The Balloon Arch

What I learned from spending an entire weekend disappointing imaginary people

So here’s a feeling I thought I’d be over by now. I’m 49. I’m a life coach. Those two facts combined should be reason enough for me not to care what other people are thinking about me, my life, my choices.

And yet.

It was my son’s birthday, and my in-laws were in town visiting. We had a very small party, burgers and cake in the backyard, and the day before I’d been in New Jersey seeing close friends, one of whom was celebrating her own child’s milestone birthday and graduation. It was a busy, long weekend filled with people and parties and cake, and I spent too much of it feeling judged.

Or, letting myself actually feel the weight of the judgment that I assumed was coming at me.

I haven’t had Botox lately and I’ve completely given up on my Invisalign. I was convinced all those people I saw all weekend were saying hi, hugging me, smiling... while secretly thinking, she looks old (which, as we’ve discussed, is the kiss of death or something...).

I didn’t have time to get the new backyard furniture I’ve been wanting or even drag a folding table up from the basement to make the mini birthday party for the mini human a little more organized from a food-serving standpoint. I was sure everyone was thinking about how I don’t have my shit together and never will while they ate burgers on their laps.

My mom had a panic attack later that day and the nurse called me. I spoke to her and talked her down. This has happened before. It’s one of the eight million things that makes her disease exceedingly cruel. Rationally, I know panic attacks are part of this disease. Emotionally, I somehow still believe I should be able to prevent them. And yet I was sure the nurses thought I was a bad daughter, and I was sure my mom did too.

My son is adjusting to the toddler bed and going through a hitting phase (yay for developmental normalcies, I guess?), and I’m fumbling my way through helping him with that. And of course I was thinking all weekend that everyone around me thinks I’m letting him be a spoiled brat and therefore I’m a terrible mother (this “terrible mother” one is one I don’t actually believe, but other people might, so that’s the part that’s bugging me).

I’m a coach with a coach, and as a result I turned to - wait for it - coaching to help me through this once I finally hit a wall of shame and self-doubt yesterday, convinced that no matter how hard I try, I will keep disappointing people and fumbling things and never be one of those people who can remember to reschedule the Botox appointment or order the balloon arch on time for the party.

And where I landed later in the day, once I’d journaled and read and voice-messaged my coach and calmed the fuck down (because seriously, this is all ridiculous), was in a much different place. One where I looked at it all and said, yes, that’s right.

I will keep disappointing people.

I will keep fumbling things.

I will probably never be one of those people who can remember to order the balloon arch, or send the thank-you notes in a reasonable amount of time, or have the ideal backyard setup for a summer party.

And I might not always get it right with parenting through childhood transitions, or caring for a sick parent, or running a business, or hosting guests at my house. Honestly, I can pretty much guarantee I'll screw up one of those things on any given day. I'm just hoping my mistakes stay in the "forgot the ketchup" category and not the "someone writes a memoir about this later" category.

And the thing is, when I just accepted that, when I chose to face the reality of my imperfections, my everyday flaws, my humanness, it wasn’t actually any of those missteps I was so worried about that were causing me stress or strife. It was what I thought other people were thinking about me, in relation to those things.

It was the worry that my in-laws thought I was a bad hostess or a bad mom.

It was the shame that the nurses thought I was a bad daughter.

It was the self-consciousness that the other women in the room thought I looked old because my forehead was moving and my incisors aren’t lined up like they should be.

It wasn’t other people’s opinions that were hurting me.

It was the opinions I imagined they had.

Which, if we’re being honest, were mostly just my own opinions wearing other people’s faces.

So then I had to do the coachy thing and ask myself: OK, why is this a problem? Why is it a problem that people see me and see I am imperfect, flawed, human? Why is it a problem that I see myself and recognize someone who is imperfect, flawed, human?

And the answer that came back to me was, of course, simple: It’s not a problem. It’s just a fact.

I don’t actually want a life that’s polished. I just apparently want to look polished while living it.

Humanness = imperfection. Humanness = flaws. And showing that and sharing that is uncomfortable, sure. But what’s more uncomfortable is not being fully present for my son’s birthday cake moment because I was worried that the cake wasn’t special enough or the balloons were in the way.

What’s more uncomfortable is nonstop obsessing over how I could be handling my mom’s illness better when she has a disease that no one knows how to cure, is unique to each person, and has no roadmap for how to “do this right.”

What’s more uncomfortable is not really engaging in conversations with people I don’t get to see that often because I’m focused on what they may or may not be focused on about the state of my (perfectly fine) face.

So my work now is to keep embracing the humanness of me instead of trying to fix it.

And to order the fucking balloon arch on time. Because I can be a flawed human, but I can’t do expedited delivery fees.