I have a confession. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been trying to get myself to Pilates. Not because I don’t enjoy it. Quite the opposite. I love Pilates. I love how I feel afterward, both physically and mentally. It’s one of those rare hours when I’m doing something entirely for myself. And yet, despite my best intentions, I’ve managed to make it to exactly one class.
One.
Now, before anyone starts suggesting I set a reminder on my phone, I assure you, remembering isn’t the problem. I’m painfully aware of the classes I’m missing. In fact, I’ve become exceptionally good at feeling guilty about them. Here’s how the conversation in my head usually goes.
You really should go to Pilates. It’s good for your health. You know how much better you feel afterward.
Followed almost immediately by:
But you have work to finish. Someone needs your help. There are things that need your attention.
So I stay home. And then? I feel guilty for not going. Of course, on the days I actually consider going, I feel guilty about everything I could be doing instead.
Apparently, I’ve managed to turn an hour of exercise into a moral dilemma. Welcome to the exhausting world of the Worry Warrior. The Unofficial Job Description
We tell women they can be anything. Then we expect them to be everything. I’ve been thinking about that sentence a lot lately. Somewhere along the way, so many of us became the organizers, the caregivers, the peacemakers, the planners, the worriers, and the people who somehow know where everyone else’s missing belongings are. We remember appointments. We anticipate problems. We check on people. We notice when something isn’t quite right.
And when something goes wrong? Well, naturally, we start figuring out how to fix it. I like to call this particular version of myself Mrs. Fix It. Mrs. Fix It is apparently available 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Unfortunately, her management has repeatedly denied her requests for time off. She’s also remarkably talented at taking responsibility for things that were never actually assigned to her. Someone I love has a problem? I’m already thinking about solutions. Someone seems upset? I’m wondering what I can do to make them feel better. Someone needs help? My brain has practically volunteered me before the conversation is over.
And here’s the funny thing. I don’t always resent being that person. I love being someone my family can depend on. I love helping. I love knowing that I can make a difference in someone’s day. But there’s a difference between wanting to help and feeling responsible for making everything okay.
That’s a distinction I’m still learning. When Caring Comes With Guilt. I think many of us grow into these roles so gradually that we barely notice them becoming part of our identity. Depending on our circumstances, we learn to be responsible, to keep the peace, to anticipate other people’s needs, or to step in when something needs doing. Eventually, it becomes instinctive. We don’t necessarily stop to ask whether we have the time, energy, or emotional capacity.
We just do.
And when we can’t? Oh, the guilt. Not just the worry that something might go wrong without our help, but the uncomfortable feeling that we’ve let someone down. That perhaps we should have done more. Been more available. Tried a little harder. It’s a particularly exhausting kind of guilt because there doesn’t seem to be a winning answer.
If I take care of everyone else, I worry I’m neglecting myself.
If I take care of myself, I worry I’m neglecting everyone else.
And if I somehow manage to do both, I’m probably wondering what I’ve forgotten. Usually, it’s my bra.
Somewhere along the way, even taking care of ourselves became something we could fail at. Think about that for a moment. We’ve taken the very things that are supposed to help us feel better—exercise, rest, quiet, time alone—and turned them into another set of expectations. Another checklist. Another opportunity to decide we’re not doing enough. As if women needed one more thing to feel guilty about.
Who Takes Care of the Worry Warrior?
We love celebrating strong women. We call them warriors. Survivors. Fighters. The glue that holds everything together. And strength is something worth celebrating. But sometimes I wonder whether we’ve become so comfortable applauding women for carrying everything that we’ve forgotten to ask how heavy it is.
What happens when the warrior is tired? When the caregiver needs care? When Mrs. Fix It doesn’t have a solution? When the woman who usually knows what to do simply doesn’t?
I don’t think the answer is to stop caring. I certainly don’t want to become someone who stops showing up for the people I love. But I’m beginning to understand that loving someone and being responsible for every outcome in their life are two very different things. I can offer support without having all the answers. I can worry about someone without being able to prevent every difficulty. And perhaps most challenging of all, I can disappoint someone without having failed them.
