I Thought About What You Said
A NOTE FROM THE LIVING ROOM 007
About two years ago, my therapist told me I was rigid.
I didn't care for that word.
Particular, I could understand. I've always been particular. I like knowing what I'm doing, where I'm going, and what needs to happen before I get there. I appreciate clear communication, a well-thought-out plan, and people who do what they say they're going to do. I can picture something down to the smallest detail, and I usually know when it isn't quite what I imagined.
But rigid sounded like something else.
I looked up the definition.
Fixed, firm, or strict in attitude, opinion, or practice.
Well, I could admit to all of that.
I have strong opinions. There are things I'm firm about, and certain standards I don't compromise on. None of that was news to me.
But I could pivot.
At least, I thought I was pretty good at it.
I wanted another perspective, so I brought the definition to my sister and the man I've built a life with. Two people who know me in different ways, who have seen me through different seasons, and whose opinions I take seriously.
They both agreed with my therapist.
Well.
That wasn't what I'd expected.
Three people I respected had recognized something in me that I hadn't quite recognized in myself. I wasn't offended. I was curious.
I knew what I meant when I said I was particular. I wondered what they experienced when they described me as rigid.
I could have left it there. We didn't have to agree. But I'd gone looking for their perspectives, and it seemed worth considering what they'd given me.
For a while, the word returned in ordinary moments. Making plans. Managing responsibilities. Trying to fit everything into a day that already seemed full.
Especially when the day refused to cooperate.
You can arrange the hours carefully, decide what needs to happen first, what comes next, what can fit between one responsibility and another. On paper, it all makes sense.
Then you're living the day instead of planning it.
I have two children. They have their own needs, their own timing, their own understanding of what deserves immediate attention. Life doesn't consult my schedule before introducing something else that needs to be handled.
For someone who appreciates a plan, this can be an ongoing education.
I used to have a harder time releasing the day I'd imagined. The frustration could linger even after I'd figured out what to do next. The plans had changed, but some part of me was still holding on to the version that hadn't happened.
I began noticing that.
And I began trying to do something different.
Sometimes that meant giving myself a moment before deciding what actually needed my attention. Sometimes it meant moving something to another day, accepting that I wouldn't get everything done, or realizing that what felt urgent an hour earlier could wait.
I still wanted things done well. I still preferred to be prepared. But a disappointing change of plans didn't have to become a disappointing day.
More importantly, it didn't have to become someone else's difficult day because I was having one.
I think about that with my children. How easily the mood of an adult can become the atmosphere everyone else has to live in. How a small frustration can travel farther than the thing that caused it.
I don't want my children carrying the weight of a plan they never made.
So I practice letting things go.
Not always gracefully. Sometimes I need a minute. Sometimes I have to remind myself that the world will continue turning if we arrive later than expected, rearrange the afternoon, or don't make it somewhere at all.
We'll get there when we get there.
And if we don't, we don't.
I've become more comfortable with those words.
What makes all of this interesting is that, at thirty-seven, I'm probably more particular than I've ever been.
Forty has started appearing in my thoughts lately. Not as something I'm dreading, but as an age close enough to make me consider how I want to spend the years between here and there.
I'm more aware of my time. More certain about what I enjoy, what I need, and what I'm no longer willing to do simply because it would make things easier for someone else.
I've spent enough years going along to get along.
There are decisions I want to make with greater intention now, especially when it comes to my children and the life we're building.
Some things matter too much to leave to chance.
Others matter far less than I once believed.
I'm still figuring out the difference.
Every now and then, I think about that conversation from two years ago.
I wonder what my therapist saw when she chose that word. What my sister recognized in the definition. What the man who's known me since we were young heard in it.
I don't know whether they were thinking about the same things. I never asked them to make a case for their answers.
I only know that they agreed.
And that I paid attention.
I still wouldn't choose rigid to describe myself. If you asked me today, I'd probably tell you I'm particular, just as I would have at thirty-five.
But there are things I respond to differently now.
A changed plan doesn't have to follow me through the rest of the day. I can be disappointed and still be present for the people standing in front of me.
I'm not certain those three people would describe me differently today.
Maybe they would. Maybe they wouldn't.
I still like knowing what's next. I still appreciate things happening when and how they're supposed to. And if you ask me what I want, chances are I'll have a fairly specific answer.
But I've gotten better at making room for what happens after the plan.
I thought about what you said, though.