"I used to have a sign pinned up on my wall that read: Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us...It was all about letting go of everything."---Pema Chodron (click for a video on letting go)
As I mentioned before, I have a box of all my old school notes just sitting around. Why? You ask.
Good question. Why would I keep a box of notes from school when I graduated in 2007? Why would I lug around a box from house to house to house for four years when I don't see any need for it in my future?
Why would I pay to have it shipped to my house when it was found by a nice lady on the side of the highway (it had dropped off the truck without my knowing)?
Am I going to go back to school? Probably not.
If I go back to school am I going to ruffle through my old notes for any reason? Fat chance.
Is there a chance I'll be sitting around one day and think to myself, "I am going to brush up on some physiological psychology!" Doubt it.
So, then WHY am I keeping this box?
I've taken some time and thought about it. Really thought about it.
Confession time:
As long as I can remember I've always measured my self-worth by how well I did in school. My mom never really wanted me to play any sports and while I was in band, I wasn't motivated to succeed so I pushed myself in school. College was no different. I had this idea that if I could do well in school and get a good job that I would be "happy" because I had succeeded. What else would be the ultimate reward?
It would boggle my mind to see women I knew (and some I didn’t) spend so many years (and thousands of dollars) in school only to get married or have a child and stay home. To me this went against all logic. Why would you work so hard only to have your goals crushed by a tiny infant? I was determined that this would never happen to me. I wasn’t going to waste all of that energy and time and not have my goals fulfilled. Not this gal.
Well. Well. Well. Never say never.
The summer before my fall (and final semester) my husband and I found out we were expecting a child. This was not my plan. My plan involved graduate school. My plan involved moving and hours and hours of studying and paper writing and working diligently toward a doctorate degree. There wasn’t any room for a child. I didn’t have time to nurse a baby, change diapers and get up in the middle of the night. So, I decided that I would just have to try to do both. There was no other way. The baby would just be a tiny bump on my life plan. No biggie.
Then she got here and I knew right away that I couldn’t leave her. I tried to do both. When she was six months old I started graduate school. I cried every time I left for two weeks straight. I pumped breast milk on the road so I could keep breastfeeding. I worked hard, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how I was leaving my baby at home. I kept expecting for something to change—for it to get easier to leave, but it never did. I didn’t go back after that first semester. I decided to stay home. I had become that woman that I swore I would never be.
So, I guess a part of me, the old me--- who would have laughed out loud if someone told her she would be staying home with her baby---has needed those boxes of school notes, papers and tests. She needed them to know that she did do something noteworthy and she did succeed. She still has a little guilt and embarrassment about staying home and not working. She still feels that she should have to explain herself when people ask, “so where are you working now?” That part of me, the old me, is taking up too much of my mental space. I can be using that space for so much more.
So I’ve decided I am going to burn the box. It is going to burn and with it all of my fears and worried and anxiety about being a stay at home mom. Does my daughter care that I don’t have a PhD? No. Does my husband? No. Does anyone who really loves and cares for me? No.
So why should I?
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