When Being Human Isn’t Enough.
Somewhere along the way, being human seems to have morphed into an expectation that we should be superhuman. Especially women. We’re supposed to be strong but sensitive. Ambitious but available. Independent but endlessly accommodating. Healthy, happy, productive, and preferably wearing pants that still fit.
And if we’re struggling? Well, perhaps we just need a better morning routine.
I sometimes wonder when simply being human became something we felt the need to apologize for. When did exhaustion become a weakness instead of a perfectly reasonable response to carrying too much? When did asking for help start feeling like admitting defeat? And when did being the woman everyone could count on begin to mean being the woman who could never need anything herself?
I love being strong. I’m proud of the things I’ve survived and the things I’ve accomplished. But I don’t want strength to become a lifetime sentence. I don’t want to be so busy proving I can carry everything that I forget I’m allowed to put something down. And perhaps most importantly, I don’t want to confuse being needed with being worthy. Because I was worthy long before I became Mrs. Fix It.
And so were you.
Maybe the most rebellious thing a woman can do in a world demanding she be superhuman is give herself permission to be human. When Guilt Gets a Vote.
Now, do I believe all of that every single day?
Absolutely not. Mrs. Fix It still has a fully furnished office in my head, and she is apparently refusing to retire. The truth is, I’m a constant work in progress. Some days, guilt propels me forward. It gets me moving, checking things off my list, making sure everyone is okay, and doing what needs to be done. Other days, that very same guilt holds me back. I second-guess myself. I question my choices. I wonder whether I should be doing something else, somewhere else, for someone else. And somewhere in the middle of all that worrying, I realize something.
It’s almost as if the guilt is making the decisions for me. Not what I want. Not necessarily what I need. But what will make me feel the least guilty. And wouldn’t it be something if, just once, I made a decision without consulting Mrs. Fix It first? Although knowing her, she’d probably call an emergency meeting.
Permission Doesn’t Have to Be Earned. Maybe that’s what giving ourselves permission is really about. Not suddenly becoming women who never worry, never feel guilty, or never struggle with boundaries. But recognizing that our needs matter even when someone else’s needs are louder. That an hour at Pilates doesn’t have to be justified by how productive we’ll be afterward. That rest doesn’t need to be earned through exhaustion. And that choosing not to fix something doesn’t automatically mean we don’t care.
Some days, giving myself permission might mean going to Pilates and leaving the unfinished work right where it is. Other days, it might mean accepting that life is complicated, skipping the class, and refusing to spend the rest of the afternoon criticizing myself for it. Because here’s something I’m slowly learning: Not every choice needs to become a judgment about the kind of woman I am.
I can be ambitious and tired.
Loving and overwhelmed.
Dependable and unavailable.
A work in progress and still perfectly worthy of celebrating.
And maybe that’s the permission so many of us have been waiting for. Permission to feel what we feel. To do what we can. To be who we are. And to move through life at a pace that actually belongs to us. Not the pace of everyone else’s expectations. Not the pace of some imaginary timeline. Our own.
Still Becoming. I’m still learning how to give myself permission. Permission to take care of myself without guilt. Permission to say no without feeling I’ve disappointed someone. Permission to accept that not everything is mine to fix. Some days I manage it beautifully. Other days, Mrs. Fix It is running the show, the Worry Warrior is working overtime, and I’m standing in the middle of it all wondering why I’m exhausted. But perhaps that’s what being a work in progress actually looks like. Not having all the answers. Not making the right decision every time. And certainly not pretending I’ve mastered something I’m still struggling with. Maybe giving myself permission isn’t about never feeling guilty again. Maybe it’s about learning that guilt doesn’t always deserve a vote.
And I’m not going to wrap this up with a nice little bow and tell you I’ve figured it all out. Because let’s be honest, a nice little bow never hides a wrinkled package.
And this package?
Well…..She’s Still becoming.
A little laughter, a little wisdom, and a whole lot of Fab. 💙🔥 xoxo-Fab