That time I had a big turnover of staff at Chic? Vertigo. That time I was so excited to write my first contracted book but then was positive it was terrible and I’d be fired and have to pay back the advance? Vertigo. In every single instance, my vertigo was a physical response to an emotional problem. A physical response to an emotional problem.
I didn’t even know our bodies did that!
Okay, I knew it in the same way that every other God-fearing, law-abiding woman who watched Oprah and heard about self-care knows it, but I grew up in the country. I got a shotgun for my thirteenth birthday. I may have lived in LA for fourteen years, but my rub-some-dirt-on-it tendencies run deep. His words hit me like ice water, and now that I knew he was right, I immediately wanted to know how to fix it and get back to normal.
“Go home and do nothing,” he told me.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Go home and do nothing. Sit around, watch TV, spend an entire day on the sofa. Discover that your world doesn’t implode without you going a hundred miles an hour. Get up the next day and do it again.”
Verily I say unto you, dear reader, his words made me want to throw up. It sounds crazy—it is kind of crazy—but the idea of doing nothing makes my skin crawl. Even when I’m at home I’m constantly doing something. If I’m not taking care of the kids, I’m organizing the house, cleaning out my closet, or giving myself a DIY facial.
“What would happen to you if you stopped moving?” he asked me.
I shook my head in blind panic. The image of a shark floating to the surface of the ocean, dead from lack of movement, came to mind.
All I could think was, I don’t know, but it will be bad.
Talk about life-altering moments. Talk about someone holding a mirror up to your face and making you realize you’re not actually the person you think you are at all. I spent my days thinking up ways to help women live a better life, and the whole time I truly believed I was qualified to teach it because I was actually living it. Meanwhile, I wasn’t doing the most fundamental thing a woman needs to do before she can take care of anyone else: take care of herself!
I needed a drastic life change.
I forced myself to stop working so many hours. I went to the office from nine thirty to four thirty and was shocked to discover that the world continued to spin on its axis. I pushed myself to rest, to sit and do nothing. It gave me massive anxiety, so I poured myself a glass of wine and kept right on sitting there. I started volunteering at the local homeless shelter. I took a hip-hop dance class. Turns out, I’m terrible at hip-hop dance class, but I love it so much I laugh like a toddler through the entire hour-long process. I looked for joy. I looked for peace.
I stopped drinking so much caffeine. I played with my kids. I did a lot of therapy. And then I did some more. I prayed. I looked up every scripture in the Bible that talks about rest. I had dinner with my girlfriends. I went on dates with my husband. I taught myself to take it one day at a time, to stop obsessing over the next victory, and to appreciate the simple parts of today. I learned to celebrate accomplishments, not with big flashy parties, but with taco nights or a great bottle of wine.
I acknowledged my own hard work and the achievements of my company, and I learned to rest in the knowledge that I will still be okay even if both of those things go away tomorrow. I studied the gospel and finally grasped the divine knowledge that I am loved and worthy and enough . . . as I am.
Learning to rest is an ongoing process. Like any other lifelong behavior, I constantly fight the desire to slip back into the role I’ve played for so long. They say the first step is admitting you have a problem, and two years ago I did just that. I learned that I am a recovering workaholic, but through this process, I also learned that I am a child of God—and that trumps everything else.
THINGS THAT HELPED ME . . .
1. I went to therapy. This could be the first thing I list for every single element I’ve worked through, but it’s especially real in this case. Were it not for my therapist, I never would have understood the connection between my childhood insecurities and my adult accomplishments. Were it not for my therapist, I never would have realized that the drive for accomplishment can actually be harmful. I cannot recommend therapy enough, and if I had Beyoncé’s money, the first thing I’d do is pay for therapy for every woman I could find. Ask your friends to recommend someone they like, or ask your gynecologist to refer you. A doctor for your lady parts knows the right kind of counselor for a woman. Trust me.
2. I hustled for joy. Work just as hard for fun moments, vacation moments, and pee-your-pants-laughing moments as you do for all the other things. I encourage you to take a walk, call a friend, have a glass of wine, enjoy a bubble bath, or take a long lunch. All of that work will be there when you get back, and a little time away can recharge your batteries and give you the energy to battle that ever-growing to-do list.
3. I reordered my list. When I ask most women to name the things on their priority list, they can throw them out there no problem: kids, partner, work, faith, etc. The order may change, but the bullet points rarely do. You know what also rarely changes no matter how many women I talk to? Women actually putting themselves on their own priority list. You should be the very first of your priorities! Are you getting enough sleep, enough water, the right nutrition? You cannot take care of others well if you’re not first taking care of yourself. Also, one of the best ways to ensure that you stop trying to run from your problems is to face them head-on.
CHAPTER 4
The Lie:
I’M BETTER THAN YOU
I feel the need to confess . . . I shave my toes.
I totally do.
Sometimes—not all the time, mind you—I look down in the shower and see my big toes sporting locks long enough to braid. It’s embarrassing, sure, but a quick swipe of my razor returns my toe knuckles to their usual silky-smooth glory.
None of this would be such an epic admission for me to make except that I once made fun of a girl in freshman-year English class for doing this exact thing. Blargh! I feel like such a jerk even now, a hundred and fifty years later.
Friends, let me paint a quick picture of myself in high school. I was a solid twenty pounds heavier, I wore clothes from Goodwill, and I was the president of the drama club. I wasn’t someone who teased others; I was someone who got teased. But there was that one instance when I did tease—the one and only time in my memory that I actively made fun of someone else. Maybe that’s why it sticks out in my brain. Maybe that’s why it still feels so shameful.
We’ll call this girl Schmina.
Her actual name is Tina, but I’m trying to write in code here.
Schmina was the girl who always seemed totally confident in herself. She developed breasts and a sense of humor light-years before the rest of us, and she was popular in a way I would never be. One day in Mrs. Jachetti’s English class, when we were supposed to be writing a paper on Zora Neale Hurston, Schmina mentioned something about shaving her toes. I don’t know why she mentioned it . . . I assume popular girls share grooming tidbits the way the rest of us mortals talk about the weather. But anyway, while I didn’t say anything to her directly, I talked soooo much smack about it to my best friend later that day. “Who shaves their feet? More importantly, who has hairy digits in need of shaving? Schmina clearly has some kind of glandular disease she’s not copping to.”