Enough is enough.
When I was a kid, I learned quickly that in order to be seen and heard, I had to tap dance to the right tune. If I got the answer right, brokered the peace, said yes, cleaned my room, kept up my grades, and wore a smile on my face, all was grand. Any sort of stubborn resistance or rebellion, in my case marked by an eye roll, yielded me a splotchy, tear-stained face that took hours to clear. A strong Calvinist work ethic, installed early on, further bent me into compliance. And so, in school I raised my hand the highest (and often the loudest) and followed the rules.
It worked. I became a productive member of society. In school I never excelled as much as I remained in everyone’s good graces, placating my Father and whatever powers ruled my world at the moment.
My take-away was that the world demanded hard work and constant striving, and that lining your shoes up at the front door was instrumental to peace and harmony. Success, at first measured by a tangible treat, was later replaced with the elusive but tantalizing bounty of money, attention, and fame, all achieved through laser focus and obsessive dedication. In other words, I was set up for failure at an early age. No matter how much effort I put in, it was never enough.
But nevertheless, I persevered, always staying one step ahead, anticipating, striving, and putting in the effort. Unfortunately, any dollop of success (landing a new job, a promotion, completion of a complex project) felt shrouded, eclipsed by all I hadn’t yet achieved. Along the way, I managed to take a few risks, starting side hustles that fed my soul. I’ve produced greeting cards, made handmade handbags, designed a series of public service posters, and started a line of clothing. Despite my effort and creativity, they all failed to achieve critical mass, compounding my shame, leading me to believe I just wasn’t good, creative, or diligent enough. No one explained that there are other factors involved like luck, timing, and support.
In early 2013, when I relinquished an innovative retail business that I’d built over eight years, I was crushed. I’d worked so hard, went all in, even quitting my job, and had a vision that I believed was unshakable. I was so attached to the outcome, a singular notion of success that had been fiercely installed in me, that I couldn’t see the forest through the trees. It took me a decade to get over the failure, the loss of my dream. I couldn’t see the dozens of independent designers I’d supported over the years, the lifelong friendships I built, the community I nurtured, and all the wisdom and experience I’d gained along the way. It’s hard to feel successful or accept failure as the due process of life when all you can focus on is a single end goal.
It took a seismic shift in my life to see this merry go round in all its futility. The chronic disappointment, clinging like plastic wrap, was suffocating me. At first, I performed a brutal post-mortem on all my projects. Was I holding back, starving them of oxygen simply because I feared rejection? Was my talent lacking? Was I a terrible entrepreneur? I shared my conundrum with close friends who were astonished. You’re fearless, and capable, and able to create so effortlessly. You should be proud of all you’ve accomplished! I wondered. Where did my stinging self-judgment come from? Who had set the standards that I clung to so fiercely? Why was the journey itself, the experience of trying, learning, growing, enjoying and sharing, not enough? My focus had become so wrapped up in the achievement itself that it crowded out everything else. I see now how early that was formed, how etched the rigorous standards of my childhood were in my being. It’s been hard to relinquish but bit by bit I worry less about the outcome and more about what feels right in the moment. Now and then I slip into the familiar veil of shame, but I tell myself enough is enough.