I cannot handle one more thing on my plate. I mean it. Do you hear me? Enough. Finito. That’s it. For real. Tapped out. I’m not kidding, not even a little. Puh-lease, no more.
I’m sure you understand my words because you and me, well, I suspect we are similar. Your plate teeters with the fullness of life, threatening to slip from your hands and shatter on the floor.
You need to meet deadlines. Make the money stretch. Dust yourself off and try again. Feign interest in a twenty-minute story about weather. Come home with at least fifteen My Little Pony cupcakes for your youngest’s birthday, and vacuum. Don’t forget to vacuum. Oh, and grocery shop. You have guests visiting, and you certainly can’t feed them a half-eaten rotisseire chicken.
Then, in the middle of my spiral, I stop.
I realize something I know, but often refuse to practice.
I must be generous with myself.
Being generous with others is good, but being generous with myself is a requirement.
And with that thought, my evening looked better. I cranked up a little Justin Bieber (no, my ten-year-old wasn’t in the car, don’t judge) and drove home.
What about you? Do you find it easy to be generous with yourself?
Word lover. Book devourer. Music addict. Amy is a Northern girl who found herself living in the South. She drinks sweet tea, turns her nose up at okra, and attempts to tell her daughters “yella” isn’t a color.