11.16.23 - Me and the devil on my shoulder got beef
I didn't make it to the gym today and it's all her fault.
You see, the thing is with discipline — I have very little. Not with everything, but with the things that matter. You know, physical health, mental health, self-care. I’m very well-intentioned! I can put together a great action plan, I can execute with precision for a wee bit, and then, at some point, that devil bitch on my shoulder gets to yapping and she and I are knee deep in a BBQ bacon cheeseburger by sundown.
I’m very much a go-getter or “a goal-oriented person,” as described by my college essay. I start off every year, selecting a ‘word of the year’ — an intention set to guide me through the treachery. And every year is gonna be the year. I was that girl in January sashaying into the gym chock full of good intentions. This year, I also started crocheting again — a hobby to help limit screen time. I started doing yoga, with the very ambitious goal of doing a back bend and a split by December 31. My sister and I pledged we’d learn to cook more Jamaican dishes, becoming the queens of curry goat and jerk. As the end of Q4 is upon us, let’s just say, I still haven’t finished my blanket, my hamstrings are tight as fuck, and my oxtail is not bussin.
To be well-intentioned but to have no follow-through is a weird flex. The starting and stopping. The ebs and flows of commitment. In my world, every day, several times a day, I’m in battle with myself. The battle of what to eat, to workout or nah, to scroll on my phone or read a book, to smoke or not to smoke. The day is punctuated with a series of decisions often divided in my brain by good and evil, right and wrong, the best choice and the wrong choice. More times than not, in these game time decisions, the devil on my shoulder is quite loud; her voodoo entrancing me right off track just when it seems things may be different this go round.
The familiarity of starting back at ground zero isn’t exactly comforting. It’s maddening. But the draw to start all over again is magnetic and I find myself saying “tomorrow will be better” and “next time I’ll do it” so often you’d think that was the atomic habit I was trying to form. I’m the manic pixie dream girl who cried wolf.
It was either a blessing or a curse that I married the most disciplined person alive. Nate journals everyday, without fail. He’s the prodigal son and brother, calling home a few times a week. He’s run a marathon, done a 100-mile bike ride, and, in the month before our wedding, he completed an Ironman. He says about discipline: “You have to make the goal so tiny, it’s impossible to fail.” For those who don’t already know, I straight up married my father. Papa Scott is the ultimate discipline aficionado. He keeps a gym bag in his car, he goes for walks at the park almost everyday, he’s the only person I know still using index cards and paper clips. My dad on discipline: “You just gotta make [insert whatever habit] apart of your life.” Easier said than done is the understatement of the year. What is this double helix chromosome they both got that floated right past me in the womb? A few weeks ago, my friend ran in the NYC Marathon. I wiped away tears watching my friend run and standing in awe of the mothers and grandfathers running beside her, knowing the discipline and commitment it took each person to reach this day. My heart swelled with both pride and a lil desperation for even a sliver of whatever they got.
Grace is everyone’s word of the year. Suddenly everyone’s eating kale and “giving themselves more grace.” Sometimes grace feels like a low key universally accepted excuse we all fall back on when we didn’t do the thing and refuse to feel guilty about it. Wherever this duplicitous strategy came from, I’m not mad at it; grace is just what I needed.
Therapy taught me that rebuilding trust in oneself is a daily practice. For so long, I forced myself into accepting disappointment and the lies I told myself that I’ll do better tomorrow. I’d beat myself up, berating myself for failing once again. What was missing was the acceptance that maybe I am doing the best I can. Maybe we all are... While I haven’t finished crocheting my blanket yet, this is the most crocheting I’ve ever done in my life. I sometimes miss yoga class, but I go often enough that the studio owner knows me by name. I definitely can’t do a split, but I did hit The Wheel in yoga the other day. I legit had fun at Rumble Boxing recently, which is more than I‘ve ever said about any gym workout I’ve ever done. I’m writing again. Period, full stop.
I don’t know if discipline is what I should be striving for, or if the guilt-free reliance on grace is actually more productive. Accepting the inevitable fall off the bandwagon and being okay with dusting myself off and trying again tomorrow seems less stress-inducing and kinder. I don’t know if grace is an anointed way to actually lie to ourselves or to reframe for the positive in order to protect our peace. Either way, me and the devil bitch are no longer beefing. We have an understanding.
Thanks for reading! Do you also struggle with discipline? Anyone else side-eyeing “grace” but also just going with it? Let me know what you’re thinking or just drop me a line and say hey!
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