The interesting thing is that many women have spent decades being measured by what they do for other people.
Children fed.
Uniforms washed.
Appointments remembered.
Meals cooked.
Birthdays organised.
Problems solved.
The work is endless and often invisible.
And because it’s invisible, we learn to account for it.
To list it.
To justify it.
To prove we’ve been busy.
To prove we’ve earned our place.
Then the children grow up.
The house gets quieter.
The demands become fewer.
But the habit remains.
People ask:
“What did you do today?”
And we immediately start searching for evidence.
Something to show.
Something to point at.
Something that proves the day was worthwhile.
Yet I’ve started wondering why.
Why is:
I read a book.
somehow less valuable than:
I cleaned the kitchen?
Why is:
I sat in the garden for an hour.
less acceptable than:
I crossed six things off my list?
Why do we feel the need to justify rest?
Or pleasure?
Or simply enjoying our own company?
The older I get, the more I think we’ve confused productivity with value.
As though our worth is something that has to be earned daily.
As though we have to keep proving we deserve our place in the world.
But perhaps we don’t.
Perhaps there comes a point where we stop measuring our days by what we achieved and start measuring them by how we lived them.
Some days I write.
Some days I work.
Some days I create.
And some days I get up late, make breakfast, read for a while, watch television, make lunch and do very little else.
Not because I’ve failed.
Not because I’m lazy.
Not because I’ve given up.
Because that’s what I wanted to do.
And after a lifetime of proving myself, perhaps that’s reason enough.
— Vivian