There is a girl inside me who believes that if she can make a good enough list, she can finally feel safe.

Not a normal list.

A sacred list.
A survival list.
An “if I can just get all of this out of my head and onto paper, maybe my body will stop acting like there is a lion in the kitchen” list.

📝

She writes down everything.

The appointments.
The errands.
The texts she needs to answer.
The people she might have disappointed.
The gifts she still needs to wrap.
The book she wants to write.
The blog she wants to start.
The life she is trying to build.
The version of herself she is trying very hard to become.

A casual Tuesday, basically.

She is efficient, this girl.

She is also exhausted.

And dramatic.

Not just regular dramatic. More like, “If we don’t reorganize our entire life before 11:43 a.m., we may never fulfill our destiny” dramatic.

For a long time, I mistook her for discipline. I thought she was ambition. I thought she was proof that I was trying, growing, healing, becoming.

And she is trying.

But she is also (so) afraid.

🕯️

Afraid that if she slows down, everything will fall apart.
Afraid that if she forgets one thing, she will become one thing: unreliable.
Afraid that rest will be mistaken for failure.
Afraid that if she stops managing the whole universe, the whole universe will finally have the audacity to manage itself without her.

Rude, honestly 😒

Sometimes I catch her in the act.

There I am, allegedly “taking a break,” except my break has somehow become a 17-step plan for emotional liberation, financial stability, spiritual enlightenment, and possibly reorganizing the pantry.

Because why simply drink water when you could also create a five-year plan? 🤦‍♀️

Why feel one feeling when you could build a comprehensive nervous system operating manual and assign it subheadings?

🌿

But lately, through EMDR, IFS, motherhood, and the deeply humbling experience of being human, I am beginning to understand something:

The list is not the problem.

The list is a part.

A protector.

A little clipboard-holding manager inside me who learned a long time ago that being prepared was safer than being present.

She does not need to be shamed.
She does not need to be fired.
She needs to be witnessed.

Because underneath the list is usually a feeling.

Grief.
Fear.
Shame.
The ache of wanting to be held.
The terror of being needed when I already feel empty.
The old belief that I have to earn my right to rest.

And when I only add more tasks, I never reach the feeling. I just create a more organized form of avoidance.

A very color-coded dissociation, if you will.

🤍

There is another part of me now, though. A quieter one. A slower one.

She does not hate the girl with the list.

She actually kind of respects the hustle.

But she also gently asks:

What are we afraid will happen if we pause?
What feeling are we trying to outrun?
What if the next right thing is not the most productive thing, but the most honest one?

This question is deeply inconvenient.

I would personally prefer a spreadsheet.

I used to think healing meant finally becoming the kind of person who could do everything.

Now I wonder if healing means becoming the kind of person who no longer needs to.

✨

The list can stay.

But it cannot be God.

It cannot be my worth.
It cannot be my mothering.
It cannot be my authorship.
It cannot be the measure of whether I am becoming who I am meant to be.

Sometimes the bravest thing I can do is not cross off another task.

Sometimes it is to put the pen down, place one hand on my chest, and say:

I am here.
I am not behind.
I do not have to abandon myself to become myself.

And yes, the list girl may still whisper, “Okay, but should we make a list about how to stop making lists?”

Bless her.

We love her.

We are not letting her drive.

Maybe that is where the real list begins.

Not with everything I have to do.

But with everything I am finally allowed to feel.

Till next week…

<3,

List Girl