It’s been so long I almost forgot my password to this thing.
. . .
I’ve been working my derrière off the past year.
And rather than apologize for it or write that off as an excuse for why I’ve been neglecting this digital space of mine (which costs a pretty penny, by the way), I’m skipping the broken record of excuses. I haven’t felt inspired lately—because I spend every waking moment working or assisting Kevin in class/rehearsal. I’ve been feeling too exhausted to write—because all my brainpower is spent creating at work, for work.
There’s two sides to it. The pro? I’m good at my job. I feel accomplished. Striving for success—perfection—is part of my DNA as the firstborn of Taiwanese immigrants. The con? It’s driven by fear of failure, of being found as an imposter. Workaholism becomes an addiction, and excelling supersedes all else. Prior commitments, personal life, health. All for career growth and opportunities, of course—but will it be worth it?
If you follow me on Instagram, you’ll know exactly what I’ve been working towards the last few months (more on that later). Hindsight is 20/20, so it’s only now that I can say with full confidence that every late night, breakout, and stress-induced binge was not in vain. Eleven day ago, I wasn’t so sure. Because as a sane, rational person, I know there’s no such thing as having it all. But knowing that and understanding it are two different things, and I’m tired of those who preach the importance of leaning in. There’s a way to achieve balance, sure—but to have everything is to give up something, somewhere, somehow. I’m not afraid of sacrifice. I’m not shy about putting my career first. But I’m coming to terms with the idea that not having it all (and having the under-eye bags to prove it) is okay.
As long as you’re able to find balance again.
I may sleep two hours a night, forget to drink water throughout the day, and work through lunch and dinner until I’m starved at 11pm and order horrible takeout, but I seek solace in the tiniest, finest semblances of self-care. Masking once a week is imperative. Makeup removal becomes a ritual. Feeling immense guilt at 4am about dehydrating my body ensues in replenishing my system with at least one liter of water. I buy bougie kombucha at least once a week. I’ve never burnt through my Diptyques faster. Nor have I been so quick to remove myself from negative people, spaces, surroundings.
Self-care is survival. It’s brushing your hair, remembering to take your birth control, and dry brushing before every shower no matter how exhausted you are. It’s recognizing the imbalance and striving towards homeostasis, all while acknowledging every victory, no matter how small.
And most important of all, living, learning, and loving in your solitude.
. . .