Three weeks ago I woke up feeling crappy. I ate some citrus, made myself a green juice and taught my yoga class. By noon I was on the couch with a fever. I am not a fever kinda girl. I get the annual cold where I am laid out for a week with a stuffy nose but that’s it.
I spent my days in a fever haze, taking vitamins and hot baths, using a cold compress on my forehead and feet, eating more citrus than I normally eat in an entire year, and yet I was running close to 101 temperatures and every day at around 2pm my fever would spike to 102. After 10 days it was clear I wasn’t getting better. I went to my local urgent care and I found out I had the flu that turned into a pneumonia.
I am working on the proposal for my book, Seven a Memoir, and decided that I wanted to turn it in three weeks early. I became fixated on writing the seventy page proposal within that deadline and, when it was more work than I realized, I wouldn’t budge.
I was holding on tight to this arbitrary date, this self inflicted definition of perfection. This led to a melt down three days before my due date, full on with tears, snots and a big dose of anxiety.