It’s Ok To Be Just The Way You Are
I was scrolling aimlessly through Instagram. It was Saturday morning, the mid-point of Advent. An Ice Age was forming in my garden. It was impossible to step outside without risking a fracture. Like every other parent who begs for mercy in December as they collapse under the weight of concerts and fairs and recitals and hampers and gatherings which only involve non-alcoholic mulled wine, I was thrilled at the cancellation of all sporting fixtures, frozen pitches descending like manna from heaven. When her story popped up on my feed, I was somewhere between the fear and the fantasy of being stuck inside forever. As the temperature continued to plummet, I was stocking up on supplies, frantically adding books to my (insert name of well-known retailer) basket, wondering if we had any salt to make the driveway safe enough for the delivery drivers to bring them down to me.
She was jiggling a small baby on her hip, standing to camera, her face composed, her persona intact. She was apologising for her messy hair, her sleepless night, the disorganised chaos of her life. She was telling her audience of strangers how she was trying to complete her online HIIT routine, pausing it every few minutes to tend to the demands of a newborn who had no understanding of the size ten jeans taunting her, telling her she had a deadline to fit into them. She was going to make some changes. When her husband returned from the gym, they’d discuss these changes, make a list. Just under a year ago, I’d screenshotted her New Year goals ‘things we want to be better at in 2022’ - keep the house clutter free, healthier meals, schedule exercise, date nights, turn off the TV.
I knew it was futile. I was an expert on changes that never materialised. She was thirty-something me, gasping for air, wondering why frustration was stuck like bile in her throat. I’d made lists too - running on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, exotic fruit, less take-aways, dry January. I’d briefly implemented Sunday evening admin chats. Maybe if we synced diaries, we would be better parents. There was the blackboard wall we’d chalk each girl’s activities on to, only to recoil from it with horror. We needed three adults who didn’t work on Wednesdays. But no matter what I did, no matter which system I used, I couldn’t control the overwhelming sense that somehow things should be better than they were, that I should be better than I was. I couldn’t control time. So, I’d control my worktops instead, wipe them, wield my cloth. I’d count the Lego pieces, search relentlessly for missing part ID 4073. I’d fold when I got up in the morning, fold before I went to bed. I’d run at 7am in the dark. “It’s not you that needs to change,” I wanted to tell the lady on Instagram. “It’s a world that tells you, you should”.
The words ‘don’t go changing’ were running through my head. Billy Joel had written Just The Way You Are for his first wife. He’d given it to her as a birthday present. After they divorced in 1982, he refused to sing it. It felt like a curse. He was criticised for not giving her space to change, for saying that she should just be available for him to talk to, that she wasn’t allowed to make clever conversation. In a world that is obsessed with individualism, that tells us to be ourselves but constantly bombards us with ways to self-improve, who we are meant to be is always more than we already are. ‘Just the way you are’ comes with endless strings attached.
My personal trainer was proud of me again. Sometimes it’s good to be someone else’s project for a while rather than your own. It was something to do with kettlebells. “There’s a danger of over-training you,” she said. “You show no emotion”. She tells me to breathe. I wonder when I learned not to.
On my Instagram story, I posted a photo of the 670-page novel I was about to embark on. I was anxious that I looked smug, that having time to read labels me self-satisfied, self-indulgent, not busy. Someone had asked me how I am making a difference. But, I’m just not sure I want to anymore. I can’t decide if I’m lazy or normal. I only want to have time to do the things I enjoy. In 2023, I’d like to concentrate on breathing.
There was no sign of the ice melting. I clutched at my knowledge of the law of physics. If less foot touches the ground, it reduces the likelihood of slipping. “Your mummy makes things up,” said my husband. He’d taken the salt grinder and shaken it over the paving. I made it to the taxi at the gate. I saw a former colleague across the restaurant. “Do you remember we went to her evening do?” I said to my husband. He couldn’t recall anything about it. “I think I’d just had a baby,” I said. I remembered being upset about not fitting into something, feeling frumpy, useless. She’d got old. Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the lift mirror.
We shared a pint of Guinness¹ before the performance. I scanned the bar. No-one looked happy. I crave happy people, I want to know their secret. Maybe Handel’s Messiah was just another obligation on their festive calendar, a valid usage of their time. I scrolled my phone aimlessly again. An article popped up about a dying therapist². While watching her beloved counsellor die, the author had finally learned to live. Whilst observing her drag her oxygen tank behind her, the author’s panic attacks had subsided, she had started to breath freely. The therapist had written her rules for a good life. Number 4 was for me. “Develop your life to make use of your own unique talents and attributes even when the result is not what society values the most”. Develop, not change. Do what you value, not what the world does.
As we sat down in the auditorium, we decided we were experts. We’d been once before. We knew to stand for the Hallelujah Chorus, that it wasn’t the end, that there was more to come, a third part, the resurrection. I forgot for a while that I scroll Instagram aimlessly in my pyjamas, read books lounging on my sofa. The trumpets sounded. “We shall be changed” sang a very low male voice, a tenor or a bass and I realised sometimes, we just can’t do it by ourselves. And I don’t mean heavenly intervention, I mean human. Sometimes, we just need our husbands to give up their gym time so we can have ours. And sometimes we just have to live long enough to know that change rarely comes.
When we got home, it was late. I skidded to the front door. I broke my no television after 11pm rule, I ate carbs at midnight³. Billy Joel was in concert on the Old Grey Whistle Test. It was 1978. He was still singing Just The Way You Are⁴ without judgment. I wondered what it takes to believe that you are ok just the way you are. I’m still working that one out. It takes time. I’ll let you know how my breathing goes in 2023.
[1] I realise this sounds odd, there is no rationale for it.
[2] https://www.theguardian.com/society/2022/dec/10/lessons-from-my-dying-therapist-care-less-have-fun-accept-the-inevitable (external link)
[3] Joking!
[4] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GkuJJsApACc (external link)
