Don’t Forget to Smell the Flowers Along Your Self-Help Journey
The qualm with dedicating our lives to constant growth and self-help is the chronic neglect of the progress we have made. I woke up this morning around 8 o’clock AM, feeling a strong sense of “get the fuck up and conquer your day”, but instead I nestled deep in my covers, unlocked my phone, and told myself, “5 minutes of phone time, then we conquer”. The 5 minutes expanded and floated away before my eyes like a helium balloon, and it was not until I realized that an hour and a half had passed me by that I was fixating on a balloon stuck in a tree (i.e., Tiktok/Instagram/what have you). Fun to look at, but nothing happens as time seemingly passes at warp speed. I was ready to accept my failure as my morning seemed to have already flown out the window but instead, I threw off my covers and made myself a meal and some coffee. I opened my journal to detail the accounts of my fuck up when I realized the morning was still mine, time was still on my side, and just because I caved to a longer screen time than I had hoped for myself, did not mean I should throw away the rest of my day.
I often forget to think about myself 5 years ago, a year ago, a month ago, a week ago, yesterday. Where was I? What did I consider a productive day? I had recently taken the time to write a list of goals for the next year, and what I could accomplish daily to obtains those goals. Then I realized I had a written a similar list roughly a year prior and decided to indulge myself. To my surprise I had already accomplished most of what was on that list, how did I not realize this? I didn’t celebrate a single milestone step, I didn’t recognize I had experienced an ounce of personal growth, and most importantly, I didn’t express to myself how proud I was. I have spent so much time in my head building this idea of success and what I had to do to accomplish it, that I have completely disregarded the journey it took for me to get here.
Me a year ago: I was working overtime in a restaurant that sucked my soul but paid my bills. I celebrated getting out of bed around noon and that mostly consisted of me getting in my car and searching for my first meal of the day. I averaged about 3–4 nights out a week. I spent frivolously on meals at restaurants, drinks with friends, and on suede vintage beauties at my local consignment store. I would feel guilty as I would usually neglect my journal for over two weeks at minimum. My kitchen utensils sat untouched for months on end, and my stove top would not recognize my face in a lineup of complete strangers. My idea of self-care involved nursing a hangover with a Taco Bell bag nearby, a $15 dollar facemask from a target, and Sex and the City on a loop, and coconut water because- well, healthy.
Me today: I have stepped back to part-time at a new restaurant with minor soul sucking qualities (unavoidable in the service industry, let us be real), and some long overdue benefits. I recognize work for what it is, work, so I do not dedicate my heart and soul and industry that sucks mine dry and views me as disposable labor. I spend the other half of my time training for a new job in technical writing I have managed to weasel my way into after a few drinks at my local saloon. I have talked myself down from feeling unworthy and mass waves imposters syndrome and realized success stems entirely from faked confidence. I average about one night out every two weeks, mostly only occasions celebrating a loved one’s birthday, accomplishment, etc. I have noticed I can give myself space from my past party lifestyle while still supporting those who mean most to me which fuels not only my soul but proves my loyalty to those that matter most. I make most of my meals, and most importantly eat at least three meals a day and genuinely have the appetite for it. I open my journal a few times a week if not every day, I read books and listen to podcasts to wind down. I do not even have a functioning TV in my presence. If I shop, it is for necessity, and the emotional spree happens so far and few in between I have begun to harbor guilt over a 5-dollar t-shirt I know I will wear constantly. I say no when I do not feel like doing something, and I say yes to experiences I would normally be too afraid to try. So, fuck my hour and a half I spent perusing on my phone, right? The person I was a year ago would shit her pants if she saw the person I was today, yet the person I am today gets so caught up in the person I am tomorrow I forget to appreciate today’s me.
I am writing this in hopes I can inspire myself, or even you, to quit the self-help bullshit for 10 minutes and stop and smell your roses. They are budding before your eyes, but instead of appreciating the beauty of our protruding petals, we fixate on the root, and how to make them grow efficiently and cautiously, which is merely in our nature. But isn’t the point of cultivating a beautiful flower, the flower itself? Thorns, wilts, hiccups, and all? Although the process is a never-ending road filled with failure, fear, and fight, sometimes we need a gentle reminder to admire and sit with the flowers we have bloomed. Because we did that, and every small step deserves praise.
