It’s been a week.

I don’t have a cool photo of latte foam art in a mug at some cute corner cafe, so my Starbucks South Dakota mug from the trip with my parents out to Colorado in 2019 will just have to suffice. Run-on sentence much? It’s Saturday, cut me a little slack.

This past week has left me with a stomach knot and bad taste in my mouth, though the last several weeks have been very interesting. I’ve been trying to do… more. In general. Trying to be more intentional, spend my time more meaningfully, find the ways in which I can consistently lift myself up.

I have been working hard (I think) at writing, networking, dreaming up ideas and trying to move them, collaborating, reading, meditating, volunteering. I’ve felt busy and exhausted but also in a constant state of Am I doing enough?

The answer is likely yes. But I’ve been battling myself internally, waffling between if a) my depression and anxiety are hindering me; b) if they’re not, but I’m using them as a crutch/excuse/scapegoat to be lazy/unproductive/procrastinate; or c) if neither are true and I’m doing fine/enough/more than enough. And, pro tip: Don’t just expect your therapist to be able to tell you which answer is correct. It’s not that easy.

I don’t remember when I became so self-critical. That’s a hard timeline to pinpoint. I’ve also always thought myself immune to Imposter Syndrome (laughs, loudly) and feel like in recent years I’ve developed this need for setting a billion and one goals and then defaulting to staring blankly into space like someone just sneezed on me, like What the fuck just happened?

But weeks like this past one, where I make mistakes, get confronted directly for those mistakes, and suffer their immediate (and not-so-immediate) consequences really seem to knock me 10 rungs back down my own ladder. And it’s like, I fucking built that ladder. I sanded it down and put a nice stain on it and climbed it with such care and confidence. And here I am, back at the bottom, and the ladder is somehow laughing at me.

Then, of course, my brain absolutely spirals into oblivion, with all this childhood trauma resurfacing and compulsive overthinking and all I can think, in moments of clarity like I’m lucky to have currently, is holy shit, get a grip.

Oh, hello, self-criticism. Glad you’re back in the chat.

Anyway, I’m not sure there’s a concise point I’m trying to make in this post. But here’s what I can deduce:
– Mental health is always an important conversation that should remain infinitely ongoing, especially regarding how it affects achieving goals, big or small;
-No one, including me, is immune to anything. This includes fucking up and Imposter Syndrome but also things like good karma and luck;
-Getting knocked down is just part of the whole ride. Maybe instead of looking at it as my ladder, I can see it like I’m one of the Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots. Those fuckers always get back up—they’re built for it. Maybe, just maybe, I am too.