As my feet, clad in an obnoxious blue and orange sneaker combo, hit the pavement again and again and again, I can’t help but feel guilty.
These days, that’s how a run—or a walk, or a break, or a pause to sit and chat with my roommate—feels. I start off with a mind-bending, totally unnecessary weighing of ways to pass the time—do I run, or do I finish my book for class early? Do I start my discussion post? Do I put some dents in my thesis? A run will take just under forty-five minutes, plus getting changed and then un-changed, showering, and stretching, thinking about and adding up how long everything will take.
And after all that, I hurtle down the stairs, slam the door, and start to run. The guilt that follows my first few leaps trails in my wake on the uneven pavement I leave behind for the East Bay Bike Path, making way for an endorphin-induced blank mind.
Lately, it feels like everything takes longer than usual. I wake up with a start, overwhelmed by the sheer number of tasks I have to complete, and then, if I don’t check everything off, the feeling gets compounded the next morning, the heavy load of catch-up weighing me down. Just the other day, I got frustrated that making lunch took me an hour. Maybe it’s living off-campus that’s fueling these thoughts—now on top of school, clubs, and social activities piling up, so do the dishes, little piles of dust, and clumps of hair in the shower drain.
Yesterday, my roommate told me that she’s trying to listen to less music. “Imagine if we had shower thoughts way more often,” she had said.
With my everyday rush before class or work, I don’t remember the last time I had a good shower thought.
I’m trying to information-max, save-money-max, sleep-max. Time-max. I’m just trying to shove more hours into the day, I’ve realized. When I’m not reading for English class, I tell myself I should be reading for pleasure. When I’m not filming my thesis, I should be watching avant-garde documentaries to pick up techniques. When I’m not writing a paper, I should be journaling, or drafting cover letters, or revising something else. When I’m cooking, I should be listening to a podcast. Even in the shower, I feel like I should be thinking of my to-do list, or things I could say in class, or planning out my week.
And leaving no room for rest only makes more room for everything I’d rather avoid. All of a sudden, I’m forgetting things I had to get done, getting too anxious to speak up in class. Forgetting to call relatives, replying to texts way too late, missing out on the joys of life.
College is an odd little bubble—a little bubble that I sometimes need to step out of and remind myself that being the best of the best at everything isn’t the path to my own happiness. It’s not about writing the best papers all the time, but writing pretty good papers, and leaving time for other essential parts of my life. It’s about staying on top of tasks, not conquering them. It’s about thinking about what to say in class, not losing sleep over it. It’s about overcoming crippling perfectionism by letting yourself relax into it a little, accepting it, absorbing it. It’s okay to strive for perfection, I think, but it’s not okay to beat yourself up when it’s inevitably unachievable.
I watch my roommate go on her daily runs, sometimes sans music, and relish in her bubbly energy as she chats and stretches in the kitchen. I hear how happy it makes my grandma when I take just fifteen minutes out of my day to call her. I look forward to the simple joy of whisking matcha in my little ceramic bowl for an afternoon treat. I take the time to write a thought-out letter to send to loved ones at home.
Making time for running, writing, walking, sewing, talking, sitting, whisking, mailing, and doing absolutely nothing—it’s just as important as the work I feel guilty for not focusing all of my attention on.
I’ll stop filling my schedule and emptying my cup. And I’ll start drop by drop, a call to my brother, a walk for myself, a movie just for joy.
Every day, I’ll try to fill my cup.
How will you fill yours?
