I Was Told I Seemed Put Together
Dear Void,
WTAF.
Yes. That feels like the appropriate opening.
Because somewhere between the slow tilt toward the spring equinox and whatever is happening in the world at large, I have found myself asking what might be the most important question of our time:
Does everyone intentionally wash their belly button every day?
Or…
are there others out there, asking for a friend, who have gone about their lives fully believing they had optimized their routine, only to one day discover… a situation?
Not a small one.
Not a “quick fix” one.
A how did we get here situation.
Let the record show this same “friend” once discovered an entire region of her lower back that had apparently been operating independently for some time.
So…
Welcome to the void.
Where we are all doing our best,
with varying levels of… thoroughness.
I was once told I was “put together.”
She meant it kindly.
She meant it admiringly.
She said that on hard days, she would look at me and feel inspired by how together I seemed.
And I remember thinking:
I have run into a glass office door.
More than once.
I have worn my underwear backwards for an entire day and could not figure out why my pants felt personally offensive.
I am actively forgetting parts of my own body exist.
But thank you. Truly.
There is a strange illusion we carry about each other.
That some people have it together,
and some people do not.
But “put together” is not a state of being.
It is a performance.
One that requires energy.
Early mornings.
Cheer.
Consistency.
A willingness to override your own body in favor of appearing… reliable.
And for a long time, I could do that.
Until life happened.
The kind that rearranges you.
The kind that includes almost dying,
endings,
and global events that quietly, or loudly, shift everything.
And somewhere in there, I stopped paying the cost of the performance.
Because here’s the part no one says out loud:
Being seen as “put together” comes with expectations.
To stay that way.
To show up that way.
To hold it together… even when you’re not.
These days, I am… different.
I sleep in.
Terribly.
My version of the good life begins a little later.
And I no longer apologize for that.
I drift into the afternoon.
I go to garden stores and pick out plants like it’s a personality trait.
I text my family about the absurdities of my day.
I sit outside and remember that nature exists, and that I am part of it.
I journal.
I read deeply.
I laugh.
I forget I have a belly button.
And maybe that’s the point.
Not the belly button specifically,
although, to be clear, we are all revisiting some things after this.
But the forgetting.
The not constantly monitoring.
The not performing.
The not curating yourself into something digestible for other people.
Because the truth is:
No one has it all together.
Some people are just in a season where it looks like they do.
Circumstances change.
Bodies change.
Lives unravel and rebuild in ways no one else can see.
So what actually matters?
Not perfection.
Not presentation.
Not how early you wake up or how well you maintain your invisible checklists.
What matters is this:
Do you get to live inside your own life?
Do you get to enjoy it?
Even a little?
We have built entire systems around working, earning, buying, optimizing,
all in the name of someday… enjoying life.
But if you simplify it:
Enjoy life.
That’s it.
That’s the whole sentence.
For me, it tends to start a little later.
Dear Void,
If you are out there,
floating, performing, holding it all together,
you can stop for a moment.
You can laugh.
You can check behind your ears.
You can check your belly button.
You can let something be undone.
We are not finished products.
We are ongoing discoveries.
Occasionally alarming ones.
With mild awareness,
and a renewed commitment to… checking things,
A fellow blip
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