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 wine night with the girls. One joked that red wine makes her "freaky"—prophetically accurate, though sadly not in the sexy way. The cabernet took her out five minutes after we arrived at the bar, followed by an adventurous Uber home.

But honestly? That "mess" only made the night better. It pivoted into my dream date: sitting on my bed talking until 3am with my other girlfriend.

We're both recovering perfectionists. Dancers—the type who set the bar at impossible, who try to be both the artist and the judge.

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

Then we realized—our friend was none of those things. The only emotions we felt toward her were care and concern. She hadn't ruined anything. She'd simply revealed another layer of being human.

Meanwhile, 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—sadness, mess, inconvenience? Failure.

The critic trying desperately to be the participant.

And there's the gag: The unhappiest person is the one who critiques everything they do. The happier one might just be the one who unlearns how to check themselves.

We sat there blinking at each other—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 the let’s-get-messy era strong. I went to church.

God's a huge fan of my occasional appearances—they’re always related to my internal dialogue.

Of course, the sermon was about happiness.

The priest told a story about a young girl who got bone cancer right after committing to college tennis. Despite suffering unimaginably, she turned to faith and found a foundation of happiness not dependent on anything outside of herself. Eventually, she turned to her parents and said, "Be happy, because I'm happy."

She'd found something unshakable, joy no longer tied to the state of her life but rooted in gratitude for her mere existence.

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

Later, I stumbled upon a video of a daughter interviewing her dad, who she claims is the happiest man on earth. He said happiness isn't a plane to spend every second in or expect constantly. It's a fleeting feeling we must know how to recognize, appreciate, and welcome when its door opens.

How we deal with what's chosen for us—the gap between how it feels and how we prescribed it should feel—that might just be where we worship what's bigger than us.

And the question that keeps echoing:

What if I let myself live without checking whether I'm doing it right?