Mikala MD Albertson - Ordinary on Purpose: Surrendering Perfect and Discovering Beauty amid the Rubble

Joy comes to us in momentsordinary moments. We risk missing out on joy when we get too busy chasing down the extraordinary.

Bren Brown, Daring Greatly

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, Id 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 were supposed to say?

I hadnt been able to hide the panic from my eyes all morning. I couldnt 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. Its all falling apart. Addiction is overtaking us! But instead, I softly replied, Im fine. Sorry. Im just... tired, I guess.

Ah. There it was. Thats what were supposed to say.

I didnt tell anyone about any of it.

I didnt tell anyone my husband was on drugs and my marriage was failing. I didnt 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 waspositive I was the only one struggling. And I didnt tell a single soul that, deep down, Id convinced myself there must be something very wrong with me.

Nope.

I didnt 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.