Let's Get Messy

I've written about this quote before, but it's time to resurrect it.

In the infamous words of my ballet teacher: you cannot be the participant and the critic at the same time.

Last night, I had a wine night with the girls.

One of my girlfriends joked that red wine makes her “freaky.”

She didn't know at the time how prophetically accurate that statement would be—and sadly not in the sexy way.

The cabernet took her out about five minutes after we arrived at the bar, and what followed was… an adventurous Uber home.

But honestly? That "mess" only made the night better.

It pivoted the evening into something far more my speed: my other girlfriend and I sitting on my bed talking until 3am.

Which, frankly, is my dream date.

We're both recovering perfectionists. Dancers—you know the type. The people who set the bar at impossible. Who somehow try to be the artist and the judge, the one inside the moment and the one evaluating it in real time.

We admitted a fear: being a burden to the night. Being the reason something ends early.

And then we realized something.

Our friend was none of those things.

In the moment and afterward, the only emotions either of us felt toward her were care and concern.

She hadn't ruined anything.

She had simply revealed another layer of being human.

And meanwhile, there we were, holding ourselves to an impossible standard of joy.

Placing happiness on a pedestal.

Making deals with it.

We'll call you happiness when the mood is euphoric, when nothing spills or sways or needs rescuing.

Everything else?

Failure.

Sadness? Inconvenient. Mess? Unacceptable.

And suddenly the quote came back.

There's the critic trying desperately to be the participant.

And then there's the gag:

The unhappiest person is the one who critiques everything they do.

The happier one might just be the one who doesn't keep checking themselves.

We just sat there blinking at each other like—

What if our happiness is the thing killing us?

What if the constant auditing is what's draining the joy?

So we made a decision.

This is the season to get messy.

“Freaky.”

Human.

So I started off strong.

The next morning, I made my occasional appearance at church. I know, it’s already getting messy.

But I swear, God's a huge fan of these appearances because they're always related to my internal dialogue.

Of course—of course—the sermon was about happiness.

The priest told a story about a young girl who tragically got bone cancer. Right after making the choice that she was going to strive for college tennis. She was suffering unimaginably. And yet she turned to faith, and to her parents, saying: "Be happy, because I'm happy."

Her happiness wasn't dependent on the state of her life. It was dependent on the state of her mind.

And I sat there thinking about my moving body, healthy mind, and heart who cry out for my happiness to recognize its own support. About how we worship control and call it joy.

How we deal with what's chosen for us, no matter how it feels—that might just be we worship what's bigger than us.

And the question that keeps echoing now:

What if I let myself live…

without checking whether I'm doing it right?