I'm Ordinary, On Purpose

I used to think I wanted a perfect life. Needed a perfect life. For years I worked my tail off for it, actually. I suppose I was trying to drown out the little voice whispering in my ear for as long as I could remember, “There is something very wrong with you.” I thought maybe if I appeared perfect enough, I’d prove that voice wrong.

Then one morning, while on hospital rounds during my family practice residency, the attending physician pulled me aside in the hall and, with worried eyes, asked, “Mikala, is everything okay?” I scanned my mind for an acceptable response. What is it we’re supposed to say?

I hadn’t been able to hide the panic from my eyes all morning. I couldn’t keep my attention focused on the questions and numbers and matters at hand, on all the hurting patients right in front of my face. Because the night before, I found a black sock tucked up in the beams of our basement ceiling.

My hands trembled as I unwrapped it and discovered evidence of just how bad things were with my husband. Pills and powders and other terrifying things. My mind flashed to our newborn asleep in the crib upstairs. And that next morning during rounds when the attending fixed his worried eyes on my panicked face, I longed to tell him. The truth.

I wanted to scream it, actually. “No. NOOOOO!!!! Everything is not okay! Everything is broken! My husband. My marriage. My life. It’s all falling apart. Addiction is overtaking us!” But instead, I softly replied, “I’m fine. Sorry. I’m just . . .tired, I guess.”

Ah. There it was. That’s what we’re supposed to say.

I didn’t tell anyone about any of it.

I didn’t tell anyone my husband was on drugs and my marriage was failing. I didn’t mention that I was floundering through my training to become a family practice doctor and it was choking the life out of me. Or that I was struggling to hold it together for my two little boys at home. I never relayed how desperately lonely and sad and scared I was—positive I was the only one struggling. And I didn’t tell a single soul that, deep down, I’d convinced myself there must be something very wrong with me.

Nope.

I didn’t mention any of my painful truth to anyone.

I just smiled.

I worked a little more and pushed a little harder. I pretended. A lot. I showed up wherever I went and talked about kids or work or mom stuff or clothes or paint colors for my kitchen or how many pounds I needed to lose. The more I fumbled along through life, the nicer my clothes were, the better my hair looked, the wider my smile. And even though my life was crumbling down around my ankles, I strived that much harder to appear perfect. 

Because isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing down here? Isn’t our main job on earth to attempt to live the most perfect life possible? And wouldn’t anything less than perfect just seem . . . ordinary?

In truth, it felt like I was carrying a gigantic load. Picture me with six or seven or more big, heavy boxes of varying sizes, each slapped with a different label such as Motherhood, Wifely Roles, Addict Husband, Workload, Body Image, Self-doubt, Emotional Baggage.

I stumbled around every day under the weight of this load, attempting to keep it all balanced and prevent my stack from toppling over. I made sure each box was sealed up tight so no one could see the ugly contents inside, and though I felt completely overwhelmed and exhausted and afraid and alone, on the outside I pretended things were fine.

Perfectly fine!

I assumed that if I shared my real, messy, broken self with the world, people might not like me. People might judge me. People might talk about me behind my back. People might not want to be my friend. My real self, living this very real life, was too embarrassing. So every day I did my best to pretend.

Until eventually it all broke down.

My husband went to drug rehab. Again. And it became undeniably clear he was either going to get better . . . or die. Suddenly, all the boxes I was balancing came tumbling down, and my ugly truth spilled out all over the ground. In what felt like utter defeat, I dropped to my knees and began sifting.

I raked through the pain and brokenness and sadness and fear and hurt and lies, and though my hands were cut and bleeding, I delicately began to pick up the pieces.

Only this time, instead of shoving my pain and brokenness back into boxes and sealing them all up tight, I chose something revolutionary.

I decided to stop pretending, and I stepped out into the world as me. The very real, messy, mostly ordinary me living this very real, messy, mostly ordinary life.

And what happened next came softly. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly at first. One little story, one hard truth, one authentic moment at a time, I learned to extend my hands and offer my pain and brokenness and truth for others to see. At work. In relationships. At Al-Anon meetings. Through my writing.

And in return, people began trusting me with the contents of their own boxes. Now, every day I do my best to hold it all with tender hands—people’s broken and sharp parts, their pieces with fraying edges, all their fear and self-doubt and guilt, their sickness and loss and pain.

During that season spent picking up the pieces, I discovered our pain and brokenness isn’t something to be boxed up or hidden away. It’s something to be borne. Together. And if we’re paying attention, we’ll find Jesus right there, shouldering it all and loving us through it, and offering grace and mercy and joy and helping us find beauty amid the rubble.

Somehow, when I stopped striving and pretending, a beautiful life of connection and love and faith had room to emerge. And now I know.

“Perfect” is pretend.

I had been chasing the wrong thing all along! What I really want, and what I still so desperately need, is ordinary.

*****

Can we tuck fear aside and unpack our truths for others to see?

Can we stop trying to carry our brokenness and pain alone and dare to ask for help?

Can we show up not as our best-appearing selves but as our truest selves?

Can we remember to pray every single day for guidance and love and support?

Can we hand our backbreaking load over to Jesus and put on His yoke instead? After all, His “burden is light.”

Can we silence that critical inner voice and believe we are imperfectly perfect enough?

Can we realize that “perfect” is pretend after all?

You see, every day we have a choice. We can either spend our days on this earth striving for more and pretending to be perfect, hiding all our flaws and imperfections, and never really connecting or feeling seen, or we can choose to be real. Then, with open arms and true love and authentic connection, maybe we can finally discover the incredible gift of a startlingly ordinary life.

And I choose ordinary. What about you? 

Won’t you grab my hand? Let’s decide to live and breathe and work and love wherever God has placed us. And let’s share our one precious, beautiful, ordinary life . . . together.

I’ll be me. You be you.

Come on. Let’s be ordinary. On purpose.