sleeping on the floor of my office is just one of my little secrets, and it’s not something I’m super proud of. I mean, who does that? Don’t real adults with good self-esteem just sleep in late and forego what they had planned for the day? We applaud and revere those wholly integrated, mindful people who just say no and put their own needs first, or, conversely, those hearty folks that just grab a large drip coffee and tough it out.
But catching winks on my office floor is hardly the worst of it. The real secret is living with shame. Not the oh-geez-I-should-be-twenty-pounds-thinner shame or this-year-I-should-file-my-taxes-on-time type of shame. It’s the persistent and insidious belief that I’m not good enough: not a thoughtful enough wife, a patient enough mother, or a smart enough lawyer. Heck, I’m even convinced that our rescue dog would be better trained (after three months) if I had more talent for dog training.
I’ve chastised myself, during various life phases, for not having a fancy house, organized closets, retire-without-a-care 401(k) balances, symmetrical facial features, or an emotionally-perfect mother-daughter relationship. And don’t even get me started about my perceived business management shortcomings.
The problem with shame is that you can’t enjoy success, shrouded as it is in the knowledge that someone else has achieved more with less effort, time, or expense. Accepting accolades is impossible because I’m convinced that if people really knew me, they’d pull back that congratulatory handshake and look awkwardly the other way.
But there’s one aspect of my life that carries absolutely no shame, and it might be the only one: exercise. I’m no imposter when it comes to getting outdoors and getting it done. I harbor no judgment about my level of fitness, and I’m proud, though not smug, about my commitment to exercise. Don’t get me wrong; I’m still a perfectionist, and I’m irritated as all get out that my half marathon time this year was five minutes slower than last year. But perfection is not my goal.
I’m simply grateful for being able to move through the world the way I want to, and I’m thankful that working out every day requires little discernable effort. Without a daily exercise habit, working out would be just one more thing to feel guilty and ashamed about. Who needs that? I still have plenty of other material: I never sent out Christmas thank you cards, I haven’t emailed elected officials to tell them what they are doing wrong, and last I checked, there’s too much dog hair in the back of my car.
But at least when I’m done with a run, I’ll be perfectly content. At least for a while!