Choosing Devotion Over Perfection (The Funeral of Shame)
I Finally Sat Down at the Keyboard
When everything is said and done….
(The holiday season is over and there are no more distractions of family parties and presents.)
(My office in my home is set up, and the distraction of having to shampoo the carpet three times has been satisfied.)
(Francis the puppy and I are finally settling into a nice routine, and the distraction of BUT WAIT I MUST MONITOR HIM AT ALL TIMES is nulling out.)
(Somehow I have successfully put 100 boundaries in place, so the lifelong distraction of LET ME HANDLE YOUR ENTIRE LIFE CHAOS NO REALLY I’M NOT BUSY is officially retired.)
What if…
IT’S TIME TO…
ACTUALLY…
D O
I T?
Yes, it. The thing! The thing that has been put off, time and time and time AND TIME again!
Me, myself, & I have a pattern: covering the sacred with busyness.
(IT’S ALL FEAR BABY!)
There’s tiny whispers within me.
“Hey Yvette, maybe it’s time to start discussing the largest fascination of your entire life in a consistent way?”
“Hey, Yvette, you know it doesn’t have to be hard, it doesn’t have to be perfect, but it DOES have to somehow come into existence… so maybe you can… sit down at a keyboard?”
And then, from an observational point of view, I notice doing what I do best: INSERTING DISTRACTIONS.
I’m suddenly launching three renovation projects. Maybe, I think, when THOSE GET DONE, maybe then I’ll start on what I actually want to do.
But here’s the truth:
When those three renovation projects get done… the goal will shift. My mental map has created a flawless blueprint of how perfect my life has to be (absolutely, divinely absolutely f u c k i n g aligned) prior to the START MARK of my actual passion project.
I am an expert at avoiding the (oh-so) sacred responsibility of curating the “PLEASE FINALLY DO SOMETHING WITH ME” soul project that has been brewing (ever-so-painfully) beneath my skin for nearly a decade now.
Heck, I might just decide that I need to first learn how to completely take apart a car engine before being consistent on Substack.
Who knows.
Today I decided to axe that part of me and give it voice… because maybe you recognize it too.
It’s an insidious little bastard.
It has infinite layers.
It twists, it turns, and it tells you all types of lies:
“The moment is not right.”
“Your routine has to be perfect before you begin.”
“You don’t know enough yet, maybe you should go back for another two years of school. Hell, let’s enroll at Oxford” (Yes, I literally, actually, did that).
“You gained weight after a relationship gone horribly wrong, fattie—there’s no chance for you now. Speak about the body? You’re an impostor!”
I know better, yet I still fall for it.
Because there’s a safety within it.
The calling of my little human life, the sharing *of* the fortuitous musings that have taken me across the world on escapades, studying anatomy, people, and the vast landscape of emotional healing, it’s a goldmine.
It’s a goldmine for my spirit.
It’s a place where creativity works through me.
It’s a place for me to meet God.
And it’s terrifying to share that with the world at large.
The body has been my deepest teacher, my highest muse, my discovery of divinity.
It wrecks me to see the body being shamed, blamed, and paraded around as something to FIX in this modern world—something to subjugate into a particular appearance deemed worthy, something to control…
But the insidious little bastard of “not yet” has been displacing me from that treasure cove, and the BEAUTY OF SHARING ALL I KNOW IN AN EFFORT TO HELP OTHERS.
Not yet, it tells me. But scrolling on Instagram for hours?
“Oh Yvette, you always have time for that!” Distract yourself, woman, it’s the name of the game!
Enough.
Here is to showing up absolutely imperfectly,
Time and time again,
Little by little,
Until it becomes the only way through the day.
There will never be a perfect moment to begin, and developing focus is a process that will require my consistent conscious choice.
I even moved to Hawaii for seven years, thinking that living in paradise, away from the vast troubles of my home life, would be the solution. I imagined myself writing on the beach, writing in the oh-too-cozy comfort of an oceanside studio, writing in class, writing while eating smoothie bowls… yes, yes, what a daydream.
