If I’m Not Perfect, What Am I?
Last night I enjoyed dinner with some work friends, one of whom retired about 5 months ago. After seeing the positive impact not working was having on her life, her husband decided to take an early retirement as well. So, as the two of them approach 60, they are quite literally living the dream. A trip to Key West with a rolling visits from friends and family who could only get away for a few days. Plans to go to Vegas, then Portugal. She exuded joy as she recounted her newfound love of Facebook Marketplace which she’s leveraging in preparation for downsizing.
“What advice would you give to us?” one friend asked.
That’s when the conversation shifted.
“I always felt like I had to do it, that I had to be perfect, to prove myself,” she said. “My work was so much a part of who I was.”
It was that statement that resonated with the rest of us who listened intently for the magic elixir that would save us from ourselves.
Because I’m a woman, I can only speak from the experience of being a woman. That’s to say, I don’t know that men feel the same way or think in similar fashions about their work and their identities. But for all my adult life, I have defined myself by my occupation, and my colleagues—current and former alike—seem to have done the same.
Ten years ago, I was transitioning to a new job—not by choice. I recall a conversation with a friend where I admitted, “Being a teacher is my identity. It’s who I am. I don’t know what I am without that.”
“But you’re a mom,” she said.
That wasn’t enough for me. Perhaps it’s because I became a mom later in my life—I had my daughters when I was 38 and 40, and I was well established in my career by that time. I had chosen my vocation because of the impact my high school English teacher had had on my life. She was confident, smart, unaffected by the opinions of others, and she thought I had potential. She took me under her wing and inspired me to imagine a world in which I could go to college. Her tutelage changed the trajectory of my life. That was power.
When I started teaching, I was determined to prove myself to be as magnanimous as my English teacher had been, and I committed myself to my work for nearly two decades. But then, my life, my vocation was robbed from me. Losing my job shattered me, and it took years of therapy and medication to find my worth again.
As my kids get older, though, I am mindful of how unforgiving time can be. There are periods of their lives that I can’t recall at all because I was so lost in a sea of despair—desperately searching to find myself, to prove my worth.
I’ve been with my employer for more than six years now, and I am happy to report that I love my job—I dare say, I love it almost as much as I loved teaching. There are days when I wish I could sit in a circle with a group of really bright, young minds and examine the symbolism in “The Yellow Wallpaper,” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman or pontificate the benefits of Objectivism versus Communism through the lens of Ayn Rand’s Anthem.
Now, I work from home, and I’m able to wake both of my daughters up with a hug and kiss each morning. Rides to school, picks and drop offs, making dinner, attending sporting events, managing their lives—I’m all over it. Being a good mom isn’t how I define my worth, and I don’t know why. My daughters are without a doubt the most important humans in my life. And, the reality is, I work for a company that encourages a healthy work-life balance. Our leadership team always takes a “family first” approach. Yet, I can’t get promoted to “Great Mom,” or even “Best Mom,” and put that on my resume, now can I? I’m also acutely aware of the limitations of my job. In a few short years, my girls will be off to adulthood, needing me less and less.
That reality leaves me yet again trying to prove myself, to establish my value, to define my identity through my work. To be perfect.
But if I’m to listen to the advice of my friend, maybe I don’t have to be. Maybe it’s enough to just be this perfectly imperfect, good enough, little old me.