The word they kept drilling into us at the all-girl Catholic high school was “well-rounded." Meaning that was what the students should strive for as young women. Meaning we needed to learn several skills, and do well in all of them. Meaning we needed to be -- all at once -- academically (and then professionally) accomplished, socially well-adjusted, emotionally capable to handle the inevitable crises that come with growing up, and prepare for motherhood, which, for them, was the main purpose of every woman.
What no one ever talks about, aside from the fact that there was absolutely no good use for the word or concept "well-rounded" outside of that convent school, was that trying to do well in several things was the exact opposite of doing well. I wish someone had told me that while I was in college, preparing to pursue a career in writing. I wish someone had taken me aside to say that in my twenties, trying to write my book while holding down a creative-adjacent (advertising, PR) day job, while staying up until 4am keeping up with the band gigs of my friends, while cultivating a romantic relationship, while fulfilling family obligations.
Then again, knowing my younger self, I wouldn’t have listened, anyway. I’d planned to be “the exception.” Meaning I was exactly the same as many typical creatives in her twenties: high on a heady mix of careless optimism and denial. Back then, I assumed that people who were in jobs they didn’t like or who couldn’t fulfill their creative ambition were simply unmotivated. I had it figured out: earn a regular salary while doing what I really wanted on the side.
But one day, I woke up, almost thirty (a ripe, old age to me, back then), and realized I haven’t written my book. The money I earned from my job and freelance projects was barely enough to support myself. I had no savings, a five-year plan that was falling apart, and I was incredibly depressed.
After some soul-searching (i.e. curling up in bed, crying sessions, talks with my mother), I finally realized I really didn’t want to work another desk job ever again. I seemed to be missing that ability to compartmentalize to cope with the daily workaday grind. It weighed on my mind, and wreaked havoc on my skin. As it turned out, this physical symptom became my path to becoming a reluctant entrepreneur, stumbling on a good product idea for people who had similar skin problems.
I started my business at 29 years old, turning it into a profitable social enterprise that focused on livelihood for disadvantaged women. It was definitely more fulfilling, in spite of having more responsibilities. I felt stimulated rather than daunted.
Going in, I thought this would be my chance to do whatever I wanted because I didn’t have to keep a strict office schedule. The truth is, I had to work more hours as an entrepreneur. It’s amusing to me now when someone says they want to start their own business to have more “free time.” The work schedule of managing my own business was more demanding than a regular job.
The joy came from the freedom in deciding how I could best spend my time; what’s worthwhile, what things I can do without, and how much I wanted to achieve. It was a great learning experience.
Even on my seventh year as an entrepreneur, I was definitely not even close to somebody who ran her own business flawlessly, while finishing all her errands, while faithfully following a daily schedule, while cooking sumptuous meals, while writing a seminal book, while maintaining a rosy romantic relationship, while being the greatest friend, while volunteering, while keeping a slim figure and bouncy hair, while traveling. This superwoman doesn’t exist. She never will.
And no, I still haven’t published my book yet. But I don’t feel like I have to tick off a specific checklist anymore. I don’t feel like time is constantly running out. The funny thing is, now that I’m not putting pressure on myself to do everything-I’ve-ever-wanted, I’ve started writing more. Like something just came unstuck. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem like such an impossible feat. I’m no longer paralyzed by my own unrealistic expectation to be a “success.”
I also haven’t become, and will never be, by choice, a mother. As much as I dote on my cousins’ and friends’ own children, I’ve never felt the desire to have my own. The biological clock is just another story, and it certainly doesn’t have to be mine.
I’m not saying I’m not ambitious or that I’m completely free from insecurities. But I don’t care so much anymore that I’m not exactly rolling in money, or that I don’t have a writing award or that I don't think I would ever learn how to do a headstand even after years of yoga classes.
I can’t do everything. And ironically, refusing to multitask my life has given me the focus and energy for the things that are actually most important to me. It meant no more excuses. No more feeling too tired to spend quality time with those closest to me. No more feeling guilty spending time just by myself, reading, and, yes, writing.
While I understand it can be tempting to be the superwoman-that-could, I won’t do that to myself anymore. It’s not a perfect system. I don’t have it all figured out. I sometimes still over-worry, still catch myself comparing my life with someone else’s and wonder if I shouldn’t do “more.”
But I ask myself, what more? and for what? and I realize that I’m truly, completely uninterested in the answers to those questions. Suddenly, moving past that to get “busy living” is the easiest thing in the world.
Note:
This article was published in Homegrown.ph (publication now closed) for Women’s Month in March 2014. I’ve updated and edited it for grammar and clarity. The social enterprise that I founded and mentioned here closed down in June 2014, a few months after I’ve written this article. I’ve started other business ventures since then. These are stories I’ll write about another time.
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