Turns out I was still just Yvette in Hawaii.
And Just Yvette thinks of everything in existence to avoid doing the thing that she deeply cares about.
Because… what if giving it life results in death?
What if it IS stupid?
What if people make fun of it?
What if my family thinks I’m weird?
What if the one hundred thousand enemies in my head come into existence in this very room and begin attacking me… swallowing pharmaceuticals that are simultaneously purring, “Take us. We’re good for you,” while moaning in pleasure?
So, Just Yvette decides it’s much safer to keep her essence under lock and key.
Just in case, you know.
Just in case.
It’s much better to daydream and live vicariously through illusion.
The masses have swallowed the poison of this world and it is useless!
Useless!
That’s why I’m launching my FOURTH renovation project this week!
….. (just kidding).
That’s that insidious little bastard again.
His name is Shame—sometimes I call him Shawn—and he’s been my bestie for a long while now.
He has many forms. He’s pretty cute sometimes and assures me he’s Keeping Me Safe. He tells me all types of things because He Loves Me. I’m not allowed to leave my room though. Shawn says that’s Bad.
But I know his secret. I read his diary while he kept me in a cage and turned the other way with his self-satisfied smirk.
Discipline and Consistency will kill him.
Here’s the kicker:
Purpose will be attacked.
There’s no way around it.
Eventually, it will be attacked.
That attack can start as severe procrastination. It can take on various shades of shame. It can convince The Holder of Purpose (all of us!) of all types of things.
After all, Shawn hisses…
“You are no one special, so why should you even try?” Shawn can convince you that unless you do everything PERFECTLY, there is no chance for you.
You must have an EFFORTLESS MORNING ROUTINE, a PRISTINE evening wrap-up, a catalog of organized files and to-dos, an absolutely logical plan A to Z, all before you even begin.
Overwhelm happens easily in this state.
It’s so much!
One person can’t possibly do it all!
It’s safer to fail before you even start.
Back into the cocoon of distraction, fueled by dopamine hits that convince me I’m not fully wasting my time.
Nothing begins. Seeds are planted. But Spring never comes.
The fantasy la-la land of “when I finally have _______ THEN I can _____” persists.
I become like a chipmunk, cheeks filled with acorns, incessantly storing them and depriving the world of seeing my sapling because Shawn told me it’s weak.
God works differently. God would love to see our Saplings. God doesn’t expect us to be flawless. God nudges with curiosity, and tosses in rain and sunshine accordingly.
You’re handed a tiny, pretty pebble and you wonder: where did this pebble come from?
Let me look for more tiny, pretty pebbles.
You follow the breadcrumb trail down a path that feels like it’s calling you. You may not know why it’s calling you, and you certainly don’t know where the path takes you, but you feel it in your bones, and the tiny, pretty pebbles that keep landing in your palm are confirmation.
God is supportive in this way.
If you step off the path, there is no shame with God.
There is simple redirection, and the loving embrace of more metaphorical, beautiful pebbles.
Purpose will be attacked because it is the direct beeline TO God and there is nothing more that insidious little snake bastards like than to remove that connection.
We have always been worthy of our purpose because it was inlaid into our hearts BY God.
Streams of curiosity?
Follow them.
Share them.
Make art with them.
Write with them.
Cry with them.
Turn on a camera and talk to them.
They are from God.
And you don’t have to be anyone in particular to receive them.
You don’t have to be beautiful.
You don’t have to be fit.
You don’t have to have three psychology degrees from three universities.
You don’t have to be rich.
You don’t have to drive a new Mercedes.
You don’t even have to get out of bed in the morning.
Repeat after me:
I AM a daughter of God and therefore I AM worthy.
I AM a son of God and therefore I AM worthy.
And every single gosh darn person who says otherwise has been temporarily deceived by the insidious little bastard in all of us: Shame (a.k.a. my bestie Shawn).
Let’s kill him together shall we?
A little dash of discipline,
And a conscious decision, daily, to be consistent,
I’ll invite you to Shawn’s funeral in six months’ time.
I love you.