Each day isn’t productivity challenge, being enough is enough

Honestly, I was beginning to feel a little small. With New Year resolutions popping up like porcinis everywhere, people around posting pictures pointedly of certificates of random courses completed on LinkedIn, my to-do lists growing thicker than my bushy brows every day, all while I continued to plod through flights and breast-stroke through my avalanche of assignments. 

I forgot to add, while consistently forgetting birthdays and anniversaries (sometimes remembering close to midnight to wish loved ones). That’s when I asked myself that all-important, crucial question (and no, Black Panther: Wakanda Forever has nothing to do with this): Am I being enough?

Prima facie, I’m neither powerful nor perfect, and still misplace my spectacles all the time, with clothes spilling out of my inch-pinch cupboard. I’m constantly outsourcing cooking and all other daily irritants that plague a householder, pulling up my kids to tackle a few chores online, monthly.

I’m cruel and critical when it comes to my own articulation skills, as I skate all over on assignments (have yet to learn to pack light) and la familia-driven trips. I’m still searching for ikigai, though not for any validation on social media or on its spin-offs. Does that do wonders for my sense of self-worth? Mulling.

I can’t journal, often forget to introspect when my sleepy head hits the pillow and scribble reminders on the board while I work on multiple assignments (it’s a quirk) simultaneously. The thing is, with people in my age group dropping dead like sticks, suddenly and all over, the realisation has poured in decidedly, slowly, and firmly, that each day isn’t a productivity challenge. Everything doesn’t need to be done by my lucky hands. So am I being enough, with all my imperfections? Yes.

Sharing the gospel right here. It’s all about playing up your key asset to co-exist beautifully. Having the ability to love is reason enough. Sure, I’m not rolling sushi and prepping bento boxes for school lunch; I don’t make grand plans for weekends, but for my kids, I am the best mum in the world.

I’m happy being perfectly imperfect in my own world growing as I want to, watering plants, teaching young minds, and helping whoever I can. Alright, I do feel like flinging a Molotov occasionally when I finally, resignedly lose my cool in the face of multiplying emergencies, but happiness lies in accepting imperfections. I am enough the way I am.

While I run miles, with all my kilos, from tags such as ‘supermom’, ‘multi-tasker’, ‘iron lady’, I believe, I am being enough. The way I am, in all my brazen beauty and brilliance (modesty certainly isn’t one of my virtues). What about you?

Shilpi Madan

Mumbai-based journalist and editor

me@shilpimadan.com

Honestly, I was beginning to feel a little small. With New Year resolutions popping up like porcinis everywhere, people around posting pictures pointedly of certificates of random courses completed on LinkedIn, my to-do lists growing thicker than my bushy brows every day, all while I continued to plod through flights and breast-stroke through my avalanche of assignments.  I forgot to add, while consistently forgetting birthdays and anniversaries (sometimes remembering close to midnight to wish loved ones). That’s when I asked myself that all-important, crucial question (and no, Black Panther: Wakanda Forever has nothing to do with this): Am I being enough? Prima facie, I’m neither powerful nor perfect, and still misplace my spectacles all the time, with clothes spilling out of my inch-pinch cupboard. I’m constantly outsourcing cooking and all other daily irritants that plague a householder, pulling up my kids to tackle a few chores online, monthly. I’m cruel and critical when it comes to my own articulation skills, as I skate all over on assignments (have yet to learn to pack light) and la familia-driven trips. I’m still searching for ikigai, though not for any validation on social media or on its spin-offs. Does that do wonders for my sense of self-worth? Mulling. I can’t journal, often forget to introspect when my sleepy head hits the pillow and scribble reminders on the board while I work on multiple assignments (it’s a quirk) simultaneously. The thing is, with people in my age group dropping dead like sticks, suddenly and all over, the realisation has poured in decidedly, slowly, and firmly, that each day isn’t a productivity challenge. Everything doesn’t need to be done by my lucky hands. So am I being enough, with all my imperfections? Yes. Sharing the gospel right here. It’s all about playing up your key asset to co-exist beautifully. Having the ability to love is reason enough. Sure, I’m not rolling sushi and prepping bento boxes for school lunch; I don’t make grand plans for weekends, but for my kids, I am the best mum in the world. I’m happy being perfectly imperfect in my own world growing as I want to, watering plants, teaching young minds, and helping whoever I can. Alright, I do feel like flinging a Molotov occasionally when I finally, resignedly lose my cool in the face of multiplying emergencies, but happiness lies in accepting imperfections. I am enough the way I am. While I run miles, with all my kilos, from tags such as ‘supermom’, ‘multi-tasker’, ‘iron lady’, I believe, I am being enough. The way I am, in all my brazen beauty and brilliance (modesty certainly isn’t one of my virtues). What about you? Shilpi Madan Mumbai-based journalist and editor me@shilpimadan